Valerio Malvezzi
FUTURA
PARALLEL UNIVERSES
BOOK 2
Futura: Parallel Universes: Book 2
Copyright © 2021Valerio Malvezzi
This is a work of fiction. All the names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents in this book are either the product of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
A story is just a possibility between a prologue and an epilogue
Thursday, 8:32 a.m.
Newspapers will not have been read for decades, and there will be no more daily editions. The news will be in real time and the articles will be published at any time of the day or night. Contract journalists will publish news for publishers even in competition with each other, and the system will be regulated by a supervisory body to monitor the authenticity of the news, thus relieving the newspaper Directors from the role of managers to allow the speed of information. In the meeting room for a few seconds, watching holographic news, no one will comment. Then, the thin woman will turn to the Director:
“If it’s wanted, what version do we give to the holographic network?”
“Goedhart, do you want to tell us about the coverage plan?” the Director will ask. The man will nod to the blond man, and the holograms will fill the hall.
“Whiley has no close relatives. He’s not married, he’s an orphan. We said he’s dead. No one will ask to see his body, and if the autopsy is likely to be ordered by the magistrate, it will reveal a man killed by gunfire. We put the corpse of an inmate at the scene of the crime; he vaguely resembles him, killed with a blow to the face.”
“Why, for Christ’s sake?” the thin woman will raise her voice.
“In fact, why this choice?” will add one of the two commissioners sitting alongside the CEO.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the elegant man will say calmly, nervously tightening his eyes.” We don’t know what threat we are dealing with, and we don’t know the reason for the threat. Until we’ve more information, we want to leave Whiley with an open door. To start an official search through the police would be to alert him, and he’ll go on the run. That way, if he’s innocent, he’ll look for us, and he’ll come back according to normal recovery procedures. Then, if he’s innocent, we’ll come up with a cover. And if he’s guilty, well, we’ll see what we can do.”
“Bullshit,” the thin woman will comment.
“Meredith, do you have a better plan?” the Director will ask.
The girl will look around the waiting room before continuing, in a low voice: “The receiver can’t be intercepted because the data transmission only lasts a few minutes. But loading software like the one you asked me for is heavy, and it’s traceable. It can take twenty or twenty-five minutes. Enough for them to find me, if they know where to look.”
The man will look at her with his arms folded, taciturn.
“I’ve adopted simple rules for this. Camouflage comes first, but that doesn’t save you if they come into your house shooting. Changing the site is second. I never use the same broadcasting position twice, to avoid giving real life references. The third is my defense programs.”
“Ianitores, the gatekeepers.”
“Yes,” the girl will frown, “how did you know?”
“Your master has a long tongue, like all old men. So, how are you going to do that?”
“If I solve it, I’ll give you an appointment, only one. Be sure not to miss it. I’m going to change the actual transmission location, but I’ll still be taking a risk. I’ll hand you the job, cash in the balance, then disappear for at least six months.”
The girl will put her hands in her pants pockets, lowering her head to her chest. “... As long as I’m not behind bars.”
The man will look at the flight schedules on the holographic boards. “Cosmic pessimism, I see. That’s why you always dress in black.”
The girl will watch him get up with his carry-on luggage.
“And what are you going to do in the meantime?”
“I’ll take a few days off,” the man will say. “I need to get some gifts.”
The girl will watch him get up without saying goodbye and queue for boarding. Then she will stand, putting her hands in the pockets of her baggy black pants, heading thoughtfully toward the exit.
Here we go.
The thin woman will bite her lips, looking around the table.
“Something that doesn’t trigger a sea of requests in this agency for explanations from the external control bodies?” the Director will ask.
The thin woman will continue gazing around the oval table in front of her.
“Well, in that case,” the CEO will resume, addressing the woman and the two men sitting by her side, “if the gentlemen in Internal Control agree, I would avoid raising a fuss for the moment with a report to the control committee. Let’s try to manage the emergency with this cover. We’ll see if we can find Agent Whiley, but we’re still hoping he’ll contact us and explain what happened.”
“What if your agent flees the country?” one of the two internal commissioners will ask.
“He has no means, no money. We’ve frozen all his accounts, his property, his assets. His landmarks are under surveillance. His house, his Department office, his colleagues, his friends. We’ve arranged for a check on the communicators of all the people we know have had contact with him in the past, schoolmates, universities, work colleagues, friends. He can’t call anyone who has anything to do with his past without us knowing.”
“What if he contacts someone else?” the second commissioner will ask.
“Who?”
The man will shrug his shoulders.
“Well, then, if there are no other comments, gentlemen...,” the CEO will conclude, addressing the members of the works council “... Of course you will all be informed of any development in the investigations.” Those present will rise from the meeting room table.
“See if you can find this man quickly,” the woman Commissioner next to the Director will whisper. “We can pretend not to see for a short time. Someone will ask questions sooner or later. And we’ve got to give answers. In the External Control Committee, the politicians can’t wait to put agency members on the rack, you know.”
206 days earlier
On that late morning in early May, Paris will be refreshed by a mild breeze that will make the sun’s warmth feel even more pleasant. On the top floor of the prestigious building at Printemps du Luxe, 64 Boulevard Haussmann, the young saleswoman will accompany what will appear to be a wealthy buyer, a distinguished young American dressed in designer Italian clothes, into the reserved office of the Director of the De Beers Paris office. The woman, in a mellifluous tone, will explain the customer’s needs to the Manager, a plump middle-aged man, as the two sit in the finely furnished living room.
“Oh, yes, of course, Mr. Holden.” The man’s tone will be obsequious. “Professor Kane anticipated your arrival and communicated to me your preference in advance. Here it is, a really good choice, if I may say so, sir.”
The blond man will cross his legs, moving his hair to one side and carefully observing the jewel.
“As you will notice, the floral design of the ring converges in the center in
the oval diamond. Quite refined, don’t you think?” the Manager will comment.
“How many carats?”
“Six zero point two, sir.”
The blond man will stare at the jewel, smoothing his sideburns.
“And the flower petals?”
“As you can see, it’s surrounded by smaller diamonds, each three point ninety-eight carats. They’re very white diamonds, D color, the finest shade for jewelry.”
The man will continue to observe, coolly.
“An extremely fine model, if you will allow me,” the plump man will take a hopeful look at his assistant, who has remained standing. “The lady will certainly be thrilled.”
Eventually, the blond man will melt into a lukewarm smile.
“It’s perfect. I’m taking it. I would like it to delivered within fifteen days, at your expense, directly to the security room of the bank I’ll indicate to you.”
The Director will respond, looking at the floor. “I know. You’ll see, we’ll find him, and everything will be resolved.”
“I hope so,” the woman will comment, looking at the two colleagues, visibly concerned. “I hope so for all of us.”
Whiley, sitting in the kitchen, will turn on the holographic device near the oven to see the news. Until the night before, oddly enough, the news had not appeared on the uploaded videos, and Whiley hadn’t even seen it during the hour at Willis Tower where he had sat waiting for Richard on the divans on the 103rd floor. He will immediately find the news, and, with a knot in his throat, download the holographic recording. A speaker will enter the kitchen: heinous crime at Medoc, an academic Spin-Off, a group of researchers murdered by unknown assailants. Police investigators are not yet speculating, but industrial espionage is suspected. Industrial espionage. The list of victims will follow. Whiley will scroll through the holographic sheet, with films and stock images. He will feel pain seeing images of his colleagues cheerfully entering the kitchen, while a moment later uniformed agents will walk in front of the outer walls of the large sandstone palace, resting on the mantelpiece. Suddenly, the police captain’s hologram will hit him like a punch. Whiley will go to the sink, take another sip of water, then write his friend’s name in the search engine, using the virtual keyboard projected into the air on the kitchen table. Panic will seize him by the throat when, on the other side of the table will appear the image of the stout friend, with blacker and longer hair, smiling and with a shorter beard. He will read. Dr. Richard Proctor died yesterday afternoon, killed in his car by unknown assailants. Authorities believe the murder was carried out for the purpose of robbery. The man, a social research methodologist, leaves behind a wife and two children...
Whiley will switch off the hologram projector and get up, raking his hands through his hair, heading to the window. Outside the modest suburban house, in the middle of the yard, the morning wind will move a swing slightly with a monotonous squeak.
“There would be transportation and insurance costs to consider, of course,” the Manager will state, clasping his hands with a forced smile.
“Of course,” the blond will answer, distracted. “How much does it cost?”
“Oh, well, it’s a rare piece of fine jewelry, you understand. The price, transport and insurance included... is one million three hundred thousand Eurodollars.”
The man will look out the window. The day will be wonderful for a walk in the city center. After all, there is nothing more to do.
“All right,” he will say, lost in thought, without looking away from the blossoming trees.
The Manager, visibly pleased, will ask the woman to open the new client’s file.
“Excuse me, sir. The place of shipment?”
The blond man will smooth his sideburns again, turning to look at the Manager.
“Okinawa,” he will respond with a smile.
At six o’clock in the evening, the young man will exit through the glass doors of the large building in the center of Wrocław, Silesia. He has been working for a year as a holographic network applications programmer at the Polish headquarters, the Norwegian company Opera Software. He will be dressed in sportswear and an old-fashioned leather jacket, with long reddish brown hair above a thin, unkempt beard. He’ll be thinking about the contact the other night, the holographic track in the nightclub attached to the bar, where he met the famous Janus, a celebrity among hackers. He must have studied the problem a lot in those days.
Long-range shooting control systems.
He will take the airborne bus, looking at the colorful building facades, while trying to reflect on the meaning of the meeting.
After all, I’m a celebrity myself.
Janus will have wanted to meet him the next night in a safe place, in the port of Tortuga, the holographic destination of all the planet’s hackers, a sort of free port.
There must be something big behind this if he’s paying me for a consultation.
Whiley, looking at the swing, will think back to the holographic projection when the police captain, standing in front of the stove, read the list of victims and he found out about his own death. On the lawn, yellow leaves will cover the grass under the swing like a carpet.
He will sit down in the kitchen, in front of the holographic sheet, and will write notes on the virtual keyboard, desperately trying to organize his ideas.
Why did they attack us? To get something in the building?
The kitchen will be painted yellow, some parts of the wall peeling, and the man’s thoughts will follow the lines in the wall.
No, because Richard wasn’t there, and yet they killed him.
He will notice where the lines cross, and a dot could escape infinity to a second dot, chasing it at a distance of a span, constantly changing lines.
So it was to kill us, the group members. Yet Richard wasn’t a part of it. Then why?
The old timepiece on the wall will curiously simulate the noise of ancient pendulum clocks, sounding almost real.
Maybe because what we wrote. We’re researchers. Maybe we wrote something that someone didn’t want known.
The beating of seconds in the silent kitchen will seem to explode in the man’s mind, concentrated on the sheet in front of him.
Or maybe we sent a report to someone who read something we shouldn’t have said.
In the garden, a solitary bird will peck a few berries in the hedge, lifting its head at each peck, in tune with the clock on the kitchen wall.
No, we hadn’t written anything in common, not recently, and even, as far as I know, in the past, not all of us together. So what?
The man will mechanically get up to close the sink tap, from which a drop will continue to fall, disturbing his concentration.
It’s not what we’ve written in the past... it’s what we could have written in the future!
The airborne bus will fly over the many canals that enter the River Oder.
I need to talk to him from home. It’s safer. It looks like there’s a lot to do if I make this delivery.
The bus stop at about 220 meters above altitude will be dedicated to construction for residential use. The young man will look at the holographic signal in the middle of the cabin: Sky Tower.
I have to get off.
The young man will descend the eight meters of stairs under the plexiglass domes, heading to the elevators to get off at his apartment.
Chief Commissioner Cervetti will be standing in front of the CEO in the Rome office of the Central Prevention Police Directorate, at the NOCS headquarters.
“I have read your report, Commissioner. Are you sure it’s absolutely necessary?” the latter will ask.
The Commissioner will look at the man with grizzled curly hair, sitting absorbed in reading the document.
“I took Dr. Bordini’s words literally: this search has priority, Cervetti. Ask for what you need, in terms of human and technological resources. The Minister himself is pressing for clarity and prevention of a possible further attack. I asked to have Chief Inspector
Santilli full-time—thank you, by the way—and we talked in depth about it.”
“And this request comes from Santilli?”
“If we want to find a needle in the haystack, we must have the haystack first.”
The sitting man will tighten his strong jaws before speaking, dark in the face. “And what does that mean?”
“We don’t know what to look for. But we know where. Today, there is no point in unleashing informants on agents around the world. We know that. Santilli and his team can search the virtual world. If there is a criminal plan to attack the Holy Father, there is certainly a criminal organization.”
Whiley will run to the holographic sheets, writing with the virtual keyboard, opening a first page and naming it “Rick”:
Correlation between aging of the population and average size of agricultural fields.
Then, he will open another sheet, name it “Richard” and connect the first with the second:
Renewable energy, censorship, waste, rich and poor countries, food autonomy, control.
Then he will frantically open a third sheet, naming it “Susan” and linking other keywords to the first two:
Musical material, songs with a political background, Latin American countries.
Then, rereading, he will shake his head and put it in the bin.
No, this has no correlation with the other two.
He will open another sheet again, unsure, thinking the correlation too bold, and will remain thoughtful for a long time, watching the black bird with the yellow spot jump near the hedge, cautiously, suspiciously approaching its target in small flounces, until it finds the courage to peck at the red berry. He will open another sheet, naming it “Me”:
Essay on cancer care, book in the library
Futura: Parallel Universes. Book 2 Page 1