Futura: Parallel Universes. Book 2

by Valerio Malvezzi

  With tense nerves, he will continue to wonder if something is missing from the design, and about the connection among all those words floating in space, motionless, transparent on the windows of the kitchen, nestled between the white wooden dowels, backlit by the green of the lawn. The bird in the garden will jump into the yard, near the swing, in the glass framework with the word “Me.”

  That’s it.

  Of course. He will open another sheet, fingers almost stumbling on the virtual keyboard, making the words appear under the black bird, projected over the carpet of yellow leaves:

  Novel, the killing of the pope.

  He will reread all the words on the glass, stopping at the last and shaking his head to convince himself that a novel can have no connection with scientific texts and academic essays, and with a rotating gesture of the hand, will make the last sentence disappear from the carpet of leaves.

  “And if such an organization exists, wherever it is, it will be preparing a plan.”

  “If the plan doesn’t already exist.”

  “Precisely,” the Commissioner will continue. “But if it exists, they will have to talk about it. And if they talk about it, we can listen.”

  “With that?”

  “With that.”

  The two men will observe the laboratory equipment arranged in a white room, with six armchairs laid out on a green carpet about ten meters to the side, wires connected to the chairs and holographic helmets laid on the armrests.

  “A team of six people, connected in two-hour shifts, for twenty-four hours a day, continuously, scanning all the holographic nodes in the world. Operators must take a maximum of two shifts a day, and never consecutive,” Cervetti will explain to the superior. “Santilli says it could work. To find a lead. A state-of-the-art multiplex control station. Able to launch at the operator’s request, active search programs on selective keywords, in twenty-four languages, and related hidden holographic intrusion programs.”

  The CEO will read the control room’s technical characteristics.

  “Why shifts of only two hours and no more than two shifts a day per operator?”

  “Santilli argues that according to recent studies by Pisa Normal School, this work is three to four times more stressful than managing the terminal of a large airport. An operator must have the brain traveling at maximum speed to read and interpret the keywords and the computer’s suggestions. It will also require a psycho-aptitude test, a medical examination, and a motivational evaluation of the teams.”

  “But that means a team of...”

  “Six teams, according to Santilli, named from listener A to listener F. Each team will work four hours a day, in shifts of two non-consecutive, to allow stress monitoring. Take into account that the phrase ‘listening is reductive.’ Operators must interact, dialogue, and avoid being discovered by the system or setting off alarms. They have to be professionals.”

  No, a work of fiction cannot have any connection to reality. A science fiction novel cannot have contact with current events. Future things don’t change because we read imaginary words. Future things. They don’t change.

  Are you really sure?

  Much more slowly, the hand will make a rotary gesture in the opposite direction, from the virtual basket placed near the right knee, taking the words on the fingertips, and bringing them back, through the air, to the box on the glass.

  It’s all so absurd.

  Feeling that words imprint matter, he will realize that reality is what we think, and he will catch words changing the course of events. Only then will he be convinced that those words must stand in the mosaic of yellow leaves, close to the others, to future things.

  No one will believe me.

  At that moment, out on the lawn, something will break the static of the picture, and the black bird will suddenly rise in flight, disappearing over the hedge. The small electric car will stop in the driveway next to the old wooden gate, the door will open, and the black woman will get out.

  “... for a total of...”

  “Thirty-six specialists,” Cervetti will confirm. “To ensure optimal listening to the world holographic space.”

  The CEO will look up from the holographic sheet, opening his eyes wide.

  “And even assuming that the Chief Commissioner accedes to the request, where the hell do we find all these people, Commissioner?”

  The tall man will bend over to open a second sheet of the report, moving his hands into the space on his superior’s desk. “I took the opportunity, with Santilli’s help, to prepare a first list, for the selections,” he will respond.

  The venue in downtown Onna-son on Okinawa Island will be crowded. The lean Japanese man, in his forties, with oiled hair, a grayish and pitted face, a smile like a steel trap showing the yellow teeth typical of a hardened smoker, will make a deep bow.

  “My dear Saki, it is an honor to be able to serve you,” he will begin, in a mellifluous tone.

  The woman, elegant in a traditional kimono, will be seated before him in the reserved room in her sushi bar, on her left, the girl in sports clothes. “Let’s get to business, then,” she will say shortly, while the man eyes her neckline lasciviously. “Have you prepared the work I asked you for?”

  “My dear, I only have catalogs here, as you see,” the leering man will answer, showing the holographic display. “But the products you need are out of standard. I think you should come to my store to see the products I selected. You know, I’ll have to work on it a lot. You’re asking for fine work, handcrafted, not junk from a bad shop. Your customer needs something really special... By the way, what does he need?”

  The woman will look at him without speaking. She will signal the waiter to serve the sashimi to the man sitting in front of her, who will begin to stuff himself.

  “I advise you, for your sake, not to try to find out. Tell me about the product instead.”

  Thursday, 9:02 a.m.

  Not everyone will be able to afford a flying car, which is still reserved for the relatively wealthy classes, although financial companies will promote forms of financing dedicated to the item now considered indispensable for many families. The young black woman will get out of her old beat-up electric car, turning off the anti-gravity panel and opening the side door. The bird drinking from a puddle in the groove in the ground under the swing will be frightened off by her steps on the gravel driveway.

  “Good morning,” the woman will say upon entering the house. “Did you have breakfast?” She will remove her jacket, hang the crossbody bag on the coatrack, and take off the orange scarf. She will look at the kitchen table, the slices of cake and the biscuits on the plate. “You haven’t eaten, and you look like you’re going to a funeral. Everything all right?”

  “I had coffee.”

  The woman will sit in front of him in the kitchen.

  “Well, yes, I see,” she will comment as he closes the holographic space. “But it doesn’t look like you started the day well.”

  “I found out that a friend of mine died.”

  The woman will lean back. “Oh. I’m sorry. Was he young?”

  “Yes. Let’s leave it alone.”

  The two will remain silent. It can be that way for a while when two people don’t know each other.

  “So, are you some kind of scholar or what?” the woman will ask, to break the silence intensified by the clock.

  “A researcher. The last time I did something almost serious, I was involved in game theory.”

  “Ah, so you’re someone who studied at the university. You know, I’ve always wondered what it’s like. I’ve never met anyone like that. You know, in the place where I used to hang out, that wasn’t exactly the most frequent type,” the black woman will say, smiling and picking up the slices of cake. “So you’re one of those people who writes articles and publishes them in those magazines that nobody reads, right?”

  “I’d say so.”

  “Well, for starters, there are a lot of optics problems at that distan
ce,” the thin man will note, continuing to chew.

  “I knew that before. Otherwise I wouldn’t have called you.”

  “And then there’s the problem of visibility in poor light conditions that you asked me about. These are just the two main problems, and they’re already plenty of trouble, you know?” he’ll say, scratching the back of his neck, then swallowing a sip of Japanese beer.

  “And can they be solved?”

  “My dear, all the problems I handle are solvable,” the thin man will respond, showing a row of yellow teeth, “at the right price.”

  “I’m involved in games too, with Niki, you know...” she’ll comment nervously. “But I don’t think it’s the same thing, is it?”

  “No, indeed.”

  “Are you from around here? Do you live in Chicago, or are you from outside?”

  “I have an apartment downtown.”

  The man will look at the woman, a large mass of black curls around her serious face, who rarely shows her very white teeth.

  “And what about you?” he will ask, in the tone of one who wants to prolong a conversation.

  “Well, you’ve seen it. The Greek doesn’t have much tact with the ladies. Not like you, at least I think. Oh, God, I wouldn’t be much of a lady. And where are you from?”

  “Why don’t you find something else? There are so many clubs.”

  “Oh, well, thank you very much. You know, I hadn’t really thought about it.”

  “No, sorry, it’s that…”

  “Leave it alone,” she will say, clearing the table. “That job is quite safe, and I have to carry on as well as I can. I’d do anything for Niki. And also, you know, I don’t really have a fully presentable past, as it were. I mean, we all have problems, right?”

  “I don’t know. Yes, I guess so.”

  “Well, dude, I don’t know what problem you have, but I hope it’s not with the law. I just don’t want any trouble, you know, with Niki, the court could... Are you sure that money you gave me is clean?” she will ask, placing the cups in the sink.

  “Yes, of course. That money is mine. Look, I didn’t do anything wrong, believe me.”

  “So why pay 850 dollars to sleep one night outside the house if you have an apartment downtown?” she will ask, turning on the water. “And I don’t think your apartment can be much worse than this.”

  The man will be silent, looking at a basket of fruit on the table.

  “Look, I’m sorry to have to tell you, but...,” the woman will say, wiping her hands.

  “No, listen,” he will interrupt, spreading his hands on the table, “yesterday something unpredictable happened to me, incredible for me too.”

  203 days earlier

  Commissioner Cervetti will sit in a Rome office at the Federal Anti-Terrorism Directorate. The dusty little place, with a decidedly retro look, will be full of old paperwork and books, papers and notebooks. An ancient blackboard, complete with chalk, will be hung on the wall on one side of the solid wood desk. In front of him, the little bald man will smile under his thick mustache, speaking warmly. On the closed glass door behind them is the nameplate,

  Federal Prosecutor.

  “... What can I say, Commissioner, I have remained a man of the last century. Moreover, unlike you, I was born there, in that century,” he will say, pouring tea into a cup. “Do you want more?”

  “No, thank you, Doctor.”

  “We need to work with investigative bodies in other countries. This has become a federal investigation.” The man will sip from a second cup. “But take it as a good thing. We’ll have the direct support of all the prosecutors of the Euro-American Federation. Of course, the investigation is covered by federal secrecy, and I’ll open the closed doors if there are any. I was appointed as a matter of urgency to this office in Rome, on the proposal and direct initiative of the Minister of the Interior two days ago. A temporary assignment, they say. I’m only two years from retirement.”

  “The problem, Doctor, is that from the picture I gave you, we don’t have much. A dead body, a destroyed van, the explosives. Until now, from these factors, forensics has not found anything useful for the continuing investigations.”

  “Because we’re focusing on the past, not the future.”

  “Which means…?”

  “We both know that those who have failed in such a criminal act won’t just give up but will wait for the best time to strike again. Therefore, our role is to anticipate it. Play ahead.”

  “Yes, but how? We have nothing. Not even the name.”

  The little man will get up, approaching the board.

  The black woman will listen suspiciously to the man sitting at her kitchen table.

  “I’m in trouble, it’s true, but I didn’t kill anyone, rob a bank, or whatever, okay? I just need to disappear for a while, say for a couple of days, enough time to find a solution.”

  Kick him out, it’s not your problem.

  “Look, I’m sorry, but…”

  “I can pay you. I still have over a thousand Eurodollars, and if you take me downtown, I can pick up some money. My money.”

  “Look, I understand you’re having problems. Don’t you have a friend, anyone?”

  “No. Not anymore.” The man will lean back, his voice low and tired. “Have you ever been really desperate with no one help you?”

  The woman will look at her hands as she dries them. Every day. “I really don’t want to sound like a bitch, but I don’t know you, and this isn’t some sort of social center. We have our own problems.”

  “I understand. In fact, I want to pay,” he will interrupt. “I can pay. It’s my money. Money earned from my work.”

  “I don’t know... What do you want to do?”

  He will get up and rest his hands on the back of the chair. “I have an idea. I have to recover something very important, but I don’t want to be seen. I can’t go personally, and I don’t know who to ask.”

  The woman will return to sit at the kitchen table, but without looking him in the face. “Do you think I’m some kind of social worker? And if it’s so important to you, why do you trust me, a stranger?”

  The man will extend his arms, walk around the table toward her, open his mouth, then close it, as if uselessly seeking an explanation, the right words.

  But why am I being such a bitch?

  “I don’t know. There was a comedy film from the second half of the last century. I loved it. I don’t think it’s easy to find today.”

  “You see, Commissioner, long ago, when I was studying—you’re too young to remember it—before some evil politician decided that it was no longer fashionable, Latin was still studied in schools, and even Greek, not to mention the mother of all sciences, the most important of all: philosophy. Now, not that I’m against all studies on new technologies, we need them too, however, I fear that the opportunity has been missed to teach today’s children that before using technology, logic should be used.”

  The little man will wipe the blackboard clean, then pick up a piece of chalk. “When I used this little, ancient blackboard as a boy to study poets, or declensions, I sometimes wrote the essential elements of every human problem. They’re still those of the ancient Greeks, you know? Then the Anglo-Saxons, in the last century, wrote project management texts for us, and they made the great discovery of hot water.”

  He will write words on the board. “But in summary, it’s a few words, always the same: who, how, where, when, and why. Now, we don’t know who wants the death of His Holiness, nor why, and we cannot imagine if he wants to strike again in Rome, and when.”

  With the chalk, he will draw an oval around one of the five words. “However, if this terrorist organization is planning a new attack, it will certainly be to find a way to kill him. Are they going to use a bomb again? Will they blow up the Vatican, or try to blow up his flying car, like last time? Or maybe they’re planning something more exotic, like poisoning, as happened to other popes in history? Maybe they think they’re going
to pass it off as a natural death, who knows.”

  The man will turn to look at his listener sitting in the armchair, then tap the chalk twice on the blackboard, around the word enclosed in the oval. He will clap his hands to rid them of the chalk powder before sitting down and picking up the cup of tea again.

  “If I were you, Commissioner, I would focus on how. You find me the how, and I’ll sign all the authorizations you need to search for the missing words.”

  The blond man will rest his hands on the table, gently, as if for fear of breaking it. “A very old film, set in New York, very beautiful and melancholy. I don’t think there is even a holographic version. You know, it ended with a joke by a girl who said, you have to trust people a little bit.” The man will try to smile. “And we’re not strangers; you let me sleep in your house.”

  Whiley will extend a hand, in obvious embarrassment, trying unsuccessfully to look casual, fixed by the eyes of the woman sitting at the table. “By the way, my name is John.”

  The black woman will look at him for a few seconds.

  What the fuck am I doing?

  She will sigh and extend her hand, shaking her head.

  The small square in front of the old library will be surrounded by almost bare trees, and the wind will lift piles of yellow leaves onto the sidewalk.

  “So you understand, right?” the man will repeat apprehensively. “In the meantime, I’ll withdraw the money and make a couple of holographic calls from that bar. I’ll see you in half an hour on that bench.”

  “I’m not stupid,” the black woman will respond, holding her orange scarf to protect herself from the wind. “I may not have finished high school, but I think I’m able to request a book. I’m not saying I understand, but I think I can pick it up.”

  “I didn’t mean that.”