Futura: Parallel Universes. Book 2

by Valerio Malvezzi

  But who is my enemy?

  The holographic film will talk about the birth of the United States of America, full of unbearable rhetoric. Not that Whiley cares, because in the meantime he will be thinking about something else. A couple of guys in the last rows will seem genuinely interested in the three-dimensional battle, while a young couple on the left will be more interested in discovering the pleasures of early sexual approaches.

  If I don’t know who my enemy is, I don’t know who I have to defend myself from.

  Whiley will reconsider the recording of the book, unable to understand how important this could be to Richard. All right, there are those statistical curves, hypothesized by researchers from the second decade of the century, and it’s clear by now that the world’s population growth forecasts have been somewhat underestimated.

  201 days earlier

  Spring evenings in Wroclaw, Silesia, will be the favorites of young computer hackers. Their peers will be engaged in more traditional activities, leaving them free to wander in their holographic dreams on their own. The reddish-haired young Pole will feel set apart from people his age, who mock him for his habit of living in a world of his own. He will think that what those fools don’t know is that in that world not only can he have fun, but also make money. A lot of money, if you’re really good. The young man will look into the bathroom mirror, believing he is. He will enter the only room in his apartment, apart from the bathroom, which serves as bedroom, kitchen, and living room. He will ignore the confusion of his lair, full of old, printed books, programs of all kinds, guitars, a holographic platform a couple of meters wide, an old desk full of junk, the perpetually unmade bed, and a virtual jogging track practically never used, except to throw—hanging would be a pretentious term—

  clothes of all kinds. It will be one of those nights when his peers go out with girls to some pub, but he’s got better things to do. He will look out at a sliver of moon in the sky. From his apartment on the twelfth floor of the Sky Tower, the sky will look clear, cloudless.

  Tortuga, I’m coming.

  It will be about 10:00 p.m. The remains of a pizza will still be in the plastic wrapping on the floor. He will open a can of beer, lower the curtains, and sit at his desk in front of the green platform. He will drink the last sip of beer and put on his helmet and holographic gloves, starting from his own cube, selecting the preferred connection node. He will no longer be surprised when his messy room is replaced by his virtual cubes, entirely designed and uploaded by him, representing an eighteenth-century villa, complete with gardens and fountains. The gate cube will still be under construction. From there, the stone staircase will descend to the pier cube, and he’ll set sail in the direction of Tortuga. He will enter a tunnel connecting to other cubes, from which he will emerge, after a few moments, into the pirate cove.

  A woman in eighteenth-century costume will cross a cornfield, the yellow ears floating on the armchairs around him. Whiley will think that the average data will become less important, as the new demographic curves are estimated to tend to a population of twelve billion people. And then, standard deviations will count, since some countries will have had different aging rates from the others. That book will almost seem to hypothesize that some countries are typically younger, and others are typically older.

  But what’s new about that?

  Nickering, the brown horse carrying a rider beautifully dressed in red will cross the hall. Whiley will think back to the population-aging curves, the underestimated forecasts of the time, and the colors of the population medians residing in the different countries. However much effort he makes, he will not be able to grasp really important elements. He will be sitting in the middle of a city of low houses, mostly made of wood, and the galloping horse will lift clods of dark earth, while riding the high road toward the sky at sunset. Unless, if Richard was right, someone had influenced the evolution of demographic curves in past decades.

  What did Richard hypothesize?

  The horse will jump a white fence over the armchairs of the last row. He would probably have to reconsider the average quadratic deviations of the various populations over time.

  That someone could make food production have lower performance than technology.

  He will admire the large white villa, surrounded by greenery, lit by lanterns as the last ray of holographic sun has passed beyond the last row.

  But who?

  The costumed dance scene will be a riot of sounds and colors, orchestrated to music from the time, set in the deep south.

  Why?

  Whiley will not be able to follow the film, thinking that he still has not understood the truth, the reason for the massacre of a team of scholars.

  The cube will contain a charming landscape on a small island, inside which there will be several inns and taverns, a plaza for business and exchanges, signs to hang ads on, and an emporium in which to buy travel kits.

  This place is always cool.

  The street will be packed with hundreds of holographic figures of people, connected from all over the world. Crossing the dusty road, he will know exactly where to go. He will enter the Black Lily Tavern, at the third external node, heading to table number nine, booked and with reserved access. He will type his alias, Black Rabbit, moving his hands in the space of his room in a Sky Tower apartment, to enter the Black Lily’s reserved room, between colorful parrots and sea paintings hanging from the moldy wood walls, depicting large galleons and brigantines.

  “You’re late,” the bearded young man sitting at the table will note.

  “Sorry, Janus, I had a late dinner,” the red-haired young man, dressed in a corsair suit, will reply. His humanoid face will look like that of a comic book character.

  The bearded man will beckon him to sit down.

  “Have you studied the case, then? What do you say?”

  “Did your client really have to look for something so difficult?” the corsair with the comic face will ask. “Didn’t they have an easier way to kill someone?”

  “It’s not your judgment to make,” Janus will reply, “and in any case, they’ve already tried other ways, I believe. This is what they chose, so this is what we have. And we’ve got to work on that. Are you interested or not?”

  “Hey, brother, calm down. It was just to say something. Of course I’m interested, but it’s a real mess to coordinate all those instruments. What’s the purpose of the object? To go to Mars?”

  “Are you giving me solutions or problems?”

  “Well, look. First of all, I’ve been thinking about how to monitor the range finder, and so far I don’t see any difficulties. Then, I imagined that the anemometer is coordinated by electronic sensors. I asked a few questions of various experts, and I realized that the problem with wind measurement, on really long shots, is that as soon as you’ve done the measurement, you think you’re okay. And yet, you’re only halfway through the work.”

  His mind will form the hypothesis that someone, for unknown reasons, feared that some knowledge would come to light, which probably resided in the integrated reading of the texts. In the darkness of the cinema, he will feel almost protected because he is hidden. However, staying hidden will not be the best, or at least not the only solution. As he looks around the semi-deserted room an idea will begin to take shape. A carriage galloping through the tall grass will cross the hall from the left, between screams and gunshots.

  Some fear that the truth will come to light. But what?

  The pursuers’ horses will jump the fences between the rows on the left, running through the centuries-old trees.

  The truth is hidden in some correlation among those writings.

  The driver will take the carriage to the ridge of the hill, at full speed, reaching the side of the stage.

  Continuing to run is no use; you have to take the initiative.

  A wheel of the carriage will slide on the ridge, above the ravine, right on the head of a girl who will let out a cry among her schoolmates’ amused s
nickers.

  You have to put pressure on them.

  Miraculously, the carriage will resume running on the ridge, heading towards a tumultuous river below, at the end of the hall, flowing over the rocks and approaching a menacing, foamy din.

  I need to find out the correlation.

  Whiley will get up and leave the hall through the waterfall.

  Outside the cinema, in the shopping center, past the large curvilinear staircase in the middle of the all-white structure under the dome of open-air glass, the man in the Russian-style hat and leather jacket will stop in a public communication room. He will order a coffee with milk, close himself in a single cabin, and turn on the soft blue light, frantically searching in a holographic panel. Holographic video articles, newspapers, news. The recurring word he’ll enter to get started is obvious: EFIA. Dozens of information blocks will appear to be opened in space, and soon the cabin will be flooded with news about the Euro-American Federal Intelligence Agency.

  It doesn’t work that way.

  “Why?”

  “Because the intensity of the wind can change a lot along the way. But I thought about the solution, and I got it.”

  “I’m all ears.”

  “It was a stroke of genius. The other day, I saw my mother hang up her clothes to dry with the robot, you know, the ones with the arms, that you throw the stuff and, depending on the type, they hang it in the wind to dry?”

  “Yes, and then?”

  “So, just put one or more cameras on the path, in the area, and monitor things like that, like rags hanging to scare off birds, linen hanging to dry, but also tree leaves, an advertising sign, what do I know? Everything that swings. Then with the software, we can study the wind sleeves from these observations. Just be on-site an hour before, let’s say.”

  “And how would it work?”

  “Simple. Imagine shooting from one valley to another, or from one skyscraper to another. The experts have explained to me that the wind midway can channel to an intensity greater than the perceptible or measurable one where you are. We must then estimate the wind between the shooter and the target, and not just where he is positioned.”

  “And would the software do this?”

  “That’s right. Just like the human eye, but much more precisely. It’s enough to have natural or artificial reference points. Natural ones are, for example, the movement of fronds, or as I said, the swing of the linen on the building in front. Artificial, if you don’t have reference points, then you can put in pinwheels or flags for example. Are you following me?”

  “Interesting, I hadn’t thought about it. That’s a good idea.”

  “Thank you. As a result, you can adjust the shot. Make the software connect to the clinometer, the tool measuring the angle of fire, to check how much higher or lower the shooter is from the target.”

  “Of course.”

  “And then, you can link the software to a barometer. Or rather, a hygrometer.”

  Whiley will drink his coffee, inserting the word “scandals.” Dozens of holographic blocks will appear in the cabin, like virtual drawers that can be opened with one finger, concerning different countries, the conduct of wars, the torture of prisoners, stories of kidnappings, and issues concerning government control committees on the Agency’s actions.

  Too vague.

  The man will insert the word “journalists” next the previous one. Dozens of virtual drawers will fill the cabin with names, articles, and people’s holographic images. He will ask the program to sort journalists based on the number of articles written on selected topics in the previous search. The cabin will remain full of dozens of virtual search blocks, catalogued by the different countries of the Euro-American Federation.

  Too much.

  He’ll ask the program to select only Chicago-area reporters, and a few dozen drawers will leave the booth. Now he will sort by the number of articles written, making the minimum number ten items. Dozens more drawers will leave the cabin with a click, and only four journalists will remain.

  It’s better this way.

  The first is a woman who had published twenty-nine articles in the last six years on research-related topics, at least four of which were special investigations. He will ask for a list of the woman’s articles. He will stop on an article, the title standing randomly in the holographic space in front of him.

  We are still in a democracy, if I am not mistaken.

  by Margareth Madison

  He will read the article, then frantically search for the communication company with which the woman is associated, finding her easily. He will read the Communication Company’s information notes at the end and the ethical rules of transparency for public opinion. The Communication Companies, a note explains, are private companies that publish articles to sell to publishers.

  The young privateer, in the form of an old comic book character, will tap with his index finger on the inn’s virtual table.

  “Of course, if you know the percentage of air humidity, you can calculate the aerodynamic drag of the air against the pulse bullet. For example, in case of strong humidity, you will have to lengthen the shot. If it rains, the resistance is greater.”

  “Right. So, what would be the best solution?”

  “I’m working on the idea of a ballistic computer integrated with the object.”

  “To solve the problem of parameter settings, right?”

  “Exactly.”

  Janus will make a sign to his companion to wait as a waiter brings large mugs of beer to a table at the end of the inn, amid the laughter and squeals of young buccaneers having fun moving galleons and brigantines on a map.

  “Do you hear that?”

  It will be the latest fashion, playing in a group game, on a virtual map, moving tokens, not directly, but through a kind of Chinese box, in which the virtual player by your side will be thousands of kilometers away.

  “What?” the red-haired comic book character will ask.

  “I heard a change on the line. My anti-intrusion program is signaling it to me.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “I don’t know. Maybe it’s better to stop for today.”

  “All right.”

  “How long will it take you to experiment with the solution?”

  “Not much. I’ll contact you as soon as it’s ready.”

  “All right. Bye.”

  “Bye.”

  The two holographic characters will leave the virtual tavern with a nod. At the end of the inn, near the large fireplace, not far from the gaming table, an outsider sitting at a small table will raise his eyes from his map to observe them.

  The note will explain that at any time, proposals for articles will be received seamlessly from each node to the publishers. These place them in the holographic space after checking the Government Communications Control Agency, at any time of the day. Whiley will move a finger in the space in front of him. The Chicago headquarters contact number will float in the holographic space of the now empty booth.

  The offices of one of the leading Communication Companies in the city center will be hectic with activity at that late morning hour.

  “Margareth, a call for you on space two,” the long-haired young man will say.

  “Can’t you see I’m busy?” the blonde, under forty, white and rather thin will ask. “Who is it? What do they want?”

  “A man, he told me the name, but I didn’t understand. I don’t know. He says it’s urgent.”

  “All right, pass him to me on the private screen,” the woman will sound annoyed. “Margareth Madison.”

  The man in the holographic cabin will have long brown hair and an unshaven face. For a few moments, he won’t speak.

  “Put the communication on private,” he will then say.

  “Look, what do you want?”

  “I have information for you. Are you interested in EFIA? Well, then do as I say.”

  The woman will sit at her desk, narrow the holographic space with two fingers t
o the size of a span, then isolate the audio by inserting the micro headset into her ear.

  “Look, I get dozens of phone calls a week from people who want to provide information on this topic. They’re often completely invented,” the blonde will say, annoyed. “Anyway, who are you?”

  “My name is John Whiley.”

  “Excuse me, but do we know each other?”

  “No.”

  “And what do you want?”

  “To give you information. I already told you.”

  “About what?”

  The city of Onna Son will gradually turn on its artificial lights when the sun disappears on the horizon behind the reliefs of Okinawa Island. The thin Japanese man will speak into his communicator, leaning on a dusty table at the back of a fish shop. The shop will face a main road, busy and full of people. The luminous sign will flash red in the early evening, in the cacophony of tourists’ tongues. The table from which he will be speaking will be at the entrance of the garage behind the store, reached through a courtyard full of garbage, boxes, and discarded objects. Inside the garage, the man will look with evident satisfaction at the figure of the beautiful Japanese woman, perfectly dressed as always. He will regret that the holographic image appearing in front of the shelf doesn’t depict the entire figure. The shelves over which the woman will move sinuously will be filled with metal objects, pieces of hardware, lenses, and precision tools.