Futura: Parallel Universes. Book 2

by Valerio Malvezzi

  “That filth pleases our friend a lot. Chiyeko, honey, do you mind getting six bottles from up there on the right?”

  The girl will take the steel ladder, climbing up it.

  “Now, take that wooden box and put them in it, please,” the woman will say. “Then take that, follow me, and let’s go to bed. It’s very late, and we’ve got more to do. More fun.”

  The girl will look at her, showing that she has understood correctly.

  “Then, in the morning, calmly, when we wake up, I’ll explain to you what you need to do.”

  The long-haired girl will nervously walk on the porch of the house in Yeşilköy, Bakırköy District, Istanbul, looking at the sea.

  Thursday, 6:02 p.m.

  It will be dark in the small house and the light on the porch will weakly illuminate the green yard, making the swing moved by the wind appear as a dark shadow in the lawn. The man will open the door and close it behind him, moving a few steps away from the house, walking on the gravel path. He will have Beatrix’s personal communicator in his hand, canceling the identification of the calling number, but not the image projection device, before dialing the number. He will turn to look, from the path in the garden, wrapped in dim light, at the low, arched window of the house, covering a large portion of the wall. Through the pink curtains, from which the light will filter into the lawn, he will see the figures of the black woman and the little girl.

  “Whiley,” the blonde woman will say, her face pale. “Is it you? Where are you calling from?”

  She will have her hair tied behind her neck in a ponytail. He will speak from a daylit office from behind a desk.

  “It doesn’t matter. Tell me if there’s any news.”

  “Yes. All right, I did it. I have what you asked me for.”

  The man will sigh, relieved. He will still look at the window, moving down the middle of the lawn, in the dark, walking on the yellow leaves fallen from the trees.

  “Whiley, are you still there?” the blonde will ask. “I don’t see you well. What is that, in the dark?”

  “I’m here. Well,” he will reply. “What I asked you for, do you have it?”

  “Yes, it’s here with me.”

  The man will look at the cloud-covered evening sky. In the distance, the lights of the city skyscrapers can be seen.

  “We must see each other,” he will say.

  “When?”

  “Right away. Give me half an hour to get an airborne bus.”

  “But where will we see each other?”

  “At the bean. Can you do it?”

  The woman will think for a second. “If I leave now, yes.”

  “Well. To the bean. Half an hour.”

  The sun will now be low on the horizon, and the white sails immersed in blue will look almost motionless in the distance. The game will be open on the coffee table under the pergola, and for a few minutes she will continue to look fleetingly at the screen, impatiently. The sudden beep will attract her attention, and she’ll rush to the chair. She will load up the program, read the Black Rabbit, comment, and open the move. Her hands will quickly scroll through the screen, select her troops, and move them to the three-dimensional screen, rotating it to better see the movements. She will watch the pieces of the tenth and twenty-first panzer division move, lifting the three-dimensional dust, traveling about sixteen kilometers from the resort of Faid, in a place well-known to the players, named Sidi Bou Zid. She will tremble impatiently, while on the table, dozens of tracked vehicles will move, lifting clouds of dust between violent artillery shells, rifle bursts, and explosive blows. She will watch the duel between the tanks and the anti-tank cannons without interest, until the game lets her proceed again with the artillery and aerial observation moves. The girl will quickly move her hands in space indicating to the units the necessary actions and will finally open the opposing side with the password. She will search the battle orders of the First American Armored Division and the Second Corps until finding, among the hundreds of units available in holographic space, within the first armored division, the company of Combat Command C armored regiment, under the command of Colonel Stack. Finally, she will open the order panel placed in the latter’s headquarters, launch the decryption program, and read the message:

  Fucking Janus, there’s less than hours to go and you ask for two movement corrections. Appointment confirmed, but postponed start of battle by at least two hours. Wait for me.

  The girl will close the program and turn off the personal display, inhaling and looking at the sea for a moment. Then she will walk into the bedroom, go to the closet, and pull out a black suit, jacket, and leather pants.

  He will close the communication, staying a few moments in the dark, in the middle of the courtyard, breathing the damp evening air. Then he will head toward the light filtering through the glass and go back into the house. The little girl will be playing on the couch with an old display, her back to him, talking to herself. The mother will come out of the kitchen with a pot in her hand.

  “So” she will ask, “did your call go well?”

  The woman will drive fast in traffic. The old electric utility car will flow silently through the suburban streets. The man will sit, taciturn by her side. In the back seat the little girl will slide her index finger along the glass, lost in her own thoughts.

  “But are you sure you can do it?” the woman will ask.

  “Don’t worry, I’ll be there.”

  “Look, it’s very important to me that you’re back in an hour, at seven fifteen. I told you, the Greek will kill me if I arrive late. And I care about this job.” She will overtake a car. “Or rather, I need this job.”

  The man will look at the busy road. “I understand,” he will say in a condescending tone. “Leave me at the stop, I’ll take the flying bus, go downtown, get the package, and get back so you can go.”

  “But is this parcel that important to you? Couldn’t you have gone there in the morning?”

  “Yes, it’s important. And if I resolve it tonight, as I hope, I’m leaving tomorrow.”

  The woman will turn right, taking a shortcut to a suburban street. At the end of the road, she will enter a side lane, engulfed by a column of electric cars, which will proceed slowly.

  “I knew there would be traffic at this hour,” she will say, tapping her hand on the steering wheel. “Let’s hope we make it. Fortunately the stop is less than a kilometer away. But are you sure it wouldn’t be better for me to take you?”

  “With all due respect, with this thing, at this hour in surface traffic, we’re risking our lives. Better by air with the flying bus. I’ll get there faster.”

  The woman will reflect, looking at the line of cars.

  She will take a pair of black boots and arrange them by the bed. She will then open a large backpack, inserting a folding aluminum seat, a green rollable mat, her own personal display, and a state-of-the-art projector, then fill her pockets with several memory pens and disks with various programs. She will go to the desk, open a portable monitor, and read a checklist, making sure she has inserted everything necessary into the backpack and that she has placed it correctly and exactly in the pre-established compartment. Eventually, after checking several times, she will sit on the bed, inhaling deeply, then input a holographic number. A young blonde woman with short hair will appear in front of the bed.

  “Confirmed: it’s for tonight,” the dark-haired girl will say. “Postponed by two hours. Pick me up at eleven.”

  She will turn off the communication in a snap, still inhaling deeply, then rise and open the window, returning to the veranda. She will sit in the chair under the pergola, looking at the sea.

  Evening will descend on the bay.

  “Yes, you’re right,” She’ll look in the rearview mirror. “Niki, honey, listen closely now. Tonight, the young blonde lady who usually keeps you company won’t be coming this evening. And Mommy has to go out...”

  The little girl will look at her blankly. Beatrix wil
l feel a knot in her throat. “... So you have to stay with this gentleman. All right?”

  “His name is John,” the girl will specify.

  The woman will look at the man by her side, who will let a smile escape.

  “Yes, well, right,” her mother will continue, “then you must stay with Mr. John. Okay, Niki?”

  “But when will you come back?”

  The knot in her throat will rise more strongly. “I’ll be back in a bit. At the usual time.”

  She will look at the man to her right.

  You’re leaving her in a stranger’s hands.

  “Then we agree? Dinner’s in the oven. In the fridge you’ll obviously find the drinks. Ah, the robot is broken, so you have to set the table yourself, as long as you want to. Otherwise, use paper. Don’t worry about clearing up, I’ll do it later. The dishes and cutlery are in the kitchen cupboard, but everything is easy to find since the kitchen is small. Ah, and also the robot that makes fresh bread is broken, so take the packaged kind. You’ll find it in the second compartment, at the top.”

  “May I eat French fries?” the little girl will ask.

  “We’ve already talked about it, Niki, no,” the woman will say, overtaking another car. “No sauces and fried foods. They’re not good for you, and there’s vegetables and chicken ready tonight. Don’t make Mom angry.”

  “Yuck!” she will protest, pounding a hand on the seat.

  “Niki! What did I tell you?” The woman will turn to the man. “Niki absolutely must be in bed by eleven o’clock. She tends not to want to go to sleep, so you have to put her to bed, even if she protests, okay?”

  “Ok. Don’t worry.”

  “Can we see the holographic cartoons?” the little girl will ask.

  “Yes, but at half past ten it goes off and you get ready for bed, all right?”

  189 days earlier

  Marine lamps will illuminate the black car parked on the lonely road, near Yeşilköy Pier, in Istanbul’s Bakırköy District. The lights of the fishermen’s boats will faintly swing in the darkness of the night, in that moonless sky covered in clouds, when the girl dressed in black with a crossbody bag slides into the back seat of the car. The young blonde with a brush-cut hairstyle will turn to greet her when she closes the door. The man with a ponytail at the wheel will turn on the electric car, which will lift with magnetic propulsion half a meter from the road surface and enter the lane slowly.

  “Are you all right?” the blonde will ask thoughtfully.

  “I’m ready,” the girl will simply answer, setting her backpack on the seat. The car will accelerate, picking up speed in the middle lane. The silence in the car will increase the tension. There will always be some in the night outings, but that evening the nervousness will be higher. It will no longer be a small intrusion into some educational server to alter results of exams or competitions or to steal information from some company archive. They will be well aware that this is an illegal operation, the purchase and sale of software for the control of a weapon, which is certainly intended for criminal action.

  “Do you have the map?”

  “You’ve already looked at it twenty times,” the blonde will answer, opening a file in the compartment between the front seats and projecting a holographic map. “Here it is, the abandoned building. Western suburbs.”

  “Are you sure it’s abandoned?”

  “We’ve been watching it for six days. It’s dilapidated. And nearby, there are factories, no night shifts, and social housing.”

  The brunette girl will still study the map. “How long until we get there?” she will ask.

  “At this hour, there’s no traffic, twenty minutes,” the blonde will answer nervously. “Look, but we’re early. Why do you want to arrive more than forty minutes earlier? You know that map by heart.”

  The black woman will overtake a car on the right. “When this gentleman tells you, go to sleep, do you understand?”

  “Oof!”

  “Are you sure you can do it?” the woman will ask, looking at the man and checking the cars behind her in the mirror.

  “We’ll survive for six hours.”

  The woman will halt the car at the bus stop. Dozens of people will walk on the sidewalk and climb the steps to the access ramp. The man will open the door, get out, and start to close it.

  “John.”

  In the sky above them, an airborne bus will have just taken off among clouds of exhaust gases, which will assume a yellow color due to intermittent position lights, accompanied by the typical noise of the airborne car in a vertical position. The man will turn with his hand on the doorknob. The woman’s voice will almost be a whisper.

  “I can trust you, can’t I?”

  The man will put his hat on. “I’ll heat the dinner in the oven.”

  “I didn’t mean that.”

  He will pull his leather jacket closed. “I know,” he will say, holding the door. “Don’t worry.” Then he’ll close the door.

  “And be back at seven fifteen!” the woman will shout.

  But he will have already rushed up the steps of the stop, heading to the flying bus waiting shelter, mingling with the other people in the line.

  “Mom, where is John going?”

  The woman will run the palm of her hand over her forehead.

  The girl won’t take her eyes off the map.

  “The map, the map. The map is not the territory.”

  The car will turn right, heading to the western outskirts of the city.

  “When we get to the area, take a few turns around the building. I want to memorize the extraction points well,” the girl will tell the man with the ponytail.

  “We identified three of them this morning. They’re marked here,” the blonde will note.

  “Yes, but I want to see them at night. It’s all different at night.”

  The black car will slide past a few others, buzzing in the night.

  “The descent?” the girl will suddenly ask.

  “In the trunk.”

  The girl will continue to browse the map.

  “Mousetrap?

  “In the trunk.”

  “Bells?”

  The brush-haired blonde woman will move the hair from the girl’s ear with a caress. The man with the ponytail will look at her in the rearview mirror.

  “That’s everything,” the blonde will whisper. “Look, if you don’t feel up to it, it’s not like you have to go. We can still send a message and give up the appointment.”

  The brunette girl will look up to observe the lights of the city becoming lost in the distance of the night. “I’m ready,” she will say.

  The building that houses the NOCS experimental headquarters, in Rome’s EUR district, will be shrouded in darkness, but the projectors will illuminate the surrounding garden bordered by the wall. In the basement, the man in the lab coat will speak with the hologram of the bearded man, sitting by his side in a military vehicle.

  “No, Commissioner, so far nothing.”

  “Did you use the same team?”

  “Yes, Commissioner, look, Inspector De Santis is here with me,” Santilli will answer.

  Thursday, 6.34 p.m.

  It will be evening when, inside Millennium Park, the light of a thousand windows will shine, once again, on the glittering metal capsule, reflecting skyscrapers, clouds, the first stars, and people. Set in the beautiful green context, close to the center, it will still be the favorite destination of tourists visiting the city, including those who, in the park, will still rent an ancient bicycle for a nostalgia-flavored ride. The Cloud Gate, at the AT&T Plaza at Millennium Park in Chicago, Illinois, commonly called The Bean, is a huge silver capsule that ultimately cost $23 million, compared to the budgeted $6 million. However, in more than half a century of visitors, that thing that non-art lovers find difficult to call a sculpture, built back in 2004 by visionary British artist Anish Kapoor, turns out to have largely repaid the investment.

  A man with a small set of binocula
rs in his hand will observe the sculpture from the sidelines, which, for its characteristic shape, will be known to inhabitants simply as the bean. The man with binoculars and the leather hat will observe from afar the welded surface of reflective stainless steel, more than nine meters high, twenty in length and thirteen in width. Viewed from a distance, it will look like a drop of moving giant plasma, a bizarre cardboard toy placed by an extravagant magician on a vast paved surface, which will appear, due to the optical effect of mirror curvatures, embraced by the lights of skyscrapers, which will be lost in the evening. In the end, the man will find her. The blonde woman, with her green coat tightened at the waist by a belt that will circle her hips perhaps too tightly, will have her back turned to him, looking the other way. She will seem lonely, a little bag in her hand and a crossbody purse. The man will approach without losing sight of her in the crowd that will circle the sculpture, amused by its strange settings and suggestive views of the city.

  “Are you alone?” the man will ask, from behind.

  Margareth Madison will jump. “Whiley!” she will exclaim, sighing. “What a fright...”

  “Is what I asked you for in there?”

  “Good evening, Commissioner,” the man with a Neapolitan accent will say. “I’ve just replaced the operator so as not to arouse suspicion.”

  The man with the beard will express all the tension in his voice. “Notify me as soon as something happens.”

  “Certainly. See you later, Commissioner,” Santilli will answer, turning off the communication.

  The two men in white shirts will look at each other, not knowing what to say.

  The black car will stop in the street on the western outskirts of Istanbul, dimly lit by some yellow streetlights. At that time of night, few cars will pass and not many flying cars will be seen in the sky. The blonde girl will descend along with the brunette, and the man with the ponytail will open the trunk, putting into the girl’s backpack two small boxes and a third larger one, then a roll of wire.