by Orson B Wolf
His grandmother smiled upon hearing him use the new word he had learned.
“Then I applied the behavior pattern for bands that are still active today and tried to predict the continuation of the arithmetic sequence.”
Edna still didn’t get it. “So what’s the point?”
“Come on, grandma, I’m just getting to it.” He clicked to get to the next screen and triumphantly cried, “Ta-da! Here’s the exact forecast for the bands and singers coming to San Francisco right now, this coming summer.” He waved his hands. “Including the date, time, which concert hall, and everything!”
His grandmother stretched up in her chair all at once. Gustav bounced off her lap with a meow.
“Do you want to tell me that your software predicted all that?
David bit into a huge cookie and continued talking, spraying crumbs in every direction. “Of course! And the funny thing is that my software knows where the singers will perform even before they do themselves!” Crumbs dropped from his mouth to the keyboard. He took the laptop and shook it.
His grandmother settled down and smiled. “That’s nice, sweetie. It must be fun predicting the future. Time will tell just how accurate your software is.”
David protested, “But I already know that it works! Here.” He took a newspaper out of his bag, spread it before her and flipped through the pages. “I brought it for you to see. Here is it, in the arts section. Wandering Flower is about to perform in San Francisco at the exact time and place I predicted.”
He found the page he searched for and pointed at the picture of the band. “So far, thirty-five other bands from the list have fulfilled my forecast with one hundred percent accuracy, including the dates and times.” He shoved the remainder of the cookie in his mouth and ended his little speech with a triumphant cry, “I was even able to predict the ticket prices. See here, it’s completely accurate!”
Edna gave her grandson a weird look.
“Grandma, are you all right?” David asked.
Gustav went to sniff the crumbs scattered on the floor.
She shook herself off, clapped her hands cheerfully, and rose to her feet. “Well done, my clever grandson. Come, I’ve squeezed some fresh orange juice.” She seemed disturbed by something when she took a glass and poured the juice. A moment later she paused and looked into his eyes. “David, you need to promise me something.”
“What is it, grandma?”
“Don’t tell anyone about the software, you hear? And I do mean anyone. People… well, people don’t always know how to deal with such things.”
“But, grandma—” he tried to protest, but her concerned look made him fall silent again.
“This is important, David. Promise me.”
He looked at her with consternation, then gave in.
“All right, fine. Nobody takes an interest in my ideas anyway,” he admitted. “Except you.”
She laughed and handed him the full cup. “Well, you know your granny is a little nuts, don’t you?” She frowned as she watched her little grandson sipping from his cup. When he raised his eyes, she smiled at him. “How’s the juice? Careful with the seeds.”
***
And that was how it had actually started.
The next time they were together David tried to mention the software, but Grandma Edna wouldn’t respond and diverted the conversation to other subjects.
Over time, she had become something of a “new age hippie”—or at least that was what he’d heard his dad call her. She began to wear huge clay jewelry and claimed that “blue eyelashes summoned positive energies.” She dedicated all her time and money to the world of gadgets.
She had always been fascinated by electronic toys, and she knew about every new gadget on the market. Every miniature camera or recording device—she was the first to try them.
David guessed her love of movies had a part in it: she was addicted to action and detective films. “Double O Granny,” he called her more than once.
He was disappointed that she took no interest in his software and didn’t want to hear of all the exciting things he was doing with it.
And these were exciting, all right.
After creating a website called, “The Foreseeable Numbers’ Secret,” he began to post forecasts about various subjects, mainly financial.
He was careful to remain anonymous, of course—no one knew who had set up the website or who was behind the email address appearing in it.
At first, he did it just for fun, to see what people would think of his forecasts.
Nothing could have prepared him for the amount of enthusiastic responses that flooded his email inbox.
Soon, he gained a reputation for himself among the world blogger community, and financial correspondents began to quote him. He had amazed the world time and again by allowing visitors to his website to see reality fulfilling his forecasts with one hundred percent accuracy, down to the decimal level. This caused all his critics to fall off their virtual chairs.
But that was only an introduction to what was to take place two years later. When the world believed it was on the brink of a financial disaster—he ran the data and was amazed. The software unequivocally promised the exact opposite: World stock markets would stabilize and grow stronger.
The information he’d discovered was too important to be presented only on his website, and he turned to the help of one of the website’s most loyal followers, who was a fairly gifted hacker. Together, they took over the world’s leading financial news websites, simultaneously published the forecast in various languages, and started a worldwide scandal.
On that day, David learned the hard way that his grandmother had been right: numbers are predictable, but people are a whole different story.
Everyone mocked him. One of the journalists had even gone as far as comparing him to a delusional prophet prophesying a deluge at a time of drought.
Those were the hardest days of his life. He could not escape the sharp arrows of ridicule and criticism directed at him from every direction. He had enclosed himself in his room for four days and four nights, searching for a bug in his software. “It just can’t be,” he muttered again and again, while taking apart the code and reprogramming it over and over.
Max was constantly by his side, looking at him with encouragement. He told his concerned parents that he wasn’t feeling well. They insisted on taking him to see the doctor. She examined him, found nothing, and recommended a few days’ rest. “Must be a virus,” she confidently determined.
When the financial crisis was over, and it turned out the “Prophet” had been precise in his predictions—David was finally relieved. The journalists, who had earlier ridiculed him, caved under the media pressure and had no recourse but to publish apologetic clarifications. David’s parents were happy to see their son rejuvenated, happy, and full of energy again.
“Our family doctor is a genius,” his father determined with satisfaction. “She said virus, and indeed it was.”
David changed the name of his website to “The Prophet’s News,” deciding to go for this new bombastic name.
It took the world some time to fully digest the phenomena. When a leading financial commentator gave a television interview and solemnly announced that “the ‘Prophet’ is holding the world of finance by the balls.” David laughed out loud.
He forgot for a moment that he was watching the interview in the living room with his parents, who both looked at him with surprise.
“This isn’t funny, David,” said his father. “Having someone with so much power in his hands is a cause for concern. This smells like a conspiracy.”
11
Tell Me at Home
Several people sat in the management-level lounge at the Richmond Group. They were all meticulously dressed and spoke in hushed voices. The company’s famous logo was boldly displayed high above them
on the marble wall: a gilded relief depicting skyscrapers reaching for the skies. Classical music played in the background.
Jackie walked in with an easy step and winked at Daphne, the attractive secretary behind the reception desk. A tag with the company logo was pinned to the lapel of her dark suit.
“Hi Daphne, is he in?” His loud voice made the suited people in the hall raise their eyes and look at him curiously.
She smiled. “Hi Jackie. He’s in a meeting now.”
“Could you tell him I’m here? It’s urgent.” He impatiently drummed the surface of the desk with his fingers.
Daphne hesitated a moment before answering, “You father left specific instructions not to be disturbed, even if it’s you.” She smiled again.
Jackie tried to conceal his rage. He examined the people sitting in the hall before speaking again, loudly.
“No problem, I’ll wait. I’ll have some coffee, but make it good this time,” he ordered while going toward the chairs. “Not like last time. It was pretty disgusting. I’m sure you can do better.”
He chose a chair and sank into it with a sigh.
“All right, Jackie,” she answered quietly and rose from her seat.
Jackie followed her with his eyes as she left the hall and headed to the coffee corner.
He shifted uncomfortably in his chair. He had to talk with his father!
***
Clive Richmond, a living legend in his own time, was known as a powerful man with countless assets. Against all odds, he raised himself from the gutter and created a real estate empire with his own hands.
Jackie had openly admired him ever since he was a little child. His father meant the world to him. The speculations in the media regarding the dubious ways in which he had earned his fortune, the rumors of greasing the palms of politicians, and associating with mobsters, had merely served to further fuel Jackie’s admiration for his father. In his eyes, he was larger than life.
Jackie’s two older brothers were already working with their father in the Richmond Group, and Jackie was left behind. He saw the way his brothers exchanged hushed secrets with their father during family gatherings, and his heart ached to be a part of it.
One day he simply couldn’t take it anymore and went to ask his father.
“Dad, why can’t I work for you?”
“Patience, son,” answered Clive, while leafing through the newspaper business section. “I’m sure you could fit into the business once you’ve grown up. You’ll make your contribution. But until then…” he lifted his face from the newspaper and smiled, “you need to dedicate more time to your studies.”
The answer didn’t satisfy Jackie. He hated school, thought studying was a waste of time—he was always looking for shortcuts. “Short fuse.” His friends called him—though never in his presence, of course.
The combination of his self-confidence, mature looks, and the mysterious flare that came with being his father’s son all combined to turn him into the leader of the gang. The fights he regularly participated in, his contempt for adults, and his popularity with the girls made his classmates admire him even further.
The blond Thomas, acne-faced Alex, and the rest of the gang—they all walked in Jackie’s trail wherever he went, laughing at his every joke and constantly hoping he would finally notice their presence.
But Jackie didn’t care about all that. He had only one ambition: to prove himself to his father.
A few weeks prior, he had finally come across an opportunity to show his worth. A surprising and priceless opportunity, hiding right under his nose.
The conference room door opened and loud voices were heard as his father walked out, accompanied by his usual entourage.
Jackie jumped from his seat. “Dad.”
Clive Richmond—a tall, impressive man wearing a suit and a tie, with a silvery mane of hair—turned around, surprised.
“Jackie! How are you?” He flashed a wide smile and clapped his son’s shoulder. “This is my youngest son,” he announced.
Everyone smiled politely.
Jackie sighed with relief. Despite the disturbing impression he had received from Daphne, his father seemed genuinely pleased to see him.
“What are you doing here, son?”
“I came to visit. I have something important to tell you.”
“Is everything all right?” Clive asked with concern. “Where’s your mother?”
“Oh, she’s home, I think,” he said with embarrassment. He came to his senses and continued with a steady voice, ignoring the looks of the people around him. “I came to see you on a business matter.”
“Got it.” His father started walking again, causing the entire entourage to quickly follow in his footsteps. He seemed impatient when he asked, “What business matter exactly?”
Jackie hurried after the group, trying to catch up with his father. “I think we should talk about it privately.”
Clive stopped suddenly and looked at his son impatiently. “Listen, Jackie, I don’t have time for nonsense now. Go home to your mother. Whatever it is, you can tell me about it at home.”
Jackie looked at his father, then at the entourage. They all stood quietly and avoided making eye contact with him.
“But I’m sure you’ll find it very interesting,” he insisted, trying to maintain a businesslike tone of voice.
Clive nodded impatiently and renewed his steps. “See you at home, Jackie,” he said while walking away. He inspected the papers handed him by one of his associates.
Jackie remained standing behind his father, who marched down the hall with the group. His cheeks reddened.
Daphne appeared beside him. She was holding a steaming cup of coffee with a matching saucer. “Where should I put your coffee?”
Jackie stared at the cup for a moment but didn’t answer her.
“I’ll show you what nonsense is,” he muttered quietly as he walked away.
12
Are You With Us?
David’s life wasn’t simple.
He had no idea how to be easygoing and popular, and he couldn’t understand how other boys did it, while he had a hard time even talking to a girl without stuttering. But when he sat down at a keyboard, it was a completely different story.
Here, David possessed a tremendous power. It seemed that no financial, political, or even military organization could now afford to ignore the prophet’s existence. The number of requests addressed to the “The Prophet’s News” website increased daily.
There was a constant growing flow of messages from all over the world and in every conceivable language. A year ago, he had passed the threshold of two thousand requests per day—causing the website to crash. The world media extensively covered that crash, and David had to expand his server infrastructure and backups to make sure this would not happen again. He had used top-notch experts, anonymously paying them as usual.
Most questions and requests addressed to the prophet were personal, and David had learned that the people sending them did not always expect a reply, but merely wanted to unburden their hearts. These included celebrities, politicians, financial experts, senior military and police officials—all yearning to know the future and willing to go to almost any lengths to get his answers. He called them the “prophet’s people,” and the relationship with them was mutually beneficial: David enjoyed having a powerful executive arm for enacting his various decisions, such as quickly recruiting a gifted detective to guard him.
The prophet’s people, on their part, enjoyed access to highly important information that often helped in saving lives. The avalanche that had taken place in Nepal six months ago served as a tangible example.
The sense of power that David felt behind the keyboard was addictive, but it came with a price. He found himself being lost in the software into the wee hours of the night, seeking the next disaster of
which he could warn the public, saving thousands of strangers.
He diminished the pace of his online publications and gradually exchanged these with television interviews in which he chose to appear as “The Prophet:” a blurry figure wearing a hood.
He had been very nervous during his first television appearance, but no one recognized his agitation as the television image uttered with a steady, synthetic voice the words he anxiously typed on his keyboard.
In a short period of time, David was amazed to see the prophet almost independently transforming into a powerful figure, way beyond his wildest expectations. And as the geopolitical reality became more fragile and dangerous, more and more people looked up to the prophet and waited to hear his predictions.
The boundless power the prophet now enjoyed was intoxicating and addictive, but that power came with a great responsibility—too great, perhaps.
David would never forget the day of his interview with the President of the United States.
Just before the day of the general elections, when the polls demonstrated an almost completely equal standing between the two parties, the incumbent president desperately needed to gain some extra popularity. His campaign managers sought a well-publicized event, one that could help him gain the advantage, and what could be more fitting than a prime-time interview with this prophet everyone had been talking about?
The live broadcast was scheduled for Sunday evening at eight. The whole world eagerly awaited the curious meeting between the leader of the free world and the fascinating entity—now no lesser known. Some compared the media hype to that preceding the Super Bowl.
Everyone was talking about it, David’s parents included. They sat in front of the television as the host ceremoniously announced, “And now, joining us live, ladies and gentlemen, the prophet!”
The screen was split in two: on the right side was the president, smiling confidently, fixing his tie. On the other half of the screen was the famous hooded figure of the prophet. It wasn’t moving.