Futura: Parallel Universes. Book 1 Read online

  The black man will pay and start toward the exit among the crowd. “Hey, forget baseball, you know? It’s one of the things that you women will never understand.” The black man will smile amusedly holding the door open at the bar exit, while a group of commuters and students will enter boisterously in front of them. In the small group, a blonde girl with too short a skirt over sheer stockings and stilettos will attract the attention of the black man, who will turn his head, staring at her buttocks.

  “That’s what I mean,” The Chinese woman’s elbow will poke the black man, who will barely feel the blow. “That could be your daughter.”

  “Hey, Sue, don’t be so jealous.” The man will say, pretending to massage his chest painfully.

  “Idiot.”

  The two will walk along a downtown street, passing through a garden that will skirt a small old library alongside an old-fashioned building.

  “What are you talking about at this afternoon’s meeting, Sue?”

  The young woman will avoid a puddle, tightening her grip on the strap of her bag.

  “Sirens off,” he will order his men.

  The Commissioner will turn to him while the blond man turns away, barking orders to his plainclothesmen, who will jump into the flying cars. “That son of a bitch is saying that the Italian police are always late. You’re right, damn it, what does the surveillance officer say?”

  The Inspector will speak softly into the personal visual monitor projected in front of him, absent-mindedly watching the pigeon in the courtyard.

  “Give me the position. Are you in place?”

  “Surveillance officer one in position. Good visibility. Nothing to report.”

  The Commissioner will walk nervously around the courtyard. He will not like the idea of moving to the center of Rome, by day, on a planned route, the news now made public.

  The whole world knows that. Let’s hope no one does shit.

  “We must be careful. Mobile one, do you have eyes?”

  A voice will rasp in the headset.

  “Mobile one, surveillance station at kilometer six, in place. Via libera.”

  The Commissioner will look at the Italian flag on a distant flagpole. The pigeon will have been joined by a similar one near a flower bed and will drink from a puddle. Two Swiss guards will stand on the alert. A small crowd of plainclothesmen and clerics will leave the palace, heading towards the white flying car in the center of the courtyard. A little platform will have been placed to facilitate the step of the elderly custodian of Christianity, who will move about, smiling and greeting some cardinals with a handshake, a black folder in his left hand.

  “Here we go, get ready. Team one ready to move.”

  The group will enter traffic on the first level, the aircraft seeming to slide neatly on invisible tracks, drawn only by the colored paths of the laser. The sensors will guarantee distances. About twenty meters below, bars and shops will be crowded with people who will enjoy the first spring day, walking without wearing their bulky winter clothes anymore. The images of the eternal city will flow under the gaze of the commissioner, who will seem to relax for a moment.

  “The usual things. Old Borman set the meeting for 3:00, a jumble of seemingly wacky reports; we scanned all the news blocked on the network, and Borman wants to find connections and reasons for the various instances of censorship. The usual bad countries are under more control, of course, but no talk of border troops or new anti-missile satellites, if you really want to know,” the woman will say, gesturing.

  They will pass by the air silos, cylindrical structures about twenty floors high for automated aircraft shelter. Six large elevators will take dozens of people to the top floor every minute, where aircraft owners will collect their vehicles, managed by parking logistics and automatically moved to the various floors according to orderly criteria. From the roof, two ramps, one inbound and one outbound, will allow the aircraft to take off and land, with a kaleidoscope of position light colors and signaling of vehicles and traffic lights, in the winter morning’s haze. From the top floor, a well-built, blond man in a light raincoat will look into the street below.

  “I heard you found a novel about a conspiracy to assassinate the Pope. Is it true?” the black man will ask, grinning.

  “Rick always talks too much,” the woman will snap. “Anyway, yes. In any case, it’s nothing but a sci-fi text without any foundation. An unpretentious detective story, a little novella. I don’t even know if I’m going to talk about it today.”

  A girl with oriental features, tight trousers, and black boots will walk slowly with her hands inside the trendy windbreaker, along a wide, tree-lined street, looking at the shop windows, most still closed at that hour.

  “Entered the web two days ago and taken off after forty seconds. We’re investigating to find out who he is and why. Perhaps the Vatican guard lacks a sense of humor on certain subjects. What about you?”

  The two will pass along a small road that leads into the intersection. The blond man on the roof will have placed himself next to an advertising sign away from other people, a viewer in his hand, and will compare eye contact with the data that will appear on his retina from his personal display.

  The aircraft will glide between the city buildings.

  A journey like so many others. In short, don’t be nervous.

  “First ascent junction, one thousand eight hundred meters,” a voice through the stereo in the flying car will say.

  Shortly thereafter, the group will take the upward turn to the right, and will rise towards the second level of traffic, more smoothly, at an average height of about fifty meters. The man in the green monolifter will have a dark helmet.

  “Time to arrive at the Vatican Gardens junction?” the Commissioner will ask. The green monolifter will enter from behind a building in traffic and follow the group about eighty meters away, heading toward the two police monolifters with flashing lights.

  “Slow down on the fitting. Five minutes.”

  A woman in the street will point to the column with her arm up. Many passers-by will stare, their heads back.

  “Green traffic lights, central, keep traffic. We’re on director two.”

  The green monolifter will overtake public transport, then a taxi, keeping the distance at eighty meters. For a few minutes, Cervetti will lazily observe the traffic, the clear sky, and some remote cloud in the distance, in the direction of the sea.

  I only left you two hours ago, and I miss you already.

  Rome will slide under him like so many other times.

  What I would give to still feel something below me.

  As they approach the center, the streets will swarm with people, many of them tourists. The armchair will be soft; Cervetti will caress the leather, trying to empty his mind.

  The most beautiful thing was my arm on your skin, at dawn, in the dorm, knowing both of us didn’t want to miss that moment.

  He will nervously watch the minutes pass on the clock.

  Don’t worry, see you tonight.

  Rome will flow placidly under him.

  “Commissioner, station two is asking for the line,” the Inspector sitting next to the driver will say, turning to the commissioner.

  “Pass them in stereo.”

  What the fuck is going on now?

  “This is Cervetti, station two ahead.”

  Images of the Chinese woman and black man walking down the street will appear side by side with the texts of a full dossier.

  “An essay on baseball and girls in miniskirts,” the black man will answer, smiling.

  At three hundred meters, in the square at the end of the tree-lined avenue, which will lead to the old sandstone building, a man of sturdy build with short black hair and a worn leather jacket will consult a metro board. His visor will project photos of the exterior and interior of the sandstone building.

  The Chinese woman will take a look at her companion, open her mouth, then close it, her eyes to the sky, before crossing the street, he
ading to the prestigious staircase leading to the sandstone building. On the wall is a plaque that will read:

  Medoc. Spin Off of the Department of Economic and Social Studies.

  “Yes, but there is also an interesting dossier on the unbridled use of beer on sofas on full-moon evenings.” The black man will launch into a howl, following the young woman.

  “Dr. Porter!” a girl with East Asian features will exclaim, a few steps up the stairs in front of the building.

  The man and woman will turn. The young woman, definitely beautiful, taller than average for women of her race, Vietnamese, but with some Western features, will cross the street gracefully.

  “Excuse me for bothering you, Dr. Porter. I was wondering if you could answer a couple of questions about the third chapter of the manual. You know, I work, and I can’t always follow your interactive holographic lessons. I tried to contact you, I really don’t want to be a bother...,” the young woman’s tone will be affable, the smile disarming.

  “Can’t you come to the reception tomorrow?” the black man will ask.

  “Oh, you know, this afternoon I have the admission test for the course next trimester, and tomorrow I work. There’s a café back here, I’m just going to steal ten minutes of your time,” she said, hands clasped, legs together, almost praying with her chin raised, and a smile. A couple will leave the sidewalk to avoid the trio standing in front of the steps leading to the old solid wood door with a security camera. The Chinese woman will scan the young newcomer up and down.

  The voice will come from far away after a few seconds.

  “Commissioner, the system reports automatic driving of a transport van.” The voice will stop, as if to wait for instructions.

  Something is wrong.

  The Commissioner will reflect for a few seconds before speaking; it may be nothing. “Check the control panel to see if anyone has requested automatic transport without a driver. At what distance?”

  Damn it, let’s hope it’s some asshole who authorized uncontrolled automatic traffic in the urban area.

  The group will proceed between the buildings of the city center. “Negative, Commissioner. Central announces that there are no unaudited automatic transport permissions. It looks like a commercial vehicle driven remotely. They’re tracking the signal, but it looks like it’s within two kilometers of your location.”

  Damn it. A coincidence?

  The green monolifter will approach within a few meters of the group.

  “Calculate course change; take the next right turn.”

  The group with the Pope’s white flying car in the center will turn in toward the city.

  “Calculate the signal distance; trace the source. Give me information, for Christ’s sake!”

  Tell me he’s moving away.

  The voice will arrive in the cockpit like a shot.

  “Approaching signal. Now about 1.5 kilometers. The plant announces that the transport aircraft is a medium-displacement van, not authorized for transit in the center, remotely controlled from a mobile location. They’re trying to trace the location.”

  What, a mobile station?

  The Commissioner’s voice will crackle with nervousness. “Top priority, locate the van’s mobile control station. All units, maximum vigilance, report any suspicious aircraft. I want a moving perimeter within five hundred meters, and I want it now! Central, send reinforcements!”

  “I get it, I’m going,” the Chinese woman will grumble, pressing the button on the door and looking into the camera, huffing. “Tell me about the baseball essay later,” she will comment when the door opens with a squeak.

  “I’ll be there in five minutes!” the man will reply, but she will have already disappeared into the entrance.

  The sandstone building will be divided into three floors in addition to the attic and accessed by a concierge. The middle-aged woman will open the door after looking into the monitor at the face, wearing a white scarf, of the well-known Chinese researcher. Hair gathered in a bun, a hard and tired face behind a darkened glass, sitting on a comfortable revolving chair with a Persian cat on her lap.

  “Good morning, Miss Sue,” the woman will say formally, watching a holographed networked program and sipping a coffee cup.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Nielson,” the Chinese woman will reply, pressing the button to call the cage elevator.

  The building, in fact, will be almost deserted. The Chinese woman will enter the ancient elevator, a finely worked iron structure running slowly up the center of the stairway, and press the second button. At the height of the first floor, in the squeak of the rising elevator, the woman will absent-mindedly look at the glass in an elegant wooden door. A plaque will be affixed above:

  Steven’s & Sons Insurance

  The researcher will know, of course, that it’s a cover. The office will only be open in the afternoon. The third floor will not have been occupied for years. Sue won’t even know exactly what’s in the old space on the fourth floor. The stairs will be illuminated, even at that time of the morning, by ancient lamps, because light struggles to enter the windows of precious colored glass. The elevator will stop with a clang in the silence of the dim stairwell. The woman will exit the elevator, close it, approach the door with the brass plate saying Medoc, press the bell, look into the camera fixed to the wall, waiting for the bitonal buzz, and then enter quickly.

  Damn it, coincidences don’t exist in this job.

  “Commissioner, Captain Hauser on two,” the Inspector in the front seat will say, pulling the heavy pulse gun out of his jacket.

  We also missed the Swiss breaking their balls just now.

  The group will move further to the right and take another turn, following the directions of the navigation software. Dozens of workers will adjust the traffic lights to constant green. The Commissioner will look down as people in the streets walk on the first beautiful spring day of the season.

  “Yes, Captain.”

  The voice will enter the cabin like the bark of a German Shepherd. “Commissioner, we have changed course. Is there a problem?”

  Fuck.

  “We’re checking, Captain. There seems to be an unauthorized vehicle in the area. My men are looking for him.” Cervetti will try to look as natural as possible. “Normal precaution. Ordinary security procedures.”

  The green monolifter will move smoothly through traffic, the dark helmet projecting data that will flow fast on the rider’s retina. In the center, his right hand will confidently maneuver a lever, which will move the yellow dot on the three-dimensional projection in the helmet as the blue vehicles approach.

  “If there are problems, I would like to know, Commissioner. Are we sure?” The German’s voice will seem almost devoid of emotion.

  “We’ll keep you informed, Captain. See you later.” Cervetti will make a sharp sign to the Inspector to cut off communication, looking around nervously. “Station two, what’s the situation? Does anyone want to say anything to me?”

  The group will still cross a traffic light, the owl flying car will avoid contact within a few meters of a monolifter that didn’t respect the signal, triggered without warning.

  “Station two here. Commissioner, the station tracked down the signal. It appears to come from a monolifter at the end of the column. The aircraft is stolen. They’re transmitting the monolifter data to all units. We’ll pass the information to you on the monitor.”

  Hey, Sue, did you know John made the old man mad again?” the brunette girl will ask cheerfully. She is in the first room to the right of the hallway. Without looking up from the holographic monitor, she will continue to move her thin fingers on the screen, taking pieces of footage and connecting them.

  “What the hell did he do now?” the Chinese woman will reply, lifting her coat and hanging it on the clothes rack in the atrium on the left. In the black-haired girl’s office, a large fireplace covered with a fire screen, will emit a pleasant warmth, crackling the pieces of wood loaded from a basement closet,
according to an automatic computer program. The room with frescoed ceiling, holographic paintings on the walls, and windows with colored glass is a mixture of modern and ancient, like many other things in the building.

  “Another abstruse essay on medicine seems to have been included in this afternoon’s meeting; I don’t know, some Chinese stuff,” the young woman will answer, continuing to move pieces projected into the space in front of the fireplace. “Something from your parts.”

  The Chinese woman will walk into the hallway, her steps making the entire wooden floor squeak. She will poke her head into the large meeting room on the right, a nine-meter oval table of precious antique wood surrounded by a dozen comfortable white leather armchairs with gravitational support, boards on the sides, and a large screen at the bottom of the room. Empty. She will walk through the hallway beyond it.

  “Hi, Sue, you’re here,” a brown-haired man, under thirty-five, with the classic face of a good school boy, will rest his hand on the Chinese woman’s shoulder.

  “Hi, Rick, well?” She will turn, crossing her arms.

  “Well, nothing. Old Borman has been yelling about the rules for half an hour.” The young man will put his right index finger to his lips, speaking softly, pointing with the other to the room at the end of the corridor, from which a piece of classical music will come.

  The young woman will follow the man into the room to the left of the hallway, where another blond man in sports pants and a sweater will be submerged behind at least half a dozen overlapping holographic sheets, comfortably reclining in his armchair, his feet on the desk.