Why?
Whiley will decide to get off the street, entering a park. The rain will be very low in intensity, and will drip from the bare branches of plants along the inner paths.
Follow the procedures.
He will order the program to remove makeup, change hair color and shape, add age to the first stock image. In the end, it will overlay the first manipulated image on the second. He will smile.
Hi, Saki.
Then, he’ll mark the address of a sushi bar in Okinawa on his personal archive. Satisfied, he will get up, heading to the window. The night will seem less dark.
He will go to the video communicator on the night table and contact reception at 5:42. A man will appear on the video. “Reception, how may I help you?” He will sound a little sleepy.
“This is room 603. I’d like an airtaxi in twenty minutes. Yes, thank you.”
He will head to the bathroom, and shaving will think that he can rest on the plane on the way to Athens. Shortly thereafter, he will leave the hotel, boarding the airtaxi, and while the engines engage for take-off, , he will watch the enchanting spectacle of the first light of dawn over the still sleeping island from the window.
Palmer will be sitting waiting for his flight, scheduled within a couple of hours, at the restaurant at Eleftherios Venizelos International Airport in Athens. Distant speakers in the distance will announce calls for take-off flights, but the noise will be cushioned by the excellent soundproofing on a side tower about a kilometer away from the slopes. He will be enjoying dolmades, vine leaves stuffed with rice, onions, tomatoes, and herbs at a secluded table. The spring sun will have set just over an hour before, and the airjet lights will color the Athens sky. In the room, half the tables will be occupied by tourists and businessmen. He will have taken care to choose the last table at the end of the room, near the garden. A message will show on the personal display. Palmer will hate working during his breaks, but the source of the message will lead him to make an exception.
Zibo Bank, Hong Kong branch.
The benches will be deserted. Only a few passers-by will cross the gardens, walking in the tree-lined paths, huddling in their jackets. The man will look at them with a mixture of fear and suspicion. An old woman will return his gaze, walking bent with garbage bags in her hands.
Everything in the house, thrown away.
The man will change paths, cutting across a wooden footbridge over a pond.
Like garbage.
Passing across the bridge, he will observe a swan, motionless in the light rain, as if the world didn’t concern it. His little Chinese colleague is also still. Only at that thought will he realize that his heart is beating almost normally again. He will stop on the wooden footbridge, resting his hands on the parapet and looking around, without seeing anyone in the small street, trying to organize his thoughts. He will continue watching the swans in the pond, in the patter of rain in the water. The noise of traffic in the distant sky will now be mingled with his heartbeat.
Communication centers will have been free of charge for years. Each person will be able to access, and quickly connect to, the world network, searching, spending time playing or reading books, watching movies or listening to music. Consumption will not even be mandatory anymore, as was the case in the early days. The new laws on advertising and propaganda in public places will have greatly reduced the commercial interruptions.
Whiley will find one at the end of the park, the ideal choice for contacting the agency. He will have deliberately left his personal display in the office, so as not to be tracked down. It is better for those who carried out the massacre to continue to think that he is there, or that he has not yet moved on to pick up his object. Unfortunately, all his personal data, his memories, his movies, documents, certificates, everything will be available from the display, but in any case, the citizens’ data will be stored remotely, the personal terminal only a tool.
He will politely bring the napkin to his mouth, then open the projector in screen mode, size ten centimeters, and place the image between his legs, on the napkin under the table. He will quickly, enter his account password, specially opened a few days before. The round number will be simple to see: €50 million. He will quickly close the image in the personal display projector, smiling, then place the display chip in his graft on his left forearm, looking over the glass towards the airport in the distance. The tower garden, in which people can eat on sunny days, will be enveloped by the darkness of the evening. A play of lights will project his own image reflected on the window glass one meter away from his table. The man will look at the bottle of red wine on the table, check the label, Kamaritis, pour half a glass of it, then look again at his image reflected in the glass.
Then, with a hint of a smile, he will lift the goblet towards the window.
The village of Onna Son, on the central western part of Okinawa Island overlooking the East China Sea, will become one of the island’s main tourist destinations. At sunset, Palmer will climb the stone staircase cut into the rocks, covered with lush vegetation. Only three days earlier he was in Europe, and now he will have spent a magnificent day scuba diving and relaxing on the beach. At the top of the cliff, he will stop to look at the cobalt blue of the sea, which will change color in the stretch of the reef, becoming clear water that will rhythmically throw itself onto the white beaches. Then, he will enter the private area, reading the sign:
Kafuu Resort Fuchaku Condo Hotel
An hour later, the man, wearing an elegant European evening suit, will cross the swimming pool area, looking at the yellow lamps projecting pleasant cones of light into the heated waters.
It would be enough to report the document loss at the town hall and to the police, and in a few days, a normal citizen would have a replacement. A normal citizen. He will know he’s not that anymore, not since the day he was recruited to the Department. It was Professor Borman himself who contacted him, and he was very pleasant and convincing. It felt like a game, and after all, it had been.
Until then.
The Vietnamese woman with the trendy jacket will drive fast through traffic, heading north on route 36, about 250 meters high, following the laser beacons with automatic assistance. Hundreds of aircrafts will be in line, and the route will not be smooth. It will not be possible to disengage automatic control and the speed limiter, not without causing the immediate intervention of some road patrol, the last thing she would want. She will speak into the internal communication device, asking to be put in touch with a number. The image of the muscular man with the light raincoat will appear in the virtual space of about twenty centimeters, on the transparent display on the right side of the dashboard. The man will appear in a street, near a tree.
“It’s me. What’s new?” the woman will ask, looking nervously at the line of flying cars preventing regulatory overtaking on the fourth lane.
“The missing dog has not yet been seen. His collar is still on the sled,” the blond with a German accent will respond.
“Keep guarding the sled from a distance. Let me know if there’s anything new.”
The woman will turn off communication, accelerating to the maximum speed allowed in that airspace.
Whiley will enter the bar attached to the communication center. Almost every public refreshment place will now have one. He will ask for coffee and a private soundproof cabin. Fortunately, at that time on a weekday there will be a couple available. He will sit in the armchair, placing the cup in the appropriate port, and order the door to be closed.
At poolside, among the plants, fully illuminated under the huge building about twenty floors high, a series of sofas under large bamboo canopies will be partially occupied by guests, laughing and chatting amiably, sipping local aperitifs. Palmer will place his hands on his blond sideburns, mechanically smoothing them with his thumb and left forefinger, as he observes the splendor of the sunset over the bay. The sun will have disappeared into the sea, but a faint pink light will remain in the distance, among the wh
ite clouds. Yellow lamps at the foot of the palm trees between the sofas will begin to light up.
He will cross the large common area, passing near a pagoda, evidently built for tourist purposes, and then enter the restaurant through a large entrance with sliding glass doors. He will pretend to look at the various offerings, indicated in holographic signs by waiters in traditional costumes of the island that complement the interior of the restaurant, and then head, after comparing the prices, to a sushi bar. At the entrance, he will stop to observe a series of wicker baskets containing smooth, white stone eggs, and a series of amaranth-colored statues, depicting a series of horned devils. Then, he will enter the dining room, following the crowd under a large arch illuminated with lit torches. Large sliding shelves, on three raised levels, will slide all kinds of dishes under a myriad of small colored lamps. Behind large marble counters, at least a dozen cooks will continue to prepare food nonstop, while tourists will watch them curiously as they lay food on rotating belts. The Japanese girl, dressed in a traditional kimono, will ask him something.
He will turn on the translator from his personal display, and the girl’s sentences will immediately become understandable in the language he requested, English. The man will reply that he prefers a secluded private place, expressly asking for a reserved room for six people. The girl will lead him to a richly decorated table, behind a bamboo curtain, under a spiral of glass stems of many colors, which will hide lamps that will project a living light on the ceiling, between the inset wooden columns.
Whiley will ask the terminal for the cabin to be blacked out so that it is not possible to see inside from the outside. The air conditioning will come in with a slight rustle. He will pronounce the number sequence he has learned by heart.
“Emergency.” The face of a young woman, behind a white desk, on an anonymous wall will appear, but there will be no evidence to indicate where the woman is.
Whiley won’t be able to speak; he’ll have forgotten the procedure.
“Emergency. Go on,” the woman will repeat, looking at him, touching the recording button.
“Hello? Am I talking to the agency?” he will ask, wheezing.
“Identification.” The woman in a light blue dress, white collar, with an anonymous and inscrutable face, will not move a muscle.
“I’m John Whiley. They’re all dead.”
He will observe the lean woman, a dimple on her chin, with her brown hair pulled back, motionless on the screen.
“Identification, please.”
“But did you hear what I said? They’re all dead! My colleagues. I’m Whiley, a researcher.” The man will raise his voice, looking at the round glass door and wondering if soundproofing is that efficient. “We were supposed to have a meeting this afternoon. Borman called it.”
“No names, please. Identification in code.” The tone of woman’s voice will not have changed.
“What?” Whiley will run his hand over his forehead. “Ah, yes sure. Hound six. Hound 12/6.”
“Are you calling from the incident site?”
Incident.
“But what are you saying? What incident? Did I say maybe there was an incident? I said they’re dead! They were murdered!” Whiley will spit out the words in haste, as if to get rid of the memory. He will inhale deeply, adding, “What should I do now?”
“Are you still there?” The woman’s voice will sound nasal. “Are you calling from a protected line?”
“There? Where?” Whiley will loosen his jacket. “Look, bitch, I couldn’t stay there with my feet in blood. It was a slaughterhouse in there, if that’s what you want to know!”
A huge aquarium at least six meters long and at least fifty centimeters deep will occupy the entire height of the wall.
“When will your guests arrive, sir?” The girl’s voice will be translated by another female linguist into the simultaneous translator.
Palmer will sit on the comfortable cushions, looking at the gorgeous, large, white and pink shells resting on dark green marine plants. Half a dozen large, colorful tropical fish will playfully enter the natural channels of shells to randomly exit each time from a different side.
“I think I’m going to be alone. I would like to order. I have a bit of an appetite, thank you,” Palmer will reply with a broad smile, which will reveal an imperfection between his upper incisors, slightly separated, but perhaps making the young man’s overall image more pleasant.
The girl will look in amazement at the elegantly mannered European, sitting alone at a round six-seat table. “It is my duty to inform the gentleman that this reserved room has a fixed cost for booking of fifty Eurodollars for each cover; that is equivalent to...”
“Of course,” Palmer interrupts her, putting his hand in his jacket pocket. “Of course. Put the full table on my account. Ah, I have a favor to ask you; I rely on your discretion. I would be infinitely grateful if, at the end of dinner, you would be kind enough to ask the owner to come here to my table. Tell her I’m interested in opening an exact copy of this place in my hotel in Paris, and I’m here to talk business.”
The girl will look incredulously at the five hundred Eurodollar note in the palm of her hand, which the stranger will have placed there with great courtesy.
“Keep the rest too,” the stranger will continue with a big smile, “and now, shall I order?”
Forty-nine minutes later, the curtains will open again, but instead of the waitress, two women will appear. Palmer, sitting lower than the floor on which the sliding door will open, will initially see the feet of the first woman in elegant black sandals.
Whiley will look at the woman’s hologram in the cabin.
“Borman was in the bathroom; the others were scattered in pieces like animals all over the house, I tell you. I escaped. But who the fuck invented this procedure? If you don’t know what to do, pass me on to someone to tell me!”
Her hologram will observe him for an instant, imperceptibly moving her lower lip.
“Stay on the line.”
The tall, thin blond man will be sitting in an office on the twelfth floor, in a space shared with three other colleagues, currently engaged in their terminals behind separation windows. A long glass corridor, other offices up to the elevators.
“Recovery.”
“We have a research clerk, the sixth official in section twelve. John Whiley, level two operative. He seems in a state of confusion. He’s reporting a series of crimes to his section. He’s asking for instructions.”
“Pass him to me.” The young man will type the name he just heard onto his own display.
The video will show a man with wet, uncombed hair, in the soft light of a cabin. The man’s face will correspond to the stock images, only the hair is now longer.
“Go on, Hound 12/6. Tell me calmly. We’re here to assist you. Where are you calling from?”
Whiley will look at the young man’s face in the hologram video in front of him, a normal desk in a normal office.
“From a communicator in a bar. I escaped.”
The blond man will take note of every word. He will open a file next to himself in midair on section twelve: Medoc. It seems to be just a university spin off, a research section of the agency. He will immediately find the site on the screen, an ancient house with sandstone walls, historic center of Chicago, eight kilometers from there.
“Where are you?”
“In a bar. I already told you.”
“Give me a quick picture of the situation. Calm down. The line is protected. We have three minutes.”
Bright red painted toenails in sandals and a pair of large sneakers, the man will look up to observe the two women. The oldest, a woman under forty, will be breathtakingly beautiful. Long, smooth black hair and a body full of curves hugged in a black dress with a deep neckline. She will wear a beautiful necklace, richly worked rings on manicured hands, and have magnificent oriental eyes. The second to enter, a much younger girl, in pants, will be at least one meter eighty-five centimeter
s tall, and will be wearing a sweatshirt from some sports team.
“Mrs. Nishizawa!” Palmer will exclaim, interrupting his dessert, bringing a napkin to his mouth and jumping to his feet. “It is an immense honor for me to meet you. Thank you for finding time to come. Please, sit down.”
The woman will accept the European’s kiss on her hand and will sit gracefully on the pillows. The simultaneous translator’s voice will certainly not have the grace of her original Japanese language.
“Thank you,” she will say, getting comfortable, “Mr....”
“Kevin Palmer. At your service.”
“This is Chiyeko,” the woman will say pointing to the younger girl, who will remain standing. Palmer will bow to touch the girl’s big hand with his lips. She will place her other hand over her mouth, unable to hold back a strange, short, smothered laugh.
“Chiyeko is not used to this sort of thing, Mr. Palmer. But please sit down. And maybe, as you finish your dessert, you’ll explain to me the reason for this visit.”
The man will sit and smile politely, taking the glasses from the empty seats by his side and pouring a shot of sake for the two women.
“What shall we toast?” the woman will ask.
“Well, to the success of your place, ma’am,” Palmer will say, carefully moving the cups on the wooden table towards the two women.
The girl will not have the femininity of her partner, and will sit with her hands on her knees, her white shoes crossed under her buttocks.
The blond man will quickly move his hands in midair, searching for public places within a three-kilometer radius of the sandstone house.
Futura: Parallel Universes. Book 1 Page 8
