“Sometimes, at two points in the trajectory, headwinds meet each other.”
She will grimace, then sip fruit juice from a glass on the table.
“Not to mention that, at those distances, the wind can move the projectile to the right or left, but also higher or lower, than the target point. It depends on whether we’ve the wind for or against us, at now six or twelve o’clock.”
“And how do I calculate it?”
The man will observe the drawing in the backlight at the sea.
“That’s why I told you about the ballistics table first.”
For a few minutes, the two will be silent, and she will turn the radio to a music channel, feeling vaguely uncomfortable. When she turns around to talk to him, she’ll find him asleep.
Maybe I’d better call the police.
The car will enter a peripheral detour on an almost deserted road along the river. The woman will look at him out of the corner of her eye, slowing down the car until it stops, unsure what to do.
He doesn’t look like a rapist.
She will watch him sleep for a moment, look into the mirror, shake her head, and set the car in motion, turning right towards the suburban road.
The man will in turn take a sip of juice. “This is where the table helps us to suggest the correction of the tilt related to a given wind speed. But it’s not over.”
“It’s not over,” the girl will repeat, discouraged.
“No. We need to predict the effects of wind direction on the direction of the projectile. And here you will have to develop a part of the software that determines them empirically, recording the effects of the wind on the surrounding environment.”
The girl will lean back of the wicker chair, exhaling.
“There are still at least a couple of problems. One is that the software will have to consider the variation in ambient light.”
“In what way?”
“Nothing says that I’ll arrive at the place and shoot after a few minutes. It can take many hours; it depends. In that case, changes in light intensity during the day or at night will lead to different impact points at that distance. Imagine what’s going on, looking into the distance three kilometers away. Have you ever seen mirages?”
The girl will get up, smoothing her pants with her hands, take a few steps, and lean on the railing, looking at the sea. The wind will move her long black hair over her face while she reflects in silence. In the distance, the waves of the sea will create small spots of irregular white foam. The girl will not be able to imagine where the waves form in the confused design of nature.
“You said a couple of problems,” she will say, turning, her hands resting on the white railing. “What’s the last one?”
“The gyroscopic drift.”
The girl will look at him without opening her mouth. Her expression will be an implicit question.
“You know before, when we saw the pulse rifle’s pattern of operation?” the blond man will respond, smoothing the sideburns. “This is another factor that determines the heeling of the bullet, in addition to the wind we talked about earlier. Gyroscopic drift is the effect of moving the projectile in the direction of the barrel rifling.”
Thursday, 2:22 a.m.
The suburbs’ form in the world’s big cities will increasingly contrast with the skyline of the old town, becoming increasingly far from its center. The electric car will stop with a buzz in the narrow street near the river, in the popular neighborhood. The road will have few trees on the sides, and many houses with low roofs, separated from each other by fences. The woman will look at the sleeping man in the seat by her side and turn off the headlights. She will touch him on an elbow. The man will jump awake, then, seeing her, will try to recompose himself, running a hand over his sleepy eyes.
“Sorry,” she will say.
“I must have fallen asleep. Are we here?” he will ask drowsily.
“Yes. You slept for a quarter of an hour.”
A dog will bark in the night.
“Listen. I can’t let you in with me now. Wait for me here. I have to pay for the babysitter first, okay? It takes me five minutes; you stay in the dark and you don’t show yourself.” In the woman’s voice will be a vein of embarrassment. “I don’t want to have to give explanations.”
The man will look at the courtyard beyond the fence, seeing a swing and a small two-story house, with a light on the first floor.
“And tomorrow you leave,” the woman will say, getting out of the car.
The woman will have already closed the door before he can confirm it.
A few minutes later, the woman will appear again on the porch, accompanying a black girl to the door. The light on the ground floor will send a faint brightness over the garden through the curtains of the windows protected by old iron bars.
“... Niki was a treasure... I’m sorry, you know, about tonight... I wish I had known before. Anyway, you’ll call me to confirm for Friday night, then?”
“Yes, thank you again. I’ll call you,” the woman will say, on the threshold.
“Good night.”
“Good night.”
The girl will listen with a worried air to the man without interrupting him.
“At a short distance, on modern pulse rifles, it is practically non-existent. But at three kilometers, this results in an estimated error of between eight and sixteen inches.”
The girl will remain standing with the sea in the background. “And you want me to make this kind of mistake tend to zero as well.” She will cross her arms over her chest, her back resting on the railing. “Is that all?” she will then ask.
The man will stretch out his arms.
“Well, as you know, modern pulse rifles allow you to change the caliber and weight of the bullet, so this choice still affects the trajectory and...” he will look at the girl’s bewildered face “... But these are just details. Yes. Let’s say that’s basically everything.”
The wind will still lift her hair.
“Now, in all honesty,” the man will ask after a pause, “do you think you can do it?”
The girl will look at the sea, watching the seagulls twirling over the bay, sometimes turning without moving their wings, pushed by the wind, swinging in the sky, and then plummeting to climb again into an unpredictable vortex of forms. She will look at the clock, then again at the man, very serious.
“Five minutes from here is the Florya district, where I know a couple of fabulous typical restaurants,” he will say cheerfully, pulling her hair. “Have you ever eaten a real kebab?”
The door will close, and a second light will come on in another room on the ground floor. The black girl’s steps will move away on the gravel driveway. The girl will get in a small electric car, turn on the engine, and drive away in the night. Soon afterward, the woman will reopen the door,
The ground floor will consist of only three rooms, a kitchen, a small bathroom, and a living room, in the center of which a wooden spiral staircase will lead to the upper floors. The man will look briefly at the living room, consisting of low-value furniture, a couple of decorative plants, and a sofa that will have seen better times.
“Well, you can sleep here, on the couch,” the woman will murmur. “The bathroom is back there, next to the kitchen.”
The room will be small, definitely devoid of the most modern comforts and almost totally of electronics, but it will be warm, and the man will feel as if he has found a way of salvation, however momentary.
“I...” he will say, embarrassed, “... I really don’t know how to thank you.”
She will stand looking at him, holding a couple of blankets in her hand.
“Well, you don’t have to,” she will say, laying the blankets on the sofa. “For 850 Eurodollars per night, there are better places.”
The morning will be windy. The flying car, lights flashing, will land on the third ramp on the roof of the large white building in the city center. The large advertising sign will indicate 07:39 when the
car stops in a cloud of vapors. A man in a dark uniform will come down, opening the door to the man in the briefcase, in a long overcoat and dark hat. The Director will descend, bent under the gusts of wind in the gray morning, watching the blond man run to meet him. The tall young man will also turn to protect himself from the pesky gusts of wind, on the top floor of the large white palace, directly opening a holographic sheet in the middle of the square. The sheet will follow the two who will walk quickly to the descent booth under the large advertising signs. The man will suddenly stop to read better.
208 days earlier
The flying car will descend to the landing ramp of one of the fourteen silos that will surround the Ataturk Airport, in the Bakırköy district of Istanbul, the most important in the Mediterranean region. The automatic flying car shelter silos will all be connected by a passenger transport system to the boarding areas. Conveyor belts will take thousands of people from the silos to the central structure, sitting in silent trains powered by solar batteries, which will travel in transparent polymer tunnels. The building will look like a cobweb structure with the collection point in the center. The girl will gaze at the blond man with sideburns; she will accompany him to check in that sunny morning, seated in a train cabin.
“How long do you think it will take you?” the man will ask, looking out the window. They will have chosen a cabin for four, with two free seats.
“More than I thought,” the girl will reply. “We’ve talked about it for three days, and now it’s all clear to me. It is one thing to have understood the problem, another is knowing how to solve it.”
“Your teacher told me that you specialize in solving problems.”
The girl will have lost some of her instinctive aggression, seeming more natural, a little childish, but still decisive.
“This isn’t about solving some stupid programming problem. The only reason many find problems difficult is because they don’t have imagination.”
“Then you imagine the solution.”
The train will slide in a breath next to another silos, changing direction in a second tunnel covered with transparent polymers.
“This is not about imagining a solution that others have already thought of. This is about finding components that others may have, to develop a software engine that has not yet been built,” the girl will answer, opening her arms. “I’ll have to get around a lot, meet people.”
“And where do you plan to go?”
“Into the cubes.”
“Holy Christ, but when did they find out?”
“This morning, sir. At dawn.” The blond man will lift his collar to protect himself from the wind. “I decided I wouldn’t wake you up again, sir, knowing that you would be here soon. I hope I wasn’t wrong.”
The man will look at him, dark in the face. “Did you tell anyone else?”
“No, sir. You’re the first to know, of course.”
The man will wink, opening the automatic glass door at the top of the ramp.
“Don’t talk to anyone about it, for now. I’ll give the news myself. I want all the details on my table within five minutes. The management meeting is in half an hour.”
The blond man will follow him, pulling the holographic sheet behind them with his finger.
“The police report is already on your table, sir.”
When you wake up in a bed that is not your own, sometimes you struggle to remember where you were the night before. A hand will rub his shoulder a couple of times. For a few seconds, the man will not focus on the geranium seedling on the coffee table, and will not understand from what translucent curtains a soft light filters from a gray, almost winter sky. Then he will notice the little black girl, staring at him with two large dark eyes, her hands on a school folder resting on her knees, dressed in a red windbreaker and a white cap. Pretty, very serious.
“Who are you?”
Whiley will stretch slightly, feeling discomfort in his back, and notice that the pillow moved and a blanket will have slipped aside at night.
“Who are you?” the little girl will repeat.
She must be five or six years old, the man will think, massaging his cheek, feeling the roughness of the beard.
“Niki!” The black woman will come out of the kitchen. “What did I tell you?”
The woman will come in decisively and take the child by the arm.
“Have your breakfast and get in the car. We’re late,” the woman will say, pushing the little girl into the kitchen. The little girl will stop at the threshold to look back.
“Into the cubes?”
With her finger, the girl will draw imaginary drawings on the cabin glass.
“It is a holographic entertainment system of the latest generation. It hasn’t yet taken hold, but it will be the future, believe me, and those who invented it will be rolling in money. Do you have a cube with you? Well, imagine that in holographic space. Every user, from all over the world, logs in from a cube. The cube is the unit of measurement that corresponds to the size, in real life, say of a large room, ten meters to each side, even if the measurement doesn’t make much sense, in virtual reality.”
“And what do you do with the cube?”
“You fill it. Build it however you want, drawing from millions of parameters in libraries. You want your house to be a palace? Well, you can start from a room like that. The furnishings however you like. Then, inside, you can see other people, talk about business, sports, whatever you want.”
“And what’s the point of this?”
The girl will snort, resting her head on the chair back.
“How, what’s the point? It’s fun. Don’t you understand? Each creates a piece of virtual reality. However, there is no currency; no transactions can be made. But enthusiasts, those who contribute to the growth of trade, are paid in cubes, or rather in credits for cubes. And the system, having reached a certain score, allows you to build the second cube, then the third, and so on. This person is going to open a business, you know?”
The man will look at her doubtfully.
“How old-fashioned you are!” the girl will say. “Well, that’s not how the advertising agencies feel, you know? And also large companies; those pay staff to spend the day feeding the game, because they know that people will see the McDonald’s brand in virtual streets. And what do you think real-life people are going to do? This thing, in a few years—but what am I saying—a few months, could grow disproportionately. You will create virtual cities, imaginary worlds, and there will be no one to program them. They will be built by the wishes of the players, by the imaginary projections of ordinary people.”
“Without a purpose?”
“Niki!” The woman will point to the door with her index finger. “In the car, I said. We’ve to get to school. Don’t make me tell you again.”
The little girl will slowly move away, continuing to study the man on the sofa.
“Look...,” the woman will turn to the man leaning on his elbows “... I tried to call you, but you were sound asleep. Anyway, you’ll find a couple of slices of cake and coffee in the kitchen. No one should come, but if they do, don’t open the door. I’ll be quick. I’ll be back in an hour at the most.”
The woman will walk a few steps away, then she will turn.
“After all, in hotels from 850 Eurodollars per night, you leave the room after ten o’clock. At least so they say. I’ve never been to one.” The woman will sigh nervously on the doorstep. “Don’t make me regret bringing you here, okay? I need to get Niki to school. When I come back, you leave.”
When he hears the door close, the man will put his right hand in his hair, inhaling, and try to fight his back pain to get up.
The black jet will land on the ramp at the top of the tall skyscraper, in a clear, sunny sky in central Dubai. The two escort men will accompany the old man, dressed western style, as he descends the ramp and crosses the roof under the glass canopy, bound for the elevators. One of them will carefully take the leather briefcase. The
other will help him get down the stairs. The holographic call will come at the least appropriate time, when the old man is going down the last step. An intercontinental call. The old man will nod to one of the two assistants, who will obsessively open his communicator and dimension the image in transparency towards the skyscrapers, thus putting himself on the sidelines a couple of steps away. A stout man with a rosy face and thin gray hair will appear in transparency in the backlight of the radiant aurora.
“Yes, Goedhart?” the old man’s voice will be thin.
“The agency is about to be informed. They found the seventh man.”
“And the last one?”
The girl will smile; she will feel a small bump through the white leather seat accompanied by a muffled sound similar to a compressed air stroke, the cabin threading at very high speed into a transparent tunnel branch.
“Of course, and all this for free. Do you know what the greatest engine for the construction of any human work is?” The girl will enjoy waiting for the answer, watching the landscape flow very quickly past the glass through the transparent gallery. “Desire. Somebody wants to produce something, but how tiring is it to accomplish what you want in real life? There, you can be who you want and build virtual reality pieces, adding cubes on cubes, and the more you participate in the game, the more credit you earn, and the more credit you get from other users, the more power you have, as in reality. Only here, you can build it however you want, that reality. A world in continuous growth, only for the desire of those who live there. Is it possible that the idea doesn’t fascinate you?”
The train will flow quickly above the departure area, and through the transparent domes people will be seen from above, moving in the boarding rooms, like so many ants in an anthill.
Futura: Parallel Universes. Book 1 Page 20
