The relatively harmless attack carried out by Mr. Elvis-Henri was stridently branded an “act of terrorism” by the press, which discussed it for a whole week. The flames of interest were fanned by the site of the crime – calm, respectable Monaco, which in former times had hardly ever figured in the crime reports.
When the Department of Orange Energy of the Paris police received the summary investigation report of the Monaco incident, basically no one took much interest in it. Only Commissioner Pellegrini, as the head of department, was obliged to familiarize himself with the document, and he started leafing through the thick file. A standard case of an attack carried out by a solitary fanatic. Boring.
Pellegrini’s father was Neapolitan; his mother was a Frenchwoman from Bordeaux. He was born and grew up in Paris, but he considered himself an Italian who had inherited the character traits of both nations. When necessary, his rapid, impulsive, Italian-style gestures coexisted quite comfortably with his subtle French tact.
Pellegrini’s face seemed rough-hewn out of heavy granite, with powerful cheekbones and a large forehead. The broad stripes of the bags under his small, brown eyes lent his face a masculine brutality and intense astuteness. The deep folds on his slightly sunken cheeks and around his mouth created the impression that his mind was constantly engaged in strenuous thought. He was tall and stately, and his bearing made it clear that he was an ex-army man. Pellegrini had served in Africa for a long time before coming to work in the Drug Control Department of the police.
He worked very efficiently and could have become the department chief, but it didn’t happen. He felt he had everything he needed to soar right to the very top, and it was only his Italian name that stopped him. He had pretty good chances several times, but every time someone else outflanked him, and the possession of an archetypal French surname was essential, which gradually inculcated in him a grudging resentment against his fellow-countrymen.
However, his dislike of them was intermittent, like a dotted line. He wouldn’t let anyone else insult the French. Once, a long time ago, Pellegrini had watched a football match, an international final between the London Arsenal and Olympique Marseille. Marseille lost, letting in two goals late in the game, both scored by a French legionnaire playing for Arsenal. A drunk English fan sitting in a bar, flung out the boorish comment that only the very best Frenchmen had the right to plough the fields of England. Pellegrini got up, and with a single, rather gentle but precise blow, dislocated the man’s jaw. Policeman or no policeman, he had Italian hot blood.
Pellegrini was not over fond of pureblooded Frenchmen, especially Parisians for their arrogant attitude to Italian southerners, and he sometimes expressed his opinion of them in extremely harsh terms. He felt that he was paying them back in their own coin, taking the same attitude to them as they took to him. Like the last time, when had been upstaged yet again, and the vacant position of head of the Narcotics Control Department had been taken by his only genuine friend – Giles Gautier. Pellegrini considered himself a more appropriate candidate, and it was especially galling to lose the position to his best friend.
But despite everything, he did eventually rise to become the head of the new, prestigious Department of OE. Now everything was sure to change. Pellegrini thought he could really spread his wings and show everyone what he could do… How very wrong he was.
Six months later Gautier downloaded his creativity out of patriotic considerations. He tried to persuade Pellegrini to go along with him and other officers. He pictured to him how they would have a wonderful life by the ocean, somewhere in Bordeaux, while their creativity would continue working for the good of their homeland and the world. Pellegrini refused: he had realized his dream at least in a new department with such a promising future, and he wasn’t willing to abandon with his new position.
Pellegrini was glad he hadn’t gone to download his creativity along with Gautier, and now he couldn’t do it anyway, because he had signed a contract prohibiting downloading. Someone at the top had realized that at this rate the police would be left without any high-quality personnel, and introduced a bar on downloading for top-level officers.
Initially, Pellegrini’s work had been interesting and new technologies made catching criminals easy. But pretty soon COMA grew so powerful that Pellegrini’s job became pure routine. And not only his job, but practically all police work
Pellegrini read the report of the attack without much interest, thinking that it would be good to feel the tenderness of the southern sun right now. He decided to take a trip to the scene of the “notorious terrorist attack” while the tracks were still fresh, while there was still something to delve into and someone to talk to. He phoned the Monaco branch of the Agency and asked them not to touch anything, explaining that he was on his way to conduct a supplementary investigation.
***
Isaac woke up close to midday. Despite his thirst and the hangover pounding at his temples like a sledgehammer, he got up quickly, for he was too hyped up to keep still. He downed two glasses of water and felt better. The adrenalin from yesterday’s successful meeting flowed back into his bloodstream again, arousing a pleasant excitement. Isaac prowled round the apartment like a lion in a cage and couldn’t really get to do anything.
Bikie didn’t show up until one.
“What a dump,” he grunted instead of saying hello.
“What?” asked Isaac, puzzled.
“I said, you live in a real dump.” He paused for a moment and added: “Seriously, Isaac, it’s like I just walked into my own place.”
Isaac rewarded his irony with a wry grin.
They walked over to the computer, which was already switched on. Isaac opened a file and showed Bikie the database. Bikie whistled.
“Oh, wow! Data bases are my soft spot, my true love,” he said with a hint of smugness. I see a data base, get inside, find the weak spots and crack it.”
Bikie plumped down on the chair in front of the computer and ran rapidly through the list.
“Ah,” he said disappointedly. “Nothing needs cracking here.”
Isaac took the mouse from Bikie, moved it to find the cursor and explained that the data base was useful for finding accomplices. It was where he had found Bikie and he had seen other people in it who thought like him. Isaac explained about Wolanski and the other candidates. He felt too embarrassed to mention the girl though.
Before Bikie had even heard him out, he was hammering on the keyboard and digging through the social networks.
“Look at this dude Charles. A bit older than us, from a family with deep pockets. Moves in the highest circles, no problems with money. Yes, I remember, I remember,” he said, once again interrupting Isaac, who was trying to say something. “You’ve already set your sights on this whatshisname – Wolanski. But check it out – this guy’s got a Harley. He’s one of us, and there’s an excuse for getting to know him.”
“Just a rich showoff, I reckon” Isaac objected. “Bet you, he only bought a Harley because he read somewhere how cool it is to have one.”
“What are you saying, bro, where do you think they write that it’s cool to have a Harley? The Ducati Sport, now, that’s never been like a Harley, and it shouldn’t look like one, and that’s why…”
“Okay, Bikie! But how are you planning to hob-nob with someone from his circle? ‘Hello, I’m a barman with a Harley, what year’s your machine? Are you against COMA? Me too!’ I suggest that if it’s a no go with Wolanski, then we can contact this guy too”
“Isaac, if you’ve already decided everything, “then say so.” Bikie snapped, «I figure a normal guy will make normal conversation, with money or without. Although, what the heck you consider normal these days, if ridding yourself of your soul has become the norm. Eh? Especially if you don’t happen to have any better way of doing as well as this guy with the Harley.”
Bikie regarded financial inequality and disparity of opportunities as the main reasons why it had become popular to be a donor. That way
everyone got a chance, whether they were from Europe, Asia or Africa. The important thing was how well your head worked. While before, being from Fiji one could expect only the finger.
The first massive wave of creativity downloading came about in countries with negligible opportunities for fighting your way up without heavy connections, for earning enough for your own house, or for getting rich. A large flow of elderly but intelligent people followed from countries with a poorly developed social sphere, in Latin America and Asia.
In the prosperous countries, the young took up downloading. In Hong Kong, Greece, Italy and France, graduates who could not find a good job easily surrendered to it. Yesterday’s students quickly discovered how difficult it was to support themselves independently, let alone to earn enough for a decent house, start a family and live a stable life, no matter what high-level specialists they were. Most of the big-time positions were taken, and some had disappeared altogether thanks to the UNICOMA-generated technologies. Sure, you could scrape by on social support payments, but the money received for OE offered a real opportunity of never having to worry about anything again. That was what they had studied and developed their brains for, you could say. In America, masses of prisoners volunteered to sell their creativity. And it went on and on. After three years it was already pointless to single out specific groups. Everybody everywhere was downloading.
It quickly became clear that people were earning a pretty good income from selling their OE, and there was even a controversy about taxes. Should income from OE be subject to taxation? Who ought to levy it, and at what rate? The discussions were also complicated by the fact that a person could go away to any country, download his OE there, stay there to live in a boarding house and never come back. Eventually they decided that there would be no income tax. Not anywhere. But countries would receive incentives and discounts when buying technologies from UNICOMA, depending on the citizenship of downloaders, instead of having to collect taxes on downloads locally.
UNICOMA successfully campaigned for the abolition of capital punishment. Rather, an alternative was offered – the downloading of one’s energy instead of electrocution or gassing: “Let every person serve the society.” It was a shame to waste the resource, if someone got executed his energy would be lost forever. UNICOMA was keenly interested in increasing the Collective Mind volume, and didn’t want a drop of Orange Energy to be wasted. It equipped prisons with download technology, and continuously increased the capacity of the network. Prisoners who downloaded their OE were offered significantly more comfortable conditions.
A lavish Hollywood movie was made. About a talented young guy, a 3D architect who through a series of failures, takes the wrong path in life. His actions become more and more contemptible and mean, and he loses his job. Computer hacking and doing drugs eventually lead him to homicide. The car he is driving while high on cocaine hurtles off the road and two passengers are killed. Unintentional, but still a homicide. He sunk lower and lower and eventually became a killer. The hero became an antihero. The viewer’s eventually lost sympathy for him. But in the second half of the film, his profound repentance and his study of the strong and weak sides of prison life lead him to voluntarily donate his energy, in order to improve the lives of prisoners. His OE rating was huge, almost 70000 HIT – a valuable contribution to society.
The end of the film presents the real individual, who lives in a simple, but comfortable prison boarding house. Statistics showed that a year after he donated his OE, correctional facilities were given new regulations and technologies which they implemented, significantly reducing the level of violence in prisons. Prisons themselves were becoming more and more automated and were practically impossible to escape from.
We do not know what this man’s real contribution to the innovations was. But it all looked really great, the movie won an Oscar, and the criminal was even pardoned, although he voluntarily remained in the boarding house since he didn’t want to live anywhere else.
Hollywood is an ideal propaganda mechanism, it treats the public like a lover, who twists a man round her little finger and gets everything she wants out of him by putting him through incredibly profound emotions. The viewer’s cry and laugh, they live other people’s lives, and then they are ready to accept Hollywood’s ideas and messages in real life.
Isaac and Bikie’s chosen land of residence also had a chance to experience this miraculous quality of Hollywood. In 1956 the wedding of the famous American film star Grace Kelly and the Prince of Monaco brought floods of tourists from all over the world to the Principality instantly making it a beneficiary of the world’s “Dream Factory”.
Whether a beautiful life or drama, cops who are corrupt or honest, the mafia or patriotism, Hollywood has always steered people’s hearts and minds any way it liked, and the movie “Energy of Prison” helped many skeptics change their mind about UNICOMA and increased the flow of people wishing to download their creativity.
Of course, there were still exceptions. There were not very many donors among Russian Orthodox Christians and Israelis. Israel and Silicon Valley rapidly lost their positions on the high-tech market, surrendering leadership to Collective Mind.
The opposition to UNICOMA was gradually disappearing. The opponents of downloading and pooling creativity did not have serious arguments in any case. There were no complaints either, and the number of positive achievements was immense. UNICOMA called the critics retrograde paranoiacs, emphasizing that the Inquisition with its unsubstantiated condemnations is long gone and now is about time to get used to a new, progressive order of things.
It took a long time for the official Church to come up with a specific position; by and large it remained neutral. The views of different faiths completely split even within a single denomination, believers diverged on the issue of creativity downloading. Admittedly, UNICOMA tried to show its good intentions with generous donations and support to all religions. Nevertheless, there were some who called downloading of creativity a sale of the human core, they uttered warnings and called for a ban, but the majority saw it as the fusion of souls and a rapprochement with God, because people became kind and smiling, happy and free from suffering. It was difficult to go against the fact that the world was being purged of a great number of sins.
“You know what?” Bikie said eventually. “Why don’t I phone this Charles anyway? The guy with the Harley. Maybe he’ll be OK. We won’t lose anything, and I promise to be very careful. And if it’s a flop – we’ll go to Wolanski.”
For the sake of an amicable, collaborative relationship Isaac did not argue.
Bikie dialed the number and introduced himself. He said he was from a local club and would like to meet Charles to talk about the rare Harley model that Charles owned and take a few photos for the club’s site. Everything went smoothly and they agreed on seven o’clock that evening. Bikie made thorough preparations. He found a pair of old, tattered jeans, a black t-shirt with the sleeves crudely torn off and a biker jacket. He put on a bandana with a red Harley Davidson logo and a pair of Ray-Ban sunglasses. He looked really menacing and Isaac liked it. For this special occasion Bikie washed his bike and pulled out a pretty good Leica camera from somewhere.
“You know what I think, why don’t you skip the meeting and go straight to Hollywood? They’ll put you in the movies without any screen-tests. Did you know that Harrison Ford worked as a carpenter up until he was spotted by George Lucas? When you end up meeting Lucas or Tarantino, at least text me to say that Bikie won’t be back.”
Bikie smiled his huge, broad smile and winked. He was happy with the way he looked too. He had taken his time, dressing, with loving care. He didn’t get to go into town dolled up like this very often.
“Admit it, Bikie, you chose this candidate especially so you could have a costume party.”
“You're the Carnival! The time will come when I’ll always be dressed like this. On a Harley, with a busty blonde on back. You’ll see.”
“Land this guy f
or us first. And then I promise you two busty blondes.”
“Everything will be okay. Don’t shit yourself!”
Hours later Bikie returned to the apartment quite despondent.
“First of all, that asshole was almost an hour late,” he told Isaac disappointedly. “Then he spent a solid hour telling me how fucking cool he was. He didn’t let me get a word in, peacocking his plumage like he was trying to impress some bimbo. I soon realized he was a trashy banker after all; the speedometer on his super-rare Harley didn’t even have a thousand kilometers on it. A beautiful thing but just gathering dust. Although better to gather dust than carry a dumb fuck like that. I tried about ten times to start a conversation about OE and COMA, but the dick kept harping on about how bored he is and what he does to avoid getting rusty: Saint Barth, the Maldives, Bora-Bora, that sort of crap. He told me about all his chicks and how crazy they all about him. Maybe there’s some kind of error in your data base? Or is all his creativity wasted on his stupid stories? I’m never seen such a clown before. “
“Don’t let it bother you, Bikie, you looked like a million dollars, so he spread his plumage to impress you”
Bikie brightened up a bit.
“No shit, Isaac, you’re one of the few normal guys I’ve met just recently. They’ve all gone cuckoo. Rushing about, no clue what they want in life. No goals, no ideals. Cardboard people. Let’s do some booze today, what you say? Got any more whisky?”
“No whisky, but there’s some awesome Seychelles rum.”
Collective Mind Page 7
