The Genesys Protocol

By Mauro Barbarito

An engineer dissatisfied with his life, a colossus in the aerospace industry and a mysterious supranational organization, linked by a potentially devastating weapon. The only certainty is that nothing is as it seems.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mauro Barbarito
• Release date: Jan 11, 2018
• ISBN: 9788827550175

Book preview

IX

I

The alarm clock was set at 7.00 am, like every other morning, after all. However, this time too it was anticipated by the voice of the child, who called him from the cradle next to the bed, reminding him that a new week had begun. By absent-mindedly following a script that presented itself infinitely equal, as if that routine had a memory, Max took the baby in his arms, smiled at his sleepy gaze and laid him next to his mother, before going to the bathroom.

He turned on the phone, distractedly read some news, gave a quick glance at the mails, and then went to the sink. Once again, he saw those tired hazel eyes in the mirror, smoothed his shaggy beard, ran a hand through his hair, as if to make sure they were still there, took a deep breath and undressed.

Even the hot shower was nothing but a part of the automatism that governed those last months of his life, the roar of water accompanied his thoughts, far from that cabin, kidnapped by a subtle, cold, inexorable anguish. Addicted to that feeling of impotence, like a tiger for too long in a cage, he huffed deeply, staring at the wall, while with his hand looked for the bathrobe next to the radiator. Dried himself, he got dressed and went back to the bedroom. In the dark he took the chronograph and the ring on the bedside table and put them on, kissed his wife, stroked the baby, took his bag and left.

He pulled the car in front of the bar, took the wallet from the passenger seat and headed inside. In that gray and dull place, a couple of patrons were eating breakfast in silence.

The usual, Marlboro and a scratch card.

The clerk handed him the packet and a ticket and took the coins, never looking at him, while he was intent on starting the terminals that would soon be stormed by a host of retirees looking for a way to spend the day, maybe playing some instant lottery ticket, hoping to see old age with different colors, with some joy and some extra safety. Max put the note on the counter, began scratching the playing space with a coin, gave himself a few moments to curse, then threw it out.

He left the bar, unwillingly opened the packet, took a cigarette and lit it, leaning on the trunk of the willow that grew idle beside the sidewalk and, like every morning, stared at the silhouette of his car. He liked it, he had made many sacrifices to buy it, obviously second-hand, it was his pride, one of the few in truth, but the self-gratification immediately left room for anxiety, when he systematically began to think about how many installments he still had to pay, and how much part of his salary took flight every month. It was a bad time, but every day he said that it would be better, that he would pay off all the debts and that he could afford the beach house that his wife longed for. After all, he had to do it, he had to make the woman who had a life beside him happy, he had to give his son what he could not have, he would find the way.

He got back into the car; put his wallet on the passenger seat, when he heard a loud, thick roar. He did not need to look to know what it was, he perfectly recognized the rattle of those horses, the mutter of the four-cylinder that had given him a couple of years of emotions. He quickly retraced the curves of the coast, remembered the feeling of freedom that pervaded every fiber of his being when he lowered the visor, closing out a world to be crossed from fold to fold. He remembered the work necessary for the house, the preparations for the wedding, the painful choice and finally the rental van that came to load his bike. He relived everything in those few moments during which the centaur passed by, disappearing over the curve that led out of the city. Maybe one day, he thought, he would be back in the saddle, in the meantime, he had to hurry, and he had a card to stamp.

He parked at the usual place, walked a couple of hundred meters up to the turnstiles, where flocks of alienated employees stood, stopped with the watch in their hands waiting for the siren to sound. Like every morning, he ignored their looks, ignored the siren, took out the badge and crawled it. He crossed a forest of pipes, gauges and chimneys, slipped into a shed and followed the pedestrian path, absently listening to the chat and insults of the workers of the previous shift. He saw the machines parts stored in the storage area, stopped for weeks, perhaps months, shimmering under the rays of a pale sun that began to reveal itself from the windows of the workshop.

He remembered how much he had admired those places when he was a child, when during the open days his father showed them to him. He remembered the charm of the rough fuselages that crossed the sheds, the admiration for his father's splendid office, which had had a brilliant career in that factory. He remembered when he had promised himself that he would make it too; he would have his own office and have a happy and fulfilling life. He found himself mulling over how the perspective from which he now saw it had changed, about how those brilliant images in the eyes of a child full of expectations were now faded and opaque in the reality he was experiencing. He did not have his own office, he did a job he hated with people of whom, with some peace of mind, he had very little esteem.

After a few minutes, he arrived at the office building, climbed the two ramps and reached his station. His desk was at the back of the office, at the shoulder with three others. He put the bag down and turned on the computer, then walked to the center of the room, where a colleague from another company had already worked for half an hour, all the others were coming soon.

Max put a hand on Mark's shoulder, he had known him since college, a boy with olive skin, tall, dark hair and perpetually stressed. He was now a slave to that job that did not gratify him for so long, too much time, but whose reassuring routine he could not do without.

Coffee?

Of course, let's go.

They walked towards the vending machines and chatted about this and that, sipping that horrible coffee and talking about family life, work to be completed, health and programs for the immediate future. They stood for a few minutes, respecting that daily ritual that prepared them to face the rest of the day, to then direct each one to their own position. The others began to populate the office.

One at a time, the other members of Max's team arrived. He had known those people for a while, and they all formed a good team. Paky was a smart boy, he worked and at the same time, he was finishing college. He cultivated his dream of becoming a famous singer. He too soon realized that this job could not be the purpose of his life. He arrived at his desk, next to Max's, blue mirror glasses, a backpack on his shoulder and his inseparable bag with tobacco and cell phone on his side. Rob, who followed him, was the youngest. He was a fitness fan and an incurable single, he was good at his job, even if he had a little too often elsewhere. Martin, who had materialized at his desk while Max was entertaining himself with Mark, was the eldest of the group, a little more robust and unkempt, often locked in his world, he did not have a great