Nerve: Pulstarverse

By Giancarlo Roversi

Seeking redemption, a discredited agent investigates the perplexing death of an elderly millionaire, unearthing a macabre scheme that might involve himself.

 

A sci-fi noir thriller, in the Philip K. Dick style ." ★★★★★ – Goodreads
"Nerve is the best introduction to the feast that continues in Pulstar. Roversi has created a precise work of art." ★★★★★ – Goodreads
"Being absolutely masterfully written, reading it three times, or more, sounds like a fantastic idea indeed." ★★★★★ – Goodreads

Astralvia: a nation on the verge of collapse.

Jon Creepel, an elderly millionaire and CEO of a leading high-tech corporation, is dead.

Discredited Agent Graham Squirrel investigates this disconcerting death. It's his chance to clear his name and return to the Federal Police job he lives for.

As he delves deeper into the inquiries, he discovers layers of intrigue, secrets, and plots on a significant macabre scale. Working alongside Zabrinah Yorkt, a mysterious and complicated intelligence agent, brings extra challenges and triggers questions Squirrel would never have anticipated.

He has to escape the sinister threat looming over him and find out why they assigned him to the case, but nothing is what it seems.

And he's about to discover the truth … he's about to meet the Nerve.

Join Agent Squirrel to see if he cracks the mystery of Creepel's death and survives the investigation in this suspenseful, mystery-packed sci-fi thriller.

Nerve is the enigmatic prequel to the gripping Pulstar trilogy (although you can also read it as a stand-alone novel), which took over ten years to make and has a soundtrack in production.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Giancarlo Roversi
• Release date: Mar 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215333075

Book preview

Original Title: El Nervio

Translation: Giancarlo Roversi

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and

incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination

or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living

or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2021 by Giancarlo Roversi

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced

or used in any manner without written permission of the

copyright owner except for the use of quotations in a book

review. For more information, address: [e-mail]

First edition March 2023

Cover: Maximiliano González

Formatting: Giancarlo Roversi

Maps: Fabrizio Giuliano (Neyther on Fiverr), based on designs

by Giancarlo Roversi

Images and brushes of Conespa Guide: brusheezy.com - 123freebrushes.com

fbrushes.com - fuzzimo.com - pexels.com - pixabay.com

3D book mockup: Derek Murphy

CDs and vinyl mockup: Leandry Pauquer.

giancarloroversi.com

[e-mail]

For Mimí

PART I

Obelisk

The Nerve no longer excited me. Routine can wither even the most sublime things, and what we once considered magnificent might come to look like a rock painted in gold ink.

When did this transformation begin?

Maybe when I discovered those thoughts that would activate my heart with the newest and most addictive candy. From that moment, I nourished myself in secret with that exquisite nectar. Those ideas made me vibrate like a guitar with high distortion.

That new excitement was exceptional, unique. For the second time in my life, I felt inspired.

The first time it had happened was several years ago, when hypocritical social laws were suffocating me like carbon dioxide fumes in my lungs. I pictured myself as a different woman, out of the system, away from the flock. I was sick of so much mediocrity. Most people I met were predictable, basic, though they didn’t stop boasting about how great they were—or could be. In the race for absurdity, I was running exhausted and with a lack of endorphins. I no longer had any patience for puerile mundane rules.

So new guests visited me, bringing along a saving potion brimming with wisdom and freedom. And I gave myself to them with no hesitation. I accepted that superior ideology and swallowed it without chewing—without measuring the consequences. I felt insatiable. Not only was I getting off the cattle lane, but I was now part of the tiny, silent group of people who dictated the rules for those bovines.

This way of living electrified my cells and ignited my spirit for a long time. However, in a random and routine procedure, I found out something so powerful and yet so primary. And the most jarring thing—I loved it. I thought it would never happen to me, certainly not now, and still …

So, I outlined the plan. The Nerve would remain my priority, but I’d also use it to satisfy one of my greatest yearnings, perhaps the truest.

1

Jon Creepel couldn’t stop panting. He was nude on the neat carpet of the apartment on the outskirts of Astralvia’s capital. Viera Lenz performed the most erotic dance he’d ever experienced in his long life, her young body on top of him.

Low light. The windows were open. Few sounds, slight buzzes were coming from the almost deserted surroundings and Conespa’s nearby airport. Airplanes and some aerocars graced the July night.

Viera looked at the landscape, her hips swaying. Creepel beheld her, evoking the youth he’d lost half a century ago, his eyes raving before the flames of the most precious thing, the most forbidden. Their breathing quickened to the rhythm of desire.

Do you feel it? Creepel asked. Do you feel the same?

Viera kept rocking, absorbed in her dancing and personal delight. First, she stretched her arms up as if she wanted to reach the ceiling, and then she swung them without taking her eyes off the panorama outside.

Creepel’s body throbbed. She dosed it with a lewd, hallucinogenic voyage, as though she wanted to turn him into gas.

Doctors had recommended the older man avoid strong emotions—ninety anniversaries weighed heavy on him. Creepel always took extra care of his privileged health, but no one would hinder him from living his life as he pleased. Not many people of his age—even younger—could enjoy a woman like Viera. Those caresses on his senile skin, which was crammed with the traces of plastic surgery; those phrases of honey that—whether honest or not—sweetened his day; those brilliant moments of ecstasy making him believe he was still in the game, that he was a good catch.

Sure, he’d never give up pleasure.

Say it. Creepel shook and trembled. Say it.

Viera shifted her attention to the room they were in. He did the same.

Some paintings by a young Astralvian artist with an exquisite surrealist-impressionist style, who had just died in misery. An elegant bed draped in scarlet sheets, the red, tubular, bell-shaped lamp floating a few centimeters from the ceiling, the large wardrobe in a corner by the Desktop Integrated, and the graphite desk.

Creepel turned back to Viera. I’ll never tire of admiring you. I love being with you; you make me feel like a teenager.

Viera’s movements accelerated. She closed her eyes as she approached his face.

He kissed her clumsily several times, his heart pumping in ecstasy. For a moment, he thought her breath would choke him. And what a heavenly way to say goodbye to the world.

They stayed that way for some minutes until Creepel reached the zenith. Suffocated, voiceless, the luckiest man in the world believed he might live another ninety years—the circle of life was beginning. May the envious of the world come. Everyone is welcome. He was the true master of the masses. He had a woman like her and relished the colossal success of his career. No one could hurt him. No one would ever go as far and climb as high as him.

In that lustful haven, hugging the docile, warm, moist body of his goddess Viera Lenz, Jon Creepel believed he was the master of Astralvia.

She knows, Creepel said.

The nude lovers were sitting in a corner of the darkened room, smoking, gazing at the city. Viera leaned on his chest as he warmed her with his arms.

She’s not the only one, she snapped, her voice barren. There are others who already suspect.

Don’t worry about them.

I don’t mind what people think, but I don’t want the rumor to keep spreading out. And regarding Miriam, we shouldn’t underestimate her.

I’d never do that. Creepel continued stroking her. She has adapted quite well to the new times, though; we’ve often talked about polyamory.

Indeed, and that can be a serious problem. The legal battles related to polyamory are fierce.

With Miriam, the problem would be of a different caliber. We’ve been together for too many years, but she thinks she’s still in her twenties—like me. An unintentional laugh. Each time it’s harder to play the same role, Viera. I’m so proud of what you and I have: I’d like to shout it out through a megaphone.

Your enemies would mock you and then destroy you. Her tone remained even. And I insist. Separation would be legal carnage. There’s a considerable fortune at stake—you’re not an ordinary man, Jon.

Well, if that’s the price for you and me to live together in peace. Creepel observed one of the planes about to land at the airport and then returned his gaze to Viera. If I wasn’t who I am, would you be with me?

She grinned without mirth and took a couple of quick puffs. I could be your granddaughter, she said, rising, but when you talk like that, I feel like I’m the granny.

He could hardly see her, although his eyes were already adjusted to the gloom inside the room. Viera picked up her black blouse from the carpeted floor and put it on, holding her cigarette in her lips.

You’re getting weaker by the day, she said as she sat back on the bed. You’ve got to get off the cloud. If you don’t come out of this lethargy of romanticism, they’ll tear you apart. And if you go down, I go down too.

Creepel stood up and groped for his clothes by the door. That’s not going to happen, my love. He stepped into his slacks and pulled them up. I only wear silk gloves when I’m with you. With the rest of the people, you know how I am.

I’m not so sure anymore. The deadline will pass tomorrow, and you’ll have to—

I will not do it, Viera. Creepel raised his voice. It’s a trap. The terms of the deal are insane, and one of them is suspiciously ridiculous. I can’t stress it enough—there’s something else going on in all of this. I’ve come this far because of my instinct, my bravery, and I never bowed my head to anyone. I know what I’m doing.

Buckling his belt into his pants, he sat next to Viera and stroked her cheek. Forget about it. Don’t keep bringing up these things when we’re together. I stretch every minute I spend with you.

She sighed, shaking her head. Jon, sometimes simple things are just that and nothing more. Not everything has to be a conspiracy, a plot. Yes, the clauses seem capricious, but you agreed to abide by them. Honor your word and stop putting imaginary flaws in the powerful gift they gave us. You said it so many times—we’re living the best moment of the company and are going to participate in the Paltrum Congress.

My love, your innocence clouds you. I’ve made up my mind. Trust in me. He kissed her lips. And yes, I’m becoming ever more vulnerable, but only to you.

Creepel had a solid excuse for not returning home as the entire Paltrum selection process would wrap up the following day. So the lovers would go out to dinner. Then, they’d return to the apartment and spend the night together.

In the morning, they went to the office. As they’d done on previous occasions, they entered on their own—CEO and first assistant of Daver, both of them in their usual duties, attempting as much as possible to ease the keen rumor mill.

A few hours before Creepel announced which employees would represent Daver at the Paltrum Congress—the most important event in its history—the older man recalled Viera’s words.

The workday ended, and Jon Creepel’s mortgaged fate expired.

In the evening, Creepel arrived at his mansion and played the exasperating and worn-out role of a faithful husband. He was unable to confront Miriam’s eyes—the woman he’d been with for more than fifty years. During the silent and exhausting dinner, his mind kept returning to the night before. Doses of pleasure intermingled with guilt, and a hive of whips lashed his conscience. Besides, he couldn’t stop thinking about Paltrum. He hadn’t paid the price: the fallout would hit at any time.

After dinner, he went to his studio. As had been usual in recent weeks, the intrusive anguish greeted him, but this time with increased euphoria. He asked Marco—a robot servant was a luxury that few could afford—for a Phidok bottle. This nano-technology medicine was the most advanced and legal pill to relax the nervous system.

The medication didn’t temper Creepel’s anxiety, even after taking several tablets.

Miriam should be upstairs working out. And he needed to be away from her, from this place where he no longer belonged. His real home was with Viera.

Tomorrow, he’d spend the night with her again—nothing else mattered. Within days, he’d finish his crumbling marriage. And he and Viera, together, would solve the repercussions of the decision he’d just made concerning Daver.

He eyed the small, round cameras camouflaged in the nooks of the studio ceiling. It was a personal project he’d been perfecting for several decades, and it had become his main hobby. The special camera system. There were dozens of these small video capture devices throughout the house. Creepel cracked a wistful smile.

After ingesting a total of ten Phidok pills, he had a feeling that something was about to happen, a nasty premonition, a solemn trail of despair invading him for no reason. He tried to relax, but could not, as if the Phidok was having no effect.

Sleep approached at last, and his stormy thoughts began to fade away. Then affliction erupted, an unexpected, sharp visitor, digging into his bones as if it wanted to scratch them. First, his legs. Then, his whole body.

For a second, Creepel thought he’d fallen asleep and that it was a nightmare. The intensity of the pain roared, though. It was the real thing. He tried to call Miriam, or Marco, but he couldn’t speak, his face paralyzed. He struggled to get up from the couch, but he fell to the floor.

He didn’t understand anything and could hardly stand the suffering. With considerable effort, he placed his hands over his head. And there they stayed—stiff, contracted. All his limbs seemed to turn into stone.

Creepel was still able to breathe, to think. It was the motor part of his body that was malfunctioning. That gave him hope. It could be a momentary thing, perhaps—a side effect of taking so much Phidok. But now the torment was swelling inside his head and growing stronger. He screamed, his neurons going mad. It was as if someone was squeezing his skull.

Creepel’s vision became fuzzy. Something had just burst into the study. What was it? He couldn’t focus on it, but he was certain it was edging toward him. Creepel strove for reasoning. All he could think about was his imminent defeat. And this intruder would witness it.

The darkness raged in the misty atmosphere. The tyranny of agony enslaved Creepel’s mind. His senses and perceptions rampaged, intoxicated with squalls of misery.

He still sensed the presence of the intruder, who must be only a few steps away from him. Unless it was a figment of his dislocated imagination? No.

Now the torture reached his heart as if someone was compressing it.

Creepel could focus on nothing but that hysterical ordeal in his brain. It felt like a giant steel hand was crushing his skull.

Everything was blackness. He felt a biting cold and rampant dizziness.

Had this invisible presence caused his martyrdom? Or was it just a furtive spectator to his dying spirit?

2

Graham Squirrel arrived home after a long day. When he saw his wife’s apathetic gloating, he didn’t even feel like waving in response. He sensed that tonight his wingless marriage would accelerate its nosedive.

Xaro lay on one of the two sofas in the living room, watching several Global Network channels projected on the wall. Her skin was fair, and her extremely red lips, along with the straight black hair, made an unforgettable face—the most beautiful face Graham had ever seen.

He took an apple-flavored alcoholic beverage out of the fridge, approached the sofa, and sat next to Xaro.

How did it go? she asked, looking at the wooden floor that no one had cleaned in days. Her foreign accent sounded stronger.

I got a new lawyer. He seems quite interested, and people speak highly of him.

And the fees?

I don’t know yet. He has to study the case in detail to give us an estimate.

When will he?

I’ve got to call him next week.

Xaro budged to the other end of the couch. And then? She stared at him.

He pursed his lips inward, dodging her eyes. He’d reframe the whole investigation.

How long, Graham?

He stared at the floor.

How long? Xaro insisted.

Once we pay him the first part—six months.

Mecachis. She got up from the sofa and went to the kitchen.

An incomplete metal wall separated the living room from the kitchen. Through the large square hatch, Graham saw Xaro rummaging through several of the shelves. She pulled out an almost empty bottle of rum and poured most of it into a glass tumbler.

Six months, Graham, six months, she said, her tone hardening after taking a drink. She stepped back to the living room. What are you going to do?

I don’t know. I think we should work together on making this decision.

You know I’ve been clear for a long time, vale? Since we spent our first weeks here. She sat back down on the couch, now a bit closer to him.

This may be our chance, Xaro. If we succeed, everything will be like—

And if not?

Graham put his drink on the floor.

To recover the career he had fought so hard for, to feel passionate again when he woke up in the morning, to take Xaro out of that coliseum of vices where they were living, to bring a new member to the binary family—to do any of that, he needed to resurrect his name.

They’d been living in the urbanization of Arguel for almost two years, a residential complex in Conespa’s eastern center stuffed with precarious and neglected constructions and plagued with a prevailing and fast-rising social degeneration. They still had some moving boxes in the living room—there was no space for more belongings. Looking out from the tiny balcony, you could only glimpse shadowed blocks. The small rented apartment was supposed to have been a temporary accommodation but had reached its expiration date—this had been one of the many hidden clauses in their marriage contract.

For the four years before they got married, they’d lived in Dampelj, an urban development much more pleasant than Arguel. Things had seemed to go well. Graham had even been achieving success as a federal agent, but that last operation had been a disaster, costing him his job and license. Then everything else began to crumble.

It’ll be another six wasted months, Xaro continued, where you’ll tell me you’re going to fight, that you’ll keep trying, that you came up with the perfect formula in a courageous, admirable, but impractical goal.

It doesn’t have to—

"You’re a great man, Graham, the best I’ve ever known. It was our hour, as we’d always planned. You’d achieved promotion, and at last you were where you always wanted to be, doing what you love, with that overwhelming intensity that made me believe in people again and made me fall in love with you. I never pressured you, never demanded anything, and sometimes I even put up with being second fiddle to your passion. But time doesn’t spare. I’m getting older, and I see no possibility of growing this family. I shouldn’t have listened to you. Venga ya. If all Astralvians waited for the perfect timing to have a child, this country’s population would die out.

You’re bogged down in the same old thing. I get it. It’s what you adore, and what happened was unfair, but life goes on, Graham. You’ve got to move on, to look for alternatives. The federal police cannot be the only thing. What about me?

She drank all the rum that was left and dropped the empty glass on the sofa.

Xaro, I never wanted to push you aside, Graham said. What I want is for us to get out of here and for everything to be like the old days.

But the old days are gone, Xaro yelled. Accept it, vale. You’ve dragged me into that fantasy battle you’re not even able to confront properly. It’s a lost war from the start because—damn it—you aren’t willing to use the right weapons. How on earth are you going to win? Tell me, how?

It seems this lawyer can do—

He’ll achieve nothing, Graham. Open your eyes. You’ve got to face your soldiers, to pull out the claws like you once did. That’s it, that simple. But of course, everything in your life has to be convoluted, far-fetched, impossible. And that used to fascinate me, but now … mershk, I don’t know what to do, but I know I don’t want to live like this. I don’t. I’ve become a bitter, sloppy, depressed woman, and I feel trapped in your old-fashioned philosophical world. Mecachis. I’ve even had to put up with your repeated bouts of insomnia and the fable that someone is watching you at night. Please, Graham, please.

Xaro, just one shot. I think this man is going to get something. Six months. If it doesn’t work—

What’s he going to do? She went back to the kitchen and leaned her elbows on the sill of the hatch.

Once we make the first installment, Graham said, getting closer to her, he’ll go over each of the testimonies of those involved and all the irregularities in my appeal.

The other bloodsuckers did that, and it didn’t take so long.

This guy is cunning, with new ideas. He assured me we have a chance, despite the bureaucracy and the money involved in—

Xaro slapped the sill. She shook her head and sighed. That doesn’t work for me. It’ll be another failure.

No, it’s a good possibility. Let me explain it.

I don’t give a damn. It won’t work, vale? And we’ll waste six more months. Half a year more here, in this neighborhood of mershk that I loathe, and bearing the same kind of speeches from you. We’ve been surviving for a long time on your Global Network sales, your weekend coaching, and the few events I manage to organize. This country is on the road to ruin. To survive it, you need to turn into a different kind of citizen, one that I’m positive you still have within you but whom you’ve always despised.

Then you tell me what you want me to do.

I want you to cope with it like a real man. Khurf! I want you to be a warrior, not a philosopher with great ideas.

Graham took a few steps back, his breathing hard, and his body stuffed with anger. He remembered when Xaro and he first met—a cynical return to the past.

Conespa Hospital.

Graham