In these weeks of intense activity, thanks to the second season of The Legendary History of 883, Mauro Repetto has been making headlines for his vision of the future. While he has returned to the music scene with the single Generazione, the former member of 883 is making his debut in fiction with the cyberpunk novel Election Day 2067 (Acheron Books).
The book’s protagonist, Monica, is a burlesque dancer who finds herself at the center of an international intrigue. Her face, in fact, matches that of a virtual entity that accompanies one of the world’s most powerful leaders. With the upcoming elections, decisive for either preserving or overturning the planetary economic balance, her role becomes more crucial than ever.
Between holograms, AI, avatars and identity crises
Repetto thus signs a science fiction novel set in a dystopian future, where politics—controlled by multinational corporations—depends on historical figures cloned from the past to guide the masses, from Tutankhamun to Cleopatra, passing through Julius Caesar and even Ayrton Senna…
Fantasies yes, but drawn from the trajectories that the present could assume. And it is Repetto himself, in an interview with Rolling Stone, who explains the mechanism: “This is about imagining visions of the future, always tied to the god money. There are lobbies that resurrect Julius Caesar to keep the Western bloc together, which is somewhat in decline. You take from the past someone with such a strong resume that he not only restarts the economy, but brings order and prosperity to his people. They are visions I have always enjoyed watching as a spectator and now I enjoy telling.”
In the background, the city of Rome: a “global amusement park” where “multinationals will try to make more and more money using cloned politicians to promote their products” and “they will spout ever bigger boasts. The bigger they are, the more easily they pass to the general public.”
There are also influencers and advertising with messages that can literally come out of the book: there are in fact some QR codes that link to the site of Election Day 2067, with two videos from the influencer Retinal (played by Repetto himself): “A charlatan from 2067, who celebrates the first law on a marriage that must last five years. He’s happy because the economy is restarting…”, Repetto explains to Rolling Stone. And regarding the QR codes he adds: “They’re a nice, original and contemporary plus.”
The books about 883
It is not the only book bearing the 883 label. In July of this year Ponte alle Grazie published the book Filosofia degli 883 by Fausto Lammoglia, in which the band’s main themes are traced, through quotes, references, and the incredible success achieved between the late ’80s and early ’90s.
In September, instead, Magazzini Salani brought to the shelves the new edition of I cowboy non mollano mai – L’autobiografia che ha ispirato la serie Sky, in which Max Pezzali recounts his story, from the friendship with Mauro Repetto to the first recorded songs, from international references to packed arenas.
Rome, April 16, 2067
In an uncertain moment of the early morning
The sound of my sneakers echoed on the asphalt, lit by the reflections of holographic LEDs that studded the street. I’d been running for at least three minutes, and my throat felt so tight and dry that I could barely swallow air.
Three minutes don’t seem long until you have two men behind you and no idea what will happen if they catch you.
They’re gaining ground.
Always perceptive, my neuro-integrated AI…
I know.
The one on the right is faster.
Thanks, D14na.
I jumped over a delivery rack left lurching on the sidewalk and nearly knocked down a boy standing in front of a shop window. He told me to go to hell. I answered with a sharp gesture without slowing down. The middle finger always worked.
I knew those streets.
I’d lived there long enough to know where to run without thinking. The road ahead led toward Clone Square and would have been the easiest route. Too much space, too many people, too many eyes.
I had to go left.
The opposite direction presents a higher chance of escape.
You don’t know the neighborhood.
I have a detailed view of the streets and…
Exactly. It’s not the same thing.
Knowing the streets and knowing the neighborhood, really knowing it, weren’t the same thing. The alley tightened almost immediately. At the sides, the automated night-collection boxes were closing back under street level. One was still raised and half-blocked the passage. I slid into the space between the metal and the wall, brushing a shoulder against the plaster.
Someone cursed behind me.
Ssmile.
One nil.
I turned again.
Again the street opened up. Every morning, in front of the old market, a street vendor opened his makeshift cart of real fruit. No printed labels, no accelerated crops. Fruit. The kind that rotted. It was there.
“Sorry!” I muttered, my voice a touch too shrill.
The man had barely time to look at me.
I grabbed one side of the stall as I passed and pulled.
“What the hell are you doing?”
The cart lurched. A crate fell and about twenty oranges rolled onto the sidewalk.
You’ve damaged another’s property.
Sue me.
I heard a thud behind me.
I didn’t turn.
“Stop!”
>Hell no.
I crossed the street.
A shuttle skidded to a halt within less than a meter from me. The light bands on the windshield glowed red.
WARNING. PEDESTRIAN OFF THE TRACK.
Another vehicle braked. Then another. The system reacted in a chain and for a few seconds the intersection filled with warnings.
WARNING. TRACK INTERrupted.
WARNING.
“Sorry, okay?”
A horn sounded. Someone wanted to make sure their misgivings reached me. I dashed between two parked vehicles and reached the opposite sidewalk, stepping on the impassive face of Elton John Jr. as he sang to two people waiting for public transport.
One of the pursuers has crossed.
One?
The second is altering the route.
Shit.
The first was the fast one.
In front of me Cleopatra’s visage suddenly dominated the facade of a building. Thirty meters of an Egyptian queen watched me run as the golden crown appeared on her head.
GRANDNESS IS IMMORTAL.
VOTE MEDITERRANEAN ALLIANCE.
“Get bent, you too.”
Cleopatra kept smiling.
I passed beneath her and slipped into the street that ran along the old tenement blocks. There, the facades projected nothing. Too dilapidated, too unprofitable. Even election campaigns knew where not to waste credits.
Breath began to burn.
Heart rate 172.
Not my concern.
It’s rising.
D14na!
Okay.
At the end of the street was what I was looking for.
Three men slept almost every morning under the disused canopy of the old stop. One had built a kind of wall with dead advertising panels, the other two filled the passage with blankets, bags, and an old delivery cart.
I slowed only when I was close.
“Permission.”
One opened his eyes.
“Hey, what the…”
“I know, sorry!”
I hopped over a blanket, placed my foot on the edge of the bench, and jumped to the other side. “If a pissed-off man passes by, you didn’t see me.”
“How much are you giving me?”
“A kiss.”
“Fuck off.”
“Same to you.”
I started running again.
Behind me I heard protests, a louder voice, something falling.
Thanks, guys.
The next street brought me back toward the traffic. I had to decide. Right meant the mobility station. Left, the underpass.
I chose left.
It isn’t a good idea.
Why?
Access is partially closed.
Perfect. The illuminated barriers appeared after a few meters. Works on the underground network. A maintenance drone hovered above a sinkhole in the asphalt and projected a red barrier.
The jacket got snagged. I pulled. Nothing doing.
“Shit.”
They’re closing in.
“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”
I pulled again. The fabric tore with a rip.
I ran again, ignoring lungs and leg muscles that burned.
When I emerged from the construction site I was short of breath and one sleeve half detached. I leaned against the wall for a second.
Just one damn second to regain control of my body. Then I started again.
The neighborhood opened up before me, familiar and suddenly vast. I knew every street, every shortcut, every place where I had eaten at four in the morning on my way home from work.
And yet I didn’t know where to go.
Monica.
What is it?
It’s behind you.
I turned around.
I saw him emerge from the construction site.
He was limping.
He had blood on his forehead.
But he kept running.
And a moment later, I saw the other one appear as well.
Again two against one.
And I realized that the power to keep running might not help me much longer.
The two silhouettes advanced.
And I had no idea what to do.
I filled my lungs. And I started to run again.
Fuck, fuck, fuck!
(to be continued in bookstores…)
