If it is a topic, remanent, which never stops roving in my spirit and which, consequently strongly challenges me, It is certainly the incompressible course of time.

By this fiction, I try to illustrate the repetitive, illusory and vain character of a humanity such as ours, even projected in the company of a dubious future... The History, with a H capital letter, is only one eternal restarting. (But is there had a beginning?) As for the human being, it does nothing but turn in round, they bites the tail. Technology is only one lure, the mirror with the larks.
Recent progress of the genetics authorizes overflows, from where this hallucinated news. But isn't this the prerogative of the science fiction?

Pascal Coquet

"But then, known as Alice, if the world absolutely does not have any direction, which prevents us from inventing one of them? " Alice at the country of the wonders - Lewis Caroll -

Some share in the south-east of Poland, far from the industrialized zones, a honest peasant is devoted to his favorite leisure in the deep forests of High Silesia: Hunting for wild boars.
A tantinet poacher, by bravado but also to improve the ordinary, to take sustenance, he is at the point of posing collets and other traps of the same quality for the capture of small game. Drawing aside the branches and the sheets piled up, which was not his surprise to discover: a concrete ground!

Hidden under his feet, an underground construction and, inside, a man wonder about his curious destiny...

Veiled, it is made. I suspected more or less unconsciously that this day was to arrive.

are they?

They live in the unknown, the strange one and the fantastic one...
Where am I? From where do I come ? I could not say it. I will not be able to say it.

An immense, impersonal and cold hall. Cyrillic characters placarded on the unbleached wall, give certainly information, indications, but I cannot decipher the direction of them.
I live in the unknown, the strange one and the fantastic one.

Remainder, I do not manage to apprehend my environment. At the bottom of me, I smell a discomfort confusedly:

I have the impression to have always lived in this place which, however, is foreign for me. I do not have in fact any memory of a possible external world, that does not even come me to mind. Suddenly doors slide, swivel, I rock and ipso-facto finds to me insulated, cut off in a room.

A very sober universe is offered to the greed of my glance: Four walls, a bed. I feel an insistent presence, disturbing. Me épie, one me am observed. A very light noise disturbs the padded silence of my singular prison: Dissimulated in a partition, an electronic cell, an eye globulous looks at me. Loudspeakers resound: "Mrs Rey is requested from the reception... One awaits Mr Moraticcio in the room of disinfection... Mr Bar with Séquoia space... " One would believe oneself in a terminal of airport, a platform of loading!

That made now three days that I am in "observation" in my cell (Though I hardly have the notion of time). Sometimes a trap door opens and a small plate appears. It is furnished with various gelulles and other coloured pastilles.
Celtax, out of pirn, is a visque drink of color metallized blue. Pulled about by the hunger, I sit down at table: They are indeed iophyllized food and thus conditioned, as for Celtax, one can say that it buck up me and pick up me.
A routine settles little by little, I am always surrounded of a heavy silence but but am accustomed there me.
In the same way, the messages diffused by loudspeakers do not disturb me advantage.
In this moment, or rather for some time, I compare myself with a hamster turning in his cage... But what to make there?

I hear a new sound suddenly: A key turns in a lock, a latch rocks. Who will enter? A large cat? Not. Nobody. Is this a trap or a chance to leave my forced insulation? I lower the clanche of my door which from now on is déverouillée and leave discreetly.
Nothing in the neighbourhoods, I thus leave to discovered my territory:
Empty corridors surround a patio as much deserted. I approach the balustrade and my glance scutator plunges literally in this interior court. The ground is probably located at a score of lower stages, a giant banzaï pushes in an immense filled up bucket of sand and barks of pine.

In spite of light a giddiness which attacks me, my piercing eye distinguishes an abundantly enlightened glazed room. This window "is populated" primarily of mannequins. I fix of advantage my attention and notes with an astonishment interfered stupor which they all are incomplete, deformed.
These sad dislocated puppets, inanimate, do not present large thing of human. On the contrary, they resemble rather like plastic androïdes, scraps of flesh and synthetic resin, the assembled awry by springs, rivets, bolts.

Moreover, one phosphorescent liquid runs in kinds of serpentines, similar to multicoloured hose connections. One had said creatures left the imagination of a Stanley Kubrick, of Stephen Spielberg or of George Lucas... always is that a heavy atmosphere weighs in this place.
Rectifying the head, I warn the roof of the dome: It consists of single and gigantic cupola of opaque glass supported by four feet of concrete, of a colossal dimension, plunging towards the abyss of under-bassements. Daylight don't get in, a diffuse lighting spouts out of twenty-four monstrous mouths, probably coming from old temples Tibetans, and laid out with the circumference of this enormous basin of opaline.

Not far from there, I see a half-opened door where figure a sign: Myo-Elektronik. A skeleton of homo sapiens, incomplete him also, is suspended by a hook of stopping with bearing. It throne in this small part near various graphs, engravings of sectional views such as one can see some in the illustrated encyclopaedia of a time formerly. On a console, a decayed black bakelite telephone contrasts with a line of apparatuses with liquid crystals of last generation, emitting a "beep-bip"envoûtant, absorptive by ambient silence.

Curious office, isn't it ? Here are which consolidates my first impression: I live the strange one and the fantastic one.

I continue my exploration while going along a hopelessly empty and circular corridor, when I discover a strange part: Semi-human androïdes, semi-robots, my fellow travellers in fact, are in a state of paradoxical sleep, inanimate by a deep lethargy.
They all are laid out anyhow, face against wall, are directed bric and of pitcher, in all the directions. Some sat, lowered will have I to say, on cases of docker coming from Vladivostok. Others are, constant upright with the ceiling by slings.
On a screen plasma of big size video-are projected of old horror films of the Thirties, certe dumb, but nevertheless digitized in three dimensions. The public, as for him, misses obviously. All this contributes to reinforce the strangeness, the singularity of what appears me to be "
the palate of the horror ". The anguish me étreint, I am at the edge of the land-mark... And the loudspeaker howls again: "Mrs Jaquin in the Mimosa room... the whole of team ASH is awaited the Southern 3em..." Finally a message relates to me: "the residents of the dome are pleasantly invited to an meeting of synthesis to the Western 12em.


I find an ascencor, immediately join by hearty fellows with the pace patibulaire, or almost, dumb men seems it, bald people and very of white vêtus. The cold glance of only one of them made me understand that I had to follow them.
That resembled extremely an injunction and any discussion had been useless. In front of impressive double-carries, they stop me of an authoritative sign. I remain only, disconcerted, prohibited. Tightening the ear, I hear squeakings, frictions of pulleys, noises of chains...

(Or is this the effect of an imagination unslung by this place machiavelic? ) Soudain of the gyrophares flickers, an alarm hums and the quatres strapping men réaparaissent. They dispatch me manu-militari inside an imposing and composite room.

Indeed this room holds place, on the one hand, of a particle accelerator last cry, the cyclotron dreamed of professor Sharpack, and on the other hand one had said the vouté refectory of a monastery cistercian acting as room of tortures, entirely equipped, such as it was to exist about it with the Middle Ages in the deep ones of the enquiry. Curious binomial, isn't it?

Me here thus in this agora. At this point in time I have a vision of terror: Good about thirty "quidams", same the androïdes that with the reception but animated those, were rivetted, strapped, arnachés on metal panels.
They laboriously carried out repetitive movements with the manner of automats of the olden days. How to describe the state of these poor wander? Difficult. What struck me more, it is great silence, resignation, the abnegation:

They seemed to accept the strange fate of a destiny which they could not control. Any conscience seemed to have given up them; The vitreous eye, the flask and soft jaw, pale dye, the hopelessly empty glance, low shoulders and their strange fluorescent pipe rolled up around hydraulic pistons and verrins made them resemble cyber-zombies, a hazardous mixture of Frankestein of Marie Shelley, monsters of Murnau, Golem de Pragues. I was in the cabinet of the fantastic creatures, combined with the technology of the future.
Another detail added to the singular atmosphere which reigned in this place: All this small world was vêtu same behaviour: Simple just with the white body, of retro pace, two-tone gaiters, tops of fits and a large hat-opera hat on their synthetic hair.

This scene, apocalyptic if it is, fills me of fear; hidden behind a pillar I tremble of the head to the feet. I am the impotent spectator of a court of the miracles of XXVem century.
The strong quatres, one would believe to see the clones of Mr Propre, affairaient oneself actively around them. They equipped the zombies-androïdes with weight, of pulleys, while connecting them by electrodes to a complex equipment chimico-data processing, with the impressive cablâge.

On their display units, filled up test-tubes of a smoking and coloured liquid reacted to many the stimulis generated by a forest of microprocessors.

There were also women in behaviour of green diving, with white Pataugasses very aesthetic, and capped with a ridiculous transparent plastic bonnet. These aquanauts, using scanner with hand, checked, by projection of rays Reutgen, the sealing of the walls over the entire length of the cyclotronic tunnel.

All this personnel obeyed the firm and energetic orders of Katchenka Morloff. Her name was reproduced on an enormous badge in the effigy of Doctor Anton Pavlovitch, driven on his green uniform apple with liserêts yellow.
Curious character that this Katchenka: She should be said that she had proud pace with his gilded shoulder pads and his bêret of alpine hunter. Her long fair hair went down submissively cascades about it to her slender curves which one however guessed generous, this which by no means prevented it from being made respect; She carried out its team of an iron hand, traversing of a sure eye on many computers, control screens and other multiple indicators. On her desk, close to the computeurs, many paperwork piled up:
There was, with leaving clever led pressurized vapor, various mail as well as headed notepaper in the name of the organization "Genetek".

Consequently, my impression is made: I am a prisoner of a research center where the allied genetic engineering with biomechanics is in hand, in progress, in experimentation, and that well-sure, in the greatest secrecy. Me here in the most total destitution, forgotten, erased from the surface of the sphere: I do not exist any more. Remainder did I already live? I do not have of it any
recollection ...

Ce which is woven in Genetek could not in no case to filter outside, it is certain, an obvious fact.

Katchenka introduces an electronic card into a reader, she presses on a large red button...

At this time, all is connected very quickly. A deafening siren bellow. A white light, crushing, burns the eyes: The androïdes are irradiated, while a strong rain, a downpour, torrential, flows on these automats.
Immediately, the indicators ignite, the sinusoids appear on the screens. The computeurs controlled by Katchenka spit the tons of figures, the disordered response curves are registered on the dual-band's oscillators , the printers panic, the data pile up ...
In the cyclotron, red copper pressure gauges let escape a thick brownish vapor. A powerful flash again illuminates the androïdes and, once more, they are exposed to the irradiation. An enormous ventilator, at the back of the tunnel, enters then in action, dispersing a gas mixture. (Nitrogen and hydrogen perhaps?)

Finally cost calms it: The fogs grow blurred and fine droplets, similar to the dew, cover the ground and the walls of the cyclotron . At this point in time in the bowel of the accelerator, completely cleared up, a very least astonishing spectacle appears in front of my amazed eyes, incrédulous.

The impossible one, the incredible one, becomes reality:
The cyborgs start to become animated, initially slowly, of a step left and awkward, then, gradually, at the end of some measure, they are driven in a more fluid way, more natural. It seems that they took life; a derisive spark shines now in their eyes.

Are they equipped with an artificial intelligence? At least the artifice is successful, worthy of Ruggieri...

Now they advances with ensured step, one guesses even a light smile with the lips to them, they have from now on the pink dye and maintains it proud. Here they are at the end of the tunnel, they gather in an immense, impersonal and cold hall.

Where are they? From where come they? They could not say it.
Cyrillic characters, strange signs, placarded on the unbleached wall, give certainly information, indications, but they cannot decipher the direction of them.

They live in the unknown, the strange one and the fantastic one...

Pascal 25.12.05