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