Also by Macha Sener: Ma Divine Comédie (French, Poetry) Les Aventures du Chevalier Timothée et de la Princesse Jade (French, Children books) Available from http://maruja.sener.free.fr/boutique/ http://stores.lulu.com/Macha_Sener
Also by Stephane Thomas: Espère (French, Epistolary Novel) Dean, un géant à l'Est d'Eden (French, Report) Available from http://stores.lulu.com/stephanethomas
The two following stories have been published in collective books written by lulu French authors. These books, one about cats (Quinze coups de griffes), and the other one about dreams (D'un rêve à l'autre), are available from: http://stores.lulu.com/gr746
Copyright © 2008 Maruja “Macha” Sener Copyright © 2008 Stephane Thomas Translated by Macha Sener All rights reserved
THE ZIBEON MISSION by Macha Sener & Stephane Thomas
My name is Roger. I am a simple employee, and I certainly seem to be a rather trite human being, but I think I am better than that. I have a exciting life indeed: each morning I observe people in the subway, each morning I burst myself in laughs reading the funny emails that my buddies of regiment and my colleagues send to me. Each day at lunch, while waiting for my change, I dare to slip a ribald pun to the buxom cashier, and each Saturday I regale myself with soap operas on my TV. This life which is mine, punctuated - do I have to confess it? by multiple conquests, is so interesting that I cannot stand to keep it for myself any more. I thus decided, one morning, between coffee and shaving foam, to share my adventures with you. To my great surprise, at the second reading of my diary's first pages, I realize that I seem to be writing in fact the diary of Camelice, my cat‌
Thursday September 13, 2007 - 1 It is 17:00 and I am pleased to leave the office at last. There are some days like this where nothing turns as I wish to. The worst moment of the day, like a mildewed cherry on the spoiled whipped cream of a stale cake, would be when the pretty Sandra declined with an useless contempt my invitation for diner.
The eyes looking to the gray sky, I breathe great puffs of the polluted air of the city, finding it suddenly very pure. What a mistake! While raising the head too much, one does not look where one walks, and it had to happen: my foot crushes what an impolite dog would have left there just for me, of course! I become mad, and reinvent a list of swearwords that would make jealous all the Haddock captains of the world. Why people do have dogs? Why don't they have cats like everyone? Why? I calm myself down after having wiped my shoe on the pavement and a pitiful square of lawn facing it. It is a fact that cats at least are clean! I surprise myself at this moment thinking about my cat. What is he doing, as a matter of fact, during my absence? Probably nothing. I think he is busy with the same occupations than when I am at home. They are of three kinds: food, litter, and couch. With an alternative for this last, Camelice also uses my bed to take rest of his hard duties. “A cat's life must be quite sad and tedious ! � I say to myself, pushing the door of my suburban house, my mind invaded by the desire to seduce Sandra and the thousand and one ideas to manage it, which I finally eliminate one after another.
Log book of agent Zbertfricht208: 13th day of Mandar Moon - Mizerium Year II arrived in this dimension six months ago, and I don't see any success coming in the achievement of my mission! I thus made the decision to leave every single note I could think about in my log book. Perhaps will it help my successor not to make the
same errors as I, and therefore save our world, whereas I will have been unable to do so. The idea of being incarnated in a cat was not a bad one. It is completely correct, and in conformity with the information obtained at the time of the many reconnaissance missions that, in this dimension, a cat finds a residence rather easily. It will then be quite well nourished and cared for. Humans, large two-legged, talkative and imaginative animals, are generally rather obliging and provide the hardware requirement to a good hygiene of life. Most of the time, they let the cat do what it wants, especially a persuasive cat, and we learn to be persuasive during our training courses. It is thus indeed an ideal cover to work discreetly. But there are nevertheless some disadvantages‌ And I can only suggest to my successor to be incarnated in a female, for example. It is better as well to avoid being incarnated in a contest animal, blue Persan kind for instance, these animals being jealously locked up by their masters between two show rooms, or in a giant model like Maine Coon, not very practical to slip between the board fences of the garden‌ As of me, I am incarnated very astutely in a European cat, with a beautiful reddish-brown and white dress. If it was not my natural modesty, I would say that I am a rather beautiful specimen. As soon as I arrived here, I found my headquarters, very central to the zone of research delimited by the information provided by our services. This headquarters are inhabited by a human, Roger. He provides for my elementary needs, and his company is sometimes satisfactory. The human ones are beings rather easy to handle, even if they sometimes present large gaps of comprehension.
Thursday September 13, 2007 - 2 I hang my coat on the already overcongested rack, with my jackets and a duffel coat whose existence I had forgotten. I then
hear a badly awaken mewing. Ah! Camelice, it is nice to greet me, good evening to you too! Then I hear another mewing, more insistent. I now wonder if this animal is really glad to see me. He could move, at least! Camelice continues to miaow. I walk towards him. He finally condescends to leave the couch, the one I bought linked, but witch progressively became more and more clouded because of the cat's prolonged naps. Camelice approaches. I tighten the hand to caress him: he avoids it scornfully while he continuously mews. I conclude that he does not greet me. He fumes! What does he want? The first reflex in this case is to bend my steps towards the food's reserve. I realize then that his bowl is half full, and the animal miaows more and more. “If you are not hungry, then what do you want? Go for a walk in the district? ” I open the French window, and that makes immediately enter an arctic cold. Camelice approaches while mewing… and stops right in front of the door… still mewing! “Then, do you leave or not? ” He does not leave… and continues caterwauling! I close the door. Suddenly Camelice faces me. He stares at me, stubbornly. And mews, with a more and more throbbing mewing, increasingly insistent. I squat, to put me at his height, what can be very important to facilitate the conversation. With a soft voice, I ask him what he complains about, with a kind of hypocrite calm, considering that he starts to displease me seriously. I tight the arm to lavish a caress to him, when the feline balances me a blow of a precise - but however friendly - claw, since it only scratches me very superficially.
Upset, I start the CD reader and put on a good old man disc of a good old man group of good old man hard rock, because as each one knows, cats hate the noise. Camelice receives the message and mews as hard as the hairy bawler bawls. Then my cat, in a jump, finds back his place on the couch. He stretched, rotated twice, before lying, on HIS couch, a leg skilfully pressed on his ear. I look at him, amazed. He looks at me, arrogant. And goes back to sadly mew. I put the CD back in its box‌
13th day of Mandar Moon - Mizerium Year (following) Whereas I came here to conclude a mission of major importance: to save my world, devastated by a sanguinary tyrant who could be returning very soon, the human ones are worried by completely commonplace thoughts. Today, whereas I claimed to him an automatic trifocal lenses tirlistuff, to locate at last that bloody emperor Zibeon, Roger looked at me stupidly, understanding nothing. He went to imagine things about my appetite, my health, my inclinations to go away, but of my request he did not get anything at all. I must thus supplement the remarks I made yesterday on the facility with which one can handle humans, because they are completely inapt for telepathy. I tried to change language, and levels of language, I even tried to emit like with a five years old child, nothing succeeded! The telepathic techniques taught at the Academy do not function on brains as limited as those of humans, I think it is necessary to be noted. Whereas I caught his eye, expressing gently with my most persuasive voice: “find me an automatic trifocal lenses tirlistuff or, if you can't, give me a simple zirlito, I could work it out�, this imbecile didn't get anything. It was a total failure, and I must
thus recommend to my successor to avoid wasting his or her time with the modern means of communication commonly used for our missions.
Friday September 14, 2007 What happened yesterday, I concede it, led me to consider the language of the cats. The cat mews, certainly. But each mewing is different, each sound is a word, each attitude is a sentence. While thinking about that, I take a box of new tuna croquettes and a can of Miaou with fish, which I bought the day before, in promotion at the supermarket. Cats adore fish, and if Camelice liked the wine, he could have been regaled, with this special Friday fish meal, with a good glass of Riesling. But the cat scorns the white wine and so I will taste it! I shake the box of croquettes. Inevitably, rapid as a flash which proves that he can also be dynamic - my friend runs towards his bowl and opens a famished mouth while I finish to serve his excellence. Camelice stops suddenly. He snuffles the contents of the bowl, and looks at me, interrogative and insistent. “That’s all you’ve got to give me ?” Seems Camelice to tell me. I immediately rectify my lapse of memory and rush towards the sink where I filled the box of mint-chocolate Bob'n Jenny's ice cream I finished the day before, with fresh water. Never forget water with the croquettes! Camelice stares at me then, almost threatening. “But of course ! The tuna box! I forgot the tuna box ! ” I take quickly the can-opener, my favorite kitchen utensil. Only a few seconds later, the content of the box is in the bowl. Camelice approaches again, dubitative. He advances slowly a
careful truffle. Then, he tightens his right forefoot, and, as if he wanted to throw a goldfish out of its bowl, in a sharp and precise gesture, Camelice ejects a mixture of tuna and croquettes and spread it all over the kitchen. “You do not believe that I would bolt this shit? ” This time, I get it perfectly. “It is that or nothing”, I answer him, annoyed, and gained by nausea, as the odor of scraps come to my offended nostrils. Camelice moves away then, and takes again his favorite position, rolled up on HIS couch. I start to supervise his greediness or more simply his appetite. The prince approaches the bowl regularly, but doesn't touch anything and, not seeing the shade of a change there, continues to be unaware of his stomach.
Monday September 17, 2007 After three days of stubbornness, scraps dried, and the croquettes are always there. Worried by the odor and the aspect increasingly scatologic of what was the meal of my cat, I end up throwing the whole in the dustbin. Twenty seconds later, Camelice moves towards the bowl, rubs on the bottom of my trousers, with a tenderizing glance like only cats and some women can lavish some. He mews softly. How did he guess that this time I bought meat at the butcher, and his favorites croquettes.
17th day of Mandar Moon - Mizerium Year Another remark that I must make about the humans relates to their stinginess. I don't want to be ungrateful to Roger, who satisfies nevertheless most of my material needs, but he unfortunately tends to try and make poor savings on important things, like my food. A few days ago, he filled my bowl with absolutely hideous croquettes, with no savor, with no odor, that he had probably bought at the corner's store. Usually, my meals are much balanced, and that is absolutely necessary to be in good conditions to conclude my mission. No one has ever seen an agent achieve brilliantly his duty with an empty stomach. If my successor is exposed to a nuisance of this kind, no need to use violence (and neither telepathy, as I already explained is proven inoperative with such summary intelligences). I recommend to openly avoid the area concerned (here: my bowl) and put as much reproach as possible in your eyes. These operations are generally sufficient to make humans renounce making economies on our back: it is clearly dedicated to failure! This evening, my bowl was full, at last, of my usual, tasty, juicy, and delicious croquettes as I like them. An exquisite dish.
19th day of Mandar Moon - Mizerium Year About our most elementary requirements as a matter of hygiene, I mean the question of cleaning the excrements produced by our material bodies, several solutions are possible. I recommend however to use whole or part of these body productions to eliminate the harmful effects from the other cats of the vicinity. For that, it is necessary to well know the territory of the animals living in the immediate surroundings of the house.
Indeed, the other cats are most of the time not incarnations of Agents of our universe. Thus, they do not have any judicious conversation! Their company is however not inevitably unpleasant. I think in particular of a very pretty small striped she-cat, who unfortunately did not remain a very long time in our garden… But the majority of these other cats (especially males) can be disturbing for the success of our mission. As for me, I never chose to eliminate the company of the females. They started to avoid me just after I underwent a shameful deprivation of some of my parts, last month, anyway… A very simple solution thus consists in depositing these natural dejections parsimoniously all around the house occupied by the agent, to dissuade the other cats from staying there. If timetable - or weather - do not allow the agent to use its products for its strategic purpose, human provides for their ecological elimination by giving vat and litter. It is very easy to learn how to use it, no need to graduate from Schmurtz School for that! On the other hand, from time to time, it is necessary to recall to the human that he has to change the contents of the vat. I have found an entertaining and effective solution to recall his duties to Roger, by using the “dry” productions like game balls all around the apartment. I love that, it is very funny, and that always makes Roger react immediately: he cleans the vat in the following minutes. And the rest of the apartment soon after… I love so much living in a clean environment! On the other hand, I strongly suggest to wait until the “balls” are dry before playing with them. I do not know anything more unpleasant indeed than to dirty my legs this way…
Thursday September 20, 2007 - 1 I sit in the living room for a few minutes of relaxation after a new infernal day at work. I then surprise myself to observe Camelice who proceeds methodically to his toilet. Lengthened on the couch, he licks with his raspy tongue his reddish-brown and white fur: he starts with back leg, writhing himself with an amazing flexibility, and goes up gradually along his body. He licks then his right foreleg and, using it like a glove, conscientiously cleans his head, insisting where some evidences of his adventurous night remain. I admire this ritual, this perfectly regulated choreography, when suddenly, the predator stands up, puts his forelegs far in front of him and stretches himself in an impressive camber. He then steels his claws into the feet of my living room's table. “No! Not my cherry tree table! ” Camelice jumps then on the side, and looks at me arrogantly. I quickly run towards him, making him escape in the other room.
20th day of Mandar Moon - Mizerium Year This day was absolutely unproductive. I failed again in localizing the infamous Emperor Zibeon. And, moreover, one dreadful cat of the district, a tabby male, not even castrated, raced me in the residence all the morning long… Really, how would I succeed in my mission under such conditions? Tonight, I am supposed to have a very important meeting with my superior, the colonel M, to whom I must submit a report on my headings, and I apprehend this delicate moment. Good for me, Roger is there. As usual, He pouts and drinks black coffee, speaking to himself. After a large toilet, I will
benefit from his caressing moods to slacken up… Then, I will grant myself a few moments of toilet before stepping out, and I will be fine to face the blames of Mr. M.
Thursday September 20, 2007 – 2 A few minutes later, he comes back, stops in front of the window and mews frantically. “No! Definitely! You will not leave at this hour. I won't let you prowl anywhere so late! What is so important to draw you out whereas the weather is so cold and it will rain cats and dogs in a short while? ” I realize at this moment that I live with a cat but I do not know anything about his life. Actually, I wonder if I live with my cat, or if he uses me? I prepare HIS meals, only the dishes HE chooses, I clean HIS litter, I collect HIS vomit, I lead HIM to the veterinary surgeon when HE is sick or when HE has to be vaccinated, I stand up at the middle of the night if HE wants me to open the door when HE wants to leave: Am I really his master? Obviously, Camelice is in command, and as he obtains what he wants from me, I am not far from being his slave, at least his servant. I am thus only one kind of lackey for my cat. I supply couch and cover to a lord who spends the most part of his time sleeping, in what must be a quite comfortable hotel for him. His real life is different, his real life is outside, his life is between twilight and dawn. While the cat insists and continues to mew, I decide not to yield, I just want to find back my statute of this cat's master.
Fifteen minutes later, the mewing is unbearable for me. I open the French window. As soon as he escapes, I realize that I too spend some time in the bathroom, chooses an impeccable shirt and fashionable trousers, before joining Sandra or any girl of her kind. I, too, swagger out, leaving home to conquer a prey, a mouse, a sweet puss. My cat is thus only one cat among others, who meet in the district, discuss, seduce, eye themselves, fight if they have to, to conquer, to simply live. The street is only their playing field, the last fancy club for them. I'm sure Camelice is their chief. He is such a beautiful cat, and with no doubt has to be the prince of the neighborhood, the pet of the cat ladies who never fail to innocently come to exchange some words with him, criticizing inevitably this other she-cat badly brushed and completely vulgar. Sometimes, nature pushes these young ladies to offer their services to him and, in front of a timid competition, remained prudently in withdrawal, our vigorous male pays homage to the district's girls, ensuring consequently his noble descent. At least he can believe it, because even if his sterilization saved his strength, there is no chance any more that redheads kittens will be born two months ahead in the neighborhood. This type of exercise, as pleasant as it is, starves the animal. Camelice then gives up his conquests. He does not forget to urinate here and there, to affirm his domination and remind the young cat of the janitor - this pretentious individual - that he reigns as the master here, and that any attempt on his chicks' virtue will be repressed without pity. An imprudent rodent crosses the street then. Camelice, thanks to its excellent sight, spots it immediately. Camelice stealthily
approaches, silently, slowly, crawling on the ground, reckoning each one of his steps. He must get close enough to keep the effect of surprise, and does not have to be long in leaping, unless his prey would quickly join its hiding-place. Suddenly our mini-panther, who became wild again, estimates that it's time. Camelice, making use of his legs as of springs, pounces on this poor mouse and catches it before it even realizes what happens. The mouse is now prisoner of the carnivore's claws. It looks at its executioner and seems to beseech pity from the monster, or does it ask him to end its life quickly? Camelice steps back, his victim in his mouth, to the place where his lovers wait, impressed by his technique, his speed, his agility, his frightening effectiveness. He looks proud as a boxer who has just laid down his adversary in front of a floor of hysterical she-supporters. He then puts the mouse in front of my pretty neighbor’s she-cat. She timidly tightens a leg, wedges the prey and, in a precise gesture, crushes the vertebrae of her evening meal. Camelice, without a miaow, turns away from his activities. I think to myself that my neighbor is almost as pretty as my colleague. Tomorrow, if I cross Sandra, I will invite her to the restaurant. I will describe the life of my hero to her, I will tell her the conquest of the she-cat, and I am sure she will smile at me, delighted by my stories.
20th day of Mandar Moon - Mizerium Year What an idiot, this Roger! Tonight, right before I had to go to my meeting with colonel M, he suddenly wouldn't want to let me leave! These humans are definitely the most idiotic creatures of this universe, in all accounted dimensions!
“It's too late, it grows dark, I wanna sleep!”, he answered me. But of course I had to go, what was he thinking? As I vainly mewed, whined, bellowed… he made as if he was deaf. I tried to walk on him, to slip under his cover, to put my whiskers' hairs in his nostrils, to tickle his ears… He threw me out of his bedroom and closed the door. I tried to jump to open this beastly door. I was hoping to catch the handle with my front legs. As I was about to succeed, he blocked the door with a chair, on his side. But the time of my appointment with Mr. M was dangerously coming. We all know how far from obvious it is to maintain open a few more seconds left an access door between two space-time continuums. What was this human thinking? That I spend my time amusing myself? Fortunately, some curios remained in his living room. Ugly objects indeed, but they show some musical skills as they break apart. Two on the floor were enough to make Roger come, hirsute and panicked. Then, I quietly posted myself in front of the door of the garden, I mewed with my softest voice… and I slipped as quickly as I could when he opened the door. While passing by him, I avoided a rather violent gesture of Roger. I am not upset with him too much, but that was not very kind of him to try and strike me, whereas I was almost late because of his idleness. After all, he shouldn't drink so much. He would react faster! Fortunately, I arrived in time at the hot spot of the vortex. Colonel M listened to me with much interest. The results of my researches, which seemed completely incoherent to me, are in fact - according to him - confirming the last information obtained by other Agents on the other side. Zibeon is not easy to localize, because he is also incarnated in an animal of this dimension. But calculations indicate that he is very close to my current position.
As soon as I will manage to put a leg on an automatic trifocal lenses tirlistuff, this blasted mission will come to an end. The colonel M gave me the coordinates of a valuable contact, who could provide me with the machine I miss so much. For the first time in six months, I felt a little hope at last‌
Saturday September 22, 2007 It is 4.30 in the morning. I laid down at midnight. The charming Sandra has finally accepted my invitation to the restaurant, and I have been rather convincing - thanks in particular to my encyclopedic zoological knowledge. She also agreed to cast an abstracted glance to my library, as well as to my CD collection. And what was supposed to arrive arrived: to my great satisfaction, and perhaps even hers - but I am not so sure - we fell asleep very very late. In short, we are thus awaken very early this morning by the noise of what seems to be sand thrown on plastic. We also hear like repeated blows. I stand up and, as I step in the kitchen, my ear identifies the racket while my eyes note the damage and my nose perceives the cause of it. Camelice is quite simply occupied cleaning his litter, that I have actually forgotten to change for several days, the mind too occupied by my bed linen and the soft skin of Sandra I wanted to slip under. Vision of horror! In spite of the cat door, the animal succeeded in projecting sand soaked with urine everywhere in the kitchen as well as many dried droppings, quite identifiable by the foul emanations coming from them, as they are finally released from the protective layer of sand. Curious, Sandra comes, and as she steps in, her stomach contracts itself, her heart falls in her chest, and her barefoot do not avoid the inevitable. She leans towards the sink and returns
in a blow, the sweet pumpkin' soup, the foie gras, the meat and mushrooms, and the currants and bilberries ice cream that, as I had told her, will not, as it comes, make her fat. At this moment, she is taken by violent and irrepressible series of sneezes. Her eyes redden and start to cry, she seems to lack breath. She tries to shout, but finally gives up. She rapidly slips in her dress, and before I have the time to say no-matter-whatit-is-to-say, she goes away, shooting me with an eloquent glance. At this point in time His Highness, who of course had slipped by, returns from I-do-not-know-where and lengthens with elegance and dignity on HIS couch. After half an hour of cleaning, it is still very early. I wonder how to put it right with Sandra and decide to go back to bed and think of it. I run to my bed and get immediately horrified by a bitter odor and a rancorous moisture on my sheet‌
22nd day of Mandar Moon - Mizerium Year This mission irritates me so much, I need to get all this stress out of my system! It's very disturbing to me. Fortunately, Roger provides also in caresses and sweetness. Humans can be winning sometimes. My relation with this human, who is however only the manager of my residence, evolves quite a bit every day. But I do not understand why his emotional needs push him to seek company of young females who always interpose themselves between him and me. Like this Sandra, for instance. I really do not see what the deal is about her. And she smells so badly! At least, if she smelt like fish, that could be pleasant, but she wears a completely artificial perfume, which imitates damaged flowers mixed with alcohol, that's horrible.
Yesterday evening, she came home with him, whereas I would have liked so much to find some comfort with Roger before my great day. Tomorrow, I must go and find my contact, and I apprehend this crucial stage in my mission. Will I find this agent? Has he really got the necessary machine for me? And then? Will I be able to activate and use it? And if, thanks to the wanted machine, I localize Zibeon, will I have the strength to destroy alone this detested tyrant? But instead of being at my disposal to cheer me up, Roger wanted to be devoted to this… girl… Pf! Very early in the morning I insisted to recover all of his attention. I insisted, insisted, insisted… and finally I took shamelessly advantage of this idiot's allergy to cat's hairs. After the rapid departure of this importunate lady, Roger sulked during a few hours. I, for my part, took a well deserved rest, with the avenger satisfaction to have eliminated the intruder, which, finally, brought me almost as much satisfaction as the caresses that I wished…
Monday September 24, 2007 This morning, I open the window and who do I see running inside? Our hero, who indeed had not returned last night after his walk out ! I see his left ear all bloody. He must have had one hell of a fight! And obviously he lost! But Mister is far too proud to complain: he walks slowly, with dignity, and moves as if nothing happened towards HIS place on the couch. I realize at this time that this animal is going inevitably to dirty the couch, and bloodstains are difficult, even impossible to clean out. I leap - like a cat, this unintentional imitation is insane - and I put him down with losses, crash and howls. At this moment, by mere chance of course, the cheating one vomits a ball of hairs right on the middle of my carpet.
After this incident, I spend the day imagining the night life of my feline. I see it, the dilated pupils, watching for any intrusion of a male competitor trying to conquer his territory. I imagine him, marking his stronghold of his stinking urine. I ear him mewing languorously for a mislaid she-cat, or another hot one.
24th day of Mandar Moon - Mizerium Year I hate this mission! Today I went to meet my new contact, according to the recommendations given by colonel M. I would rather have been wary, have taken more precautions, or have asked reinforcement…. but none of these options was possible, since I have to keep undercover and remain discrete. Nevertheless, I would have liked my contact to take another cover as for himself! What a bad luck to go and seek an automatic tirlistuff in the slums, infested by filthy dogs. And, really, my contact had such a bad idea to be incarnated in… a rat! I spent rare moments of distress, while haggling with this rat at the bottom of a sticky dead end, until the arrival of half a dozen of wandering dogs, not even vaccinated against rabies. I nevertheless obtained that stupid tirlistuff, but for what a price! I hardly came back home in one piece… And as I finally got home, trailing the legs and licking my blood, Roger found nothing better than to be nasty. This human is confusing with ingratitude and unconsciousness. I am a hero. I am trying to save my people. At the price of several handles of hairs and some parts of my ears, plus muscular tears and most varied pains… I will spend the end of the evening resting on the couch, and will wait until tomorrow to use my new automatic trifocal lenses
tirlistuff to locate the emperor Zibeon. I need to have minimum strength to activate this machine, and to react with my usual effectiveness and professionalism when Zibeon is localized.
Tuesday September 25, 2007 The next morning, I am already awaken when the king of the district presents himself to the French window. I open it for him, with a generous smile. The feline runs towards his bowl and starts to devour, with great appetite, scraps with beef - and spring carrots - I have just served to him. “I know what you do at night� I tell him, sure of myself, but when I look back to him, the cat has disappeared.
25th day of Mandar Moon - Mizerium Year Tonight is the great night. I launched, a few hundred meters from my residence, the device which will uncover all the intruders coming from my dimension, and incarnated in this one. This operation is terribly dangerous, because it will have on me an unforeseeable effect. I underwent indeed a special treatment before coming here, supposed to counteract some effects of machines of this kind. But it will nevertheless transform me in another being. And I am unaware of which kind of creature it is going to be. The treatment that I underwent will make me be incarnated in a creature of this dimension, and thus I will not be identifiable as an Agent of our universe. It is necessary in my job to be certain, even in presence of such a powerful device, to be able to keep a cover.
But in spite of my expertise, if I am transformed into a mouse, I would not be able to use my skills to put this Zibeon tyrant down. The most important thing is to find a way to destroy him, as soon as he will be identified. In a few minutes, I will know at last… Hidden in the backyard, I am waiting for the effects of the tirlistuff I just activated, and I supervise anxiously the neighborhood, looking for the smallest Zigma wave that would locate an intruder in this universe. But… except for me, nothing occurs. I thought I had seen the reflection of a Zigma wave, through the curtains of the window of my residence, but that must be Roger, making a hamburger in the microwave oven. Why would a Zigma wave take place in the residence I left one hour ago? I am desperate. Despite transforming me into a gorgeous creature, this tirlistuff brought me nothing. I hoped so much it would help me! How will I find new headquarters, now that I have the look of a beautiful blond girl with generous chest? I will try to squatter, still and always, at Roger's, even with this new appearance. Perhaps should I make contact by asking him some salt…. After all, I am thousand times prettier than Sandra… and I am too much accustomed to live with him not to take my chance.
EPILOGUE These words that the pitiful Roger scrawled on his diary to give the illusion of an existence were its last. For at this exact moment, while I am reading these lines, a sidereal flash illuminates my conscience and brings me back to reality. I am not, nor never was, this ridiculous Roger. I am Zibeon, The Emperor, the Splendid One, that a handling error at the time of my transformation made amnesic.
I understand now that my cat is not a cat, but the perfidious agent Zbertfricht208, whom the Colonel M undoubtedly entrusted with the usual mission of locating and eliminating me. But once more, it failed. Nothing will stop me any more in my conquest of the universe! I am The Great Zibeon! ! Far away from the Colonel M and his agents, I will finally be able to reign on the world, on the galaxy. And the entire universe will kneel down at the only thought of my existence! Master of the sky and stars, at last! Master of the seas and the mountains, Master of the blue skies and the red twilights, Master of time, of the sun and fire! Master of ice and volcanoes! Master of the words and the ideas, Master of the creatures, Master of the stone and sand, Master of the heroes, Master of the gods, Master of God! The universe is my playing field, with a word I stop his carousel, with a shout I order him to reverse its round, with a breath I order him to reverse time! I will turn over towards the origin, towards the nothingness from which I will create a new universe, in the likeness of me, where the mineral, the vegetable and the animal kingdoms will joint their sidereal forces to prevent anyone to ever come to dispute the absolute power which will be mine. I will be - at last - the Master of the universe, and the Devil and God his accomplice will come, humiliated, to kowtow to my Highness‌ But what is this noise which dares to disturb the majesty of my glorious thoughts? Ah yes, the bell of the entrance door‌ -How? This detested tyrant was incarnated precisely in the man with whom I lived? He was right at my whiskers!
Why does he look at me like this? He seems to have suddenly lost his liveliness. And why is his grim gaze lost in my low-necked top? He is usually so talkative, and so proud, why does he look like he lost his tongue… But… I believe I understand…
-My pretty neighbor is in front of me, undressed with an adorable and almost transparent top, and a skirt as short as a solstice day in December. After a few seconds, almost incongruously, she asks me if I have some salt! I love that! -“Wait, tyrant, assassin, bastard! … I will make you grieve!…” says the beautiful blond to herself.
-And Camelice throw out her brand new chest, while smiling with her pulpy lips.
* The End *
VERDICT by Macha Sener & Stephane Thomas
The rain had ceased. A short downpour, much usual in this season. Goran has just left his office and walks down the streets of Dubrovar. In approximately half an hour, he will arrive at home, a small apartment in the suburbs. There, he will find his wife, Valerija, and their son Zlatko. A seven years old little boy, full of life, who with no doubt will become a professional soccer player. Goran would love to drive, it would save so much time. But his country is right in the middle of its rehabilitation process, and having a car here is a luxury Goran dreams about, with patience and confidence. So, he keeps walking, and already imagines the smile of Valerija and the calls of Zlatko he is about to find back. Just a year ago, after long, cruel and destroying fights, the people got freed at last from the political supervision of its large neighbor, a splendid country which could be rich if it were not gangrened by dictatorship and corruption. The marks of the conflict, at the same time political and religious, are still very visible: many buildings, destroyed by the bombs, still let their rubble fall on the streets. Between the broken stones, a few people walk. Hidden by their long coats and dark scarves, some housewives with sad eyes, return home after having undergone long lines of waiting, mostly for nothing. Here and there, some vehicles' wrecks still strew the adjacent streets of the Freedom Avenue, the former Lenin Avenue, renamed as soon as the independence was proclaimed.
The situation hardly got better these last twelve months, but Goran is full of real optimism. He is proud of the small stone bridge, saved by the war, which spans of its single arch the Milkaja river, while the mountain far away behind affirms its power. As new as it is, his country is from now on sovereign, indestructible. Goran is persuaded of it: the country and its people are finally free, and after a few more necessary months for the transition towards democracy, they will fully enjoy this freedom, and comfort, and the safety it guarantees. However, his optimism is unceasingly bothered by the persistent difficulties daily encountered by a population starting to lose patience, because the fruits of its revolt are quite long to mature on the tree of the revival. Admittedly, food does not miss, at least in quantity. However, meat is rare and when it happens that a butcher acquires a carcass, man has to be lucky and show perseverance to obtain a few grams from him, at an exorbitant price. The political power tries to calm down the population, and explains the need for the measures - announced as transitory - it had to adopt, to avoid its ravaged people to go back to chaos: martial law and curfew were certainly repealed, but replaced at once by a permanent state of emergency. The sun reappears behind the clouds flying towards east, and sprinkles its rays along the green sides of the Ligman Mount. Soon, it will shine on a proud and thriving country, a country where man will enjoy life. Goran jump over the few dilapidated steps of the building, pushes the door of the small house, and climbs quickly the staircases to his apartment on the second floor. His heart is filled with tenderness for his wife, whom he will see in a minute, for his
son, who is already waiting for him. Goran has nothing but a desire: hug them lovingly in his arms. But the contracted face of Valerija, as he enters the small apartment, stops him in his move. She looks very anxious, and with nervous eyes holds out to him a small white envelope, on which he easily recognizes the sign of the SAIST, the Special Agency for Interior Safety of the Territory. Put in place by the political power last year, the Agency has already a terrible reputation in the population. Given however as an interior security guarantee after some resounding espionage and treason cases, usual consequences of such a conflict, the SAIST is feared by many, because its name is associated with arbitrary arrests and mysterious disappearances. Goran is surprised, but not anxious. He works as operations manager at the Ministry of Culture, he feels useful, and perfectly integrated in this new rising society. The SAIST is, in his opinion, a symbol of safety, a parapet like some others, a necessary institution. As uniforms and armed men, its presence is at the same time reassuring and destabilizing, because it is authority. Why should he be afraid of it, as he has done nothing to be reproached? Goran understands perfectly the transitional conditions imposed by the power in place. It is only natural to consolidate the first foundations of an emergent nation. It is the price to be paid before enjoying the fruits of all these efforts, before alleviating all the wounds. Goran is one of the satisfied citizens by those measures. He is confident. Facing the dumb interrogations of Valerija, Goran soothes her. This letter contains nothing more than harmless information, it is undoubtedly only a circular. Then he opens the cover. The reading of the very short letter amazes him. He is convened, the
next morning, at the central office of the Agency, to report there about his behavior, potentially dangerous to the Nation. He reads again the letter, loudly this time for Valerija who breaks up a little more at each word. “Citizen Ibrahimovic, Our services having noted on several occasions that the symbolic means of your dreams express a strong opposition to the government, you are convened Tuesday September 12 at 9:00 to give report on your intentions. You will take all the necessary measures to attend this meeting. � The distress he sees in the eyes of Valerija motivates Goran to take back control on his emotions. He cannot panic and leave his wife worry that much. Zlatko throws himself just at this moment in his legs, helping Goran to find strength and show a bold front. He then again comforts Valerija, with a badly adjusted voice that he would have liked more convincing. It has to be an error, and everything is going to be alright. Soon. At dinner, Goran speaks much with Zlatko, asks the kid to tell everything about his day. When it is time for his son to go to bed, Goran lengthily keeps him in his arms, hugging him like every night. Then he lets Valerija tell a fairytale to the child. During this time, he lies down on his bed, and pretends to be asleep when his wife comes to join him. He is not ready to speak again with her about this SAIST's convocation, he doesn't know what to say about it, nor what to think about it. Goran does not sleep. At least, this night, he will not dream! But how could he fall asleep? In a few hours, he will have to give explanations on a situation he doesn't control, on facts he is unaware of.
Early in the morning, Goran is not the same man any more. Absent-minded, he drinks slowly a very bad and very light coffee: preoccupied by economy, Valerija lengthened the remainder of yesterday. He hardly sees his wife activating herself already, ironing, and his son playing innocently with some tin soldiers. Lucid again, Goran is sad, and afraid. He is not afraid for himself, but for his family and particularly for Zlatko, in assuming the worst case scenario should happen. Goran unfolds his newspaper, “the Truth”. He looks only to the bigger titles and notes with resentment there are only good news, here about economy, there about health. He learns that school will be accessible to all from now on, that the police stopped some enemies of the Nation. He sees photographs of the Head of State, the General Dlavic, dashing in his green uniform decorated with tinsel medals, shaking hands with his Goldavian counterpart on the threshold of the People's Palace. He knows all of this is only propaganda, and the long article about a cyclone on the other side of the world - and its terrible casualties - is only meant to hide his country's misery. Then, although he is aware that contents of “the Truth” are much controlled, he tries to decipher the articles, remembering that informations on the righthand side are more accurate than those on the back pages and that important news are generally reduced to some paragraphs consigned at the end of the newspaper. “The Truth” is also the General Dlavic's show-case. He uses it to spread out the worship of his personality. He is shown on each page, always smiling, always close to the people. A smile which hides a quite real despotism, in spite of the promises of democracy. Dlavic establishes a quasi paranoiac fear of "enemies of freedom", which enables him to preserve himself of any opposition from the people. Censorship reigns on the written press and on television, entirely controlled by the State. Goran, who used to surf on the Web to read worldwide news, quickly noted that filtering the Net was an
effective weapon to protect the population from “dangers coming from outside�. Moreover, a somehow witch-hunting is running, since the independence proclamation, to track political opponents, too curious investigation journalists, and cyberdelinquents who dare to criticize the State and its politics in their weblogs. This hunt tends to silence these dangerous citizens, in the greatest contempt of human rights. Violence, oppression, coercion are the only methods, when absolute authority, no separation between executive, legislative and judicial powers, and deprivation of fundamental freedoms are not enough any more, for a dictator to keep in. It often comes with corruption set up as a system. Goran puts his old coat on, kisses Zlatko, holds Valerija in his arms and, without a word, with tender and reassuring eyes, shows her how much he cares. He then leaves, closes the door and, once in the street, pulls up the collar of his coat and starts to walk steady. He resents having been so naive to believe in the light of this revival, in this promised freedom. Skillful speaker, Dlavic knew how to handle him, like all the others, and lock him up in a different prison, but so similar to the one from which he had allegedly released him. Of course, nothing was proven, but Goran suddenly remembers the rumor according to witch SAIST agents do not hesitate in torturing people to obtain confessions. This time Goran is afraid for himself, fears for his physical integrity, even if he knows he did nothing reprehensible. Yes, perhaps he dreamed, undoubtedly he dreamed. But what is the crime about that? Goran knows he is not one of these heroes who resist, suffer inexpressible pain and die without speaking, signing no confession. He tries to cheer himself up, thinking it is just an error in files, an unfortunate mistake because of a namesake, whatever... and that tonight, he will go back to his son and his wife.
But then again, he sees himself locked up during long weeks, deprived of food and sleep, addicted to some drug and then suddenly weaned from it by his torturers to negotiate confession in exchange for poison. He imagines himself soon burnt, electrified, skinned. The fear changes into terror as Goran approaches the building of the SAIST. He comes to an armed guard and presents his convocation to him. The man reads it conscientiously, controls his identity, and says simply to him: — You too! Surprised, Goran enters the majestic building. He hears behind him the voice of the soldier who condemns him: — It's highly time the country got this vermin removed! Another guard coldly welcomes Goran and leads him towards the officer Radadzic's office. Three officers are sitting there. Among them Radadzic, in the center, shouts: — Sit down! Goran although petrified by the fear, obeys immediately. — Are you Goran Ibrahimovic? — Yes, Sir… — Captain! Yes, Captain! Don't you recognize any more officers ranks? Did you fight for your country at least? No, of course, you hid on the other side of the border, among all these traitors! But it's finished, all that. You are here, among us, and we have proof of your treason. You'll have to answer about it, you piece of shit! — But, Captain, I did not do anything, what am I accused of? — One will tell you that in detail. Lieutenant, explain to this rot!
The young man sitting at the right-hand side of Radadzic takes the floor. In a soft and slow voice, he explains why the spying techniques developed during the last conflict made it possible to finalize some work, started before the war, on human cerebral activity. The resources given to the army, definitely more powerful than the ones granted previously by the public authorities to the medical research laboratories, allowed scientists to build utmost precision measuring instruments, which can quantify and qualify some waves emitted by the human brain. Specific to several fields of interest, those measured waves thus show temporary concerns for one of these fields, and consequently note an intention, even when this intention is not formulated, or unconscious. At the beginning of the experimentation, the various identified fields related only to sex, professional ambition, and elementary needs like hunger and thirst. Then, the instruments improved and made it possible to identify more precise scenarios, like desires of individual recognition, feelings of social and personal frustration, professional and marital dissatisfactions, thirst for freedom, desires of revenge, desires of abroad travels‌ All these scenarios give information on how someone could make the scanned individuals act and, for some of them, the weakness of their loyalty to the State. With the data collected by the sensors and interpreted by the analyzers, it's easy to know which means and arguments could be used by foreign authorities to recruit those who express some social dissatisfaction. Therefore, it's easy to know if it is possible to corrupt a given citizen. Unfortunately - the lieutenant affectedly complains -, these waves can only be collected when the analyzed subjects are dreaming. The young lieutenant, ecstatic, continues his speech on the methods used by the SAIST and their history. During his long talk, the captain Radadzic expresses several times his impatience
and shoots aggressive glances to Goran, sitting uncomfortably on his chair. The Agency, tells the lieutenant, has used the machines at first on some disturbing elements, well-known for their antisocial activities. The results of the analyses were beyond any hope, and made it possible to precisely calibrate the instruments. Then, the Army's engineering services built more powerful machines, yet miniaturized, and established them in the bigger cities of the country. The lieutenant joint the hands, the eyes lost within the yellowed ceiling and, a light smile on his lips, he evokes the many arrests this new method made possible, sheltering the whole nation in drawing aside from its way towards progress many individuals whose dreams showed their potential desire of treason. Going back to his technological explanations, he tells how, from now on, all the country is covered, all the inhabitants supervised, night and day. All dreams are automatically recorded and analyzed. For each desire, in each field, the tolerance levels were clearly established. The machines, now perfectly set, display daily colored reports, indicating in blue the elements to be monitored, in red the hostile individuals. Of course, dreams of the government structure personnel are supervised according to different criteria from the rest of the population. One cannot imagine to give significant, and even strategic functions, to individuals whose loyalty to the Nation is particularly fragile. For a few weeks, then, personnel of the Ministry of Culture, like of other ministries, has been scanned with revised tolerance levels. These more adequate adjustments proved to be less laxists with misdemeanors, well, man could say misdreams, sneers the young man.
Radadzic takes again the control of the interrogation: — Are you this Goran Ibrahimovic who works at the Ministry of Culture? — It is me. — You answer by yes or no, nobody wants you to make a speech. Why do you dream of Communism coming back? Do you miss this time? — No! I never dreamed of such a thing. — Did you fight this system? — No, I was afraid for my family. — That doesn't surprise me! Coward! Traitor! — I was not enlisted. That's all. I did not flee, I just protected my wife and my son. Radadzic, to the other officers: — Note, did not support our combat for freedom, thus betrayed. To Goran: — Do you still claim not to have made this dream? — Yes, Captain. — How dare you, whereas we have the proof of it? — I would remember it. — Do you remember all your dreams?
— Err… No. — Then how could you be so sure? — I never supported Communism and I am delighted with the independence of my country. — It is not what the internal notes of the Ministry say. — ??? — You regularly make fun of the General and show no respect to him. — I simply joked… — Did you or did you not make fun of the General? — I did, but… — Very well, note. We also have the proof that your dream is not the first subversive one you made. — But… — Shut up! You should rather think of your wife and your son. This son of a bastard. Sign your confession, and your sentence will be merciful. We will take account of your co-operation and your repentance. — But how could I admit a crime I do not have made? — Are you so sure? What did you say one moment ago? — No, I am not sure. But… — We are sure. We will seek your wife and will question her.
— No, leave her alone! She didn't do anything! — Being married to a traitor, it's already betraying! Don't be afraid, we will be nice to her, as she appears to be very pretty… Take me this man in confinement, we will continue the discussion later! Goran is then led to the basement, in a six feet by nine cell. The walls ooze and give a putrid odor out. The door is slammed. Three rats had taken advantage of the opening to escape, while a fourth, too slow, had to take refuge under the straw mattress. An old pallet stinking urine, where pullulate hundreds of famished bugs. Goran, disgusted, sits on the ground. He takes his head in his hands. Valerija. “Don't touch Valerija”, says Goran to himself, “I will admit just what you want”. How to get out of this nightmare? Goran is tired, exhausted. However, he knows he will not be able to sleep in this cell. It is hardly 10:00. Goran is obsessed by insane ideas. He cries. He imagines already his wife, torn off while his son struggles with soldiers, Valerija, scratching and biting, who finally yields and is thrown in the SAIST's car. He already sees her undergoing the attacks of these monsters. He calls: — Get me out of here, I will say anything to you! Get me out of here for God sake! Leave her alone! Goran shouts, howls during long minutes, long hours. It is only around 14:00 the following day when he is brought again in the office of Radadzic, still surrounded by his lieutenants. Goran has not slept for more than thirty hours. The guard pushes him into the room, striking his back with his rifle's stick. Goran breaks down under the sarcastic remarks of the officers: — What a man! Then, Goran, what do you have to tell us?
— I am not sure I didn't dreamed, Captain. But leave my wife alone, I beg you! — What did you dream of? — Perhaps I dreamed of the country one promised to us. — Tell me more about it? — A freer country… — A country with no General Dlavic? — I didn't say that, I just … — A country controlled as before by a communist dictator? — Absolutely not! — It's however what you've just said! To the others: — Note, he admits his crime! — No, that's not what I said! — You admit having dreamed of a different country. A different country can only be conceived without the current authority, although it is devoted only to the wellbeing of the people. Moreover, you told us that you don't exactly remember your dream. How, with such ideas, your sleep could not have made you live those ideas in your dreams? You all, who come in here, and tell the same lies. But we have the proof of what we say, we have the proof of your crimes! He turns to the lieutenant sitting on his left:
— Note: Me, Goran Ibrahimovic, admit, on several occasions, having let my brain lead me in dream towards the country where I wish to live. A country removed from the current authority, a country where the preceding form of government would bring a true freedom to us. I admit having dreamed of the arrest of the General Dlavic, that of his ministers and of the SAIST agents, and their execution by hanging. I admit moreover having taken along my wife Valerija and my son Zlatko in those dreams, thus making them accomplices of my crime. I consequently admit having them take a risk no husband and father worthy of this responsibility would have shared with his beloved family. To Goran : — This point of the official report will be likely to avoid capital punishment to them. They will only risk life imprisonment. To the clerk: — I admit to have used my employment at the Ministry of Culture, to read and photocopy several classified documents, thus making myself guilty of high treason. These documents were profitable to... Radadzic then reads a list of about thirty names, mostly unknown to Goran, who goes on breaking down. No word can come out his opened mouth, he cannot believe what he ears, he thinks he is dreaming, and corrects himself at once. He thinks of his son, of his wife… —… my friends with whom I share my dreams of democracy. I thus admit being an enemy of the people and states to agree to accept its honest judgment. Four days later, Goran, very thinned down, the face hidden behind an already nourished beard, is extirpated of his cell and brought, staggering, in the office of Radadzic. This time,
Radadzic does not sit in the middle place. A man with a long severe face sits in the center of the large table. The captain Radadzic on his left-hand side remains in withdrawal, silent, respectful in front of this sinister representative of justice, or at least what remains about it. The young lieutenant is also present. Proud and smiling, he holds a bright new file in hand. Goran distinguishes on the file the characters forming his name, along with “prototype number 43�. On the right-hand side of the judge, a stout and greasy man unceasingly reclassifies the sheets placed in front of him. He wears a questionable tie and a neglected costume, he looks absent-minded and not very concerned. Even before the meeting starts, he seems to get bored. A young officer acting as clerk announces the names of the present persons. Goran, very weakened, does not even catch the name of his judge. Nor of his lawyer. A lawyer the judge now calls on: — The citizen Ibrahimovic has denied none of the charges he is indicted for, we thus plead obviously guilty in this case. We however call your attention on the great quality work he achieved in his functions at the Ministry of Culture. Even if this work was only a poor cover for his doubtful activities, what our engineering services highlighted brilliantly, he however received several times congratulations on behalf of his hierarchy for his dedication and proficiency. Goran Ibrahimovic took part several times in meetings of his district's Partisans of the Rebuilding, and he proposed to take some part in the night militia. Thus, the citizen Ibrahimovic, despite his subversive dreams and bad relations, seemed to be a good component of our nation, a good husband and a good father. I, Josip Markovic, plead consequently for the resource he represents to be used for the good of the Nation. Without even going out of the room, the soldiers deliberate, during a few seconds. Then, the judge orders Goran to stand up, to listen to the verdict's wording. Goran understands it is time, finally, for him to hear the sentence, the uncertainty on his fate
will now end. The confessions he signed up a few days before allow him, says the judge, to keep his life safe. If he had not admitted the charges, he would have been hung for high treason, with no possible doubt, nor the least recourse. But as he admitted his faults, and signed all confessions and denunciations placed in front of him, the judge decided to be lenient, and not to condemn him to death. Instead of that, he will pay his debt to the nation by taking part in the improvement program of the dreams analyzers. The wood mallet hit the anvil. The lawyer smiles, satisfied, and asks if he can leave the room now that the judgment is delivered. The judge agrees and lets him leave. Then, four guards come to seek Goran, and escort him along the corridors of the Agency building, along with the lieutenant who seems in an ecstasy of satisfaction. Goran is lost in the confused maze of corridors and elevators. He is taken along to secret cellars, in the middle of gray laboratories brightened with dazzling lights. There, always handcuffed, and shaking of terror, he is taken in front of a man in a white overall, who asks him to sit. The scientist, assisted by the enthusiastic lieutenant, tells him he should be proud, if he is loyal to his country, to take part in the improvement program of the dreams analyzers. Indeed these machines, which work perfectly to collect and analyze dreams, are not yet completely developed to direct them. However, it is very important to be able to handle the spirit of the potentially adversaries to authority, to put them back on the right way and thus avoid drifts such as Goran knew. At this point of the speech, the man in white blouse and the lieutenant seem sincerely sorry for Goran not to have been reorientated in his dreams already. That would have avoided so much trouble to him.
For his punishment, Goran will never sleep again without the sensors being connected directly on his brain. They will signal any oneiric activity, will transmit it to the analyzers, and the programmers of dreams prototypes will be engaged. Unfortunately for Goran, the known anesthetics prevent a normal cerebral activity, and thus do not allow to set the instruments. It will be possible, at best, to give him myorelaxants to alleviate the pain caused by the lack of movement, but it won't be possible to make him sleep artificially without completely distorting the experiment. At the beginning, they will just try to make him dream of simple things. The lieutenant giggles: “and of pleasant ones! â€? Goran is quickly guided to a white, clean, immaculate cell. Lengthened on an examination table, he is strapped from feet to head. A perfusion in his arm, a helmet on his head, he feels his limbs to grow numb. He knows that his mental health will not survive the treatment. But how to fight? How to resist? He will not be able never to sleep, he will thus not be able never to dream‌ Goran, bewildered with terror and despair, thinks of Valerija, her smile, her hugging arms. He takes refuge in her smooth body. At last, he calms down for the first time since he crossed the door of the Agency. He feels like a track of solution in this appeasing, in this relaxation. What if daydreams, memories, tenderness, served as substitute for sleep? What if he managed to remain awake, finding his necessary rest only while thinking of happy - real or imaginary - moments? Goran is left with the machines and his thoughts. The scientist goes back to his analyses, the lieutenant to his files, and Goran trains himself to relax, without sleeping. The first night, he falls asleep a few moments nevertheless, but not long enough to start to dream. The machine he fears so much does not start.
So he exercises himself in remaining awake, as relaxed as he can. He escapes more and more, further, longer, from this universe of nightmare he hates so much. While thinking of Valerija and Zlatko, banishing the regrets, fears and doubts of all his thoughts, following the sweet happiness of what could have been, elsewhere, otherwise. He knows that he will not be able to last a very a long time. Scientists around him are getting impatient, questioning, and they will end up finding something to make him sleep. He has to find a loophole, not to be useful to the program. The lieutenant already came back to speak to him, to try and convince him to sleep. Goran did not know any more how many days had gone when he received the visit of the exasperated young man, who threatened him of atrocious sufferings if he would "do the same as the previous guys". Goran lost the notion of time and any hope of survival, but he remembers well the mention on his file: "prototype number 43". Where did the 42 precedent men go? What did they become? Goran tries to block his breathing, more and more a long time. He tries and imagine that he is drowning, but his body takes control again and force him to live. Then, he escapes in greater desires, greater happiness, and succeed in slowing down his cardiac and respiratory activities. His torturers admitted they cannot dope him, for it would distort the results. They cannot inflict on him greater suffering than being laid, impotent, on this table, without knowing what occurred to his wife and his son. They can only feed him artificially, but not administer narcotics to him. Goran takes advantage of that in dosing himself, by means of emotions and concentration, reinventing ancestral techniques of meditation. Every day, he takes a little more control on his vital functions, and gradually manages to impose his will on his body.
One morning, as the sun rises, his heart stops, at last. In her bed, Valerija feels, remotely, that he has gone. She feels hers arms even emptier, the bed even colder. Valerija is afraid of her future, fears to dream, fears to sleep, fears to exist. But, since Goran is not here anymore, for Zlatko, this morning, she decides to act. No more of letting make, no more of letting say. No more in providing human guinea-pigs to experiments which are not human any more. No more of waiting for freedom and respect of the basic rights. She decides that the better world she wants for Zlatko is not for tomorrow but for today. She decides to stand up and fight. To resist...
* The End *