When Realms Divide

Casper Ablij

© 2013 Casper Ablij

They were late for a Monday morning; perhaps they have lost the tape they used to play. This was a different style. He was tapping his feet against the rhythm of the drums, the screams were barely noticeable, but on occasion a whole word was discernable. “Decent, good inflection there, nice use of cadence and syncopation.” He thought. The mechanical guitar passages reverberated through the room, which not all made the days tedious, though he could not live through it without any of his books. The nights and days were quite musical, yet it must have been torturous to the man behind the wall. It made one reflect rather the state of the state. Doors clanged. “21452, you have a visitor.” The guard said. “Now, now. No! I have much work to do. I can't go on and on seeing these rapscallions for whatever they need from me.” As if he was overflowed by them. His visitors were not manifold, but when he had one, they did discourse for the maximum time on diverse topics. They hooded him since he was not allowed to see the direct vicinity of the complex. The sounds never changed, except there were barely none besides the usual high pitched coughing of the inmate a few rows down, and dampened music, which you could tell by the vibrancy was loud of origin. Three doors passed, one to go. “Ah, Mister Warsa! What a pleasure to finally meet you.” Some tall figure slightly resembling Graf Orlok was standing in front of him. He moved the chair back and sat down. “Look Mister Warsa, let me make no bones about it. I am here not on personal account, but for one who did unfortunately lack the disposition to have the opportunity to be here.” He said calmly, but was fidgeting with his tie. “My superior is interested in your case and wants to help, whether you are unjustly detained or not, we have interest in your release. We have come to the attention of the pamphlet you have written, and it sparked our interest. We are honored to invite you into our party, but do not worry, a prominent role it will not have to be, yet.” “Party? Why not celebrate life instead by merely living?” Samuel asked before the visitor rambled on about radical policy and propaganda twists, which with his help would “unambiguously make a difference”. “But how will you get me out of here?” “We have powerful friends, so don't worry about the how part. Money talks, and besides, given the case of your condition the chances are on our side.” Samuel seemed relatively convinced the more he thought about it. He could always quit and wouldn't go back here, he figured. “With all due respect, sir, I actually do not care that much for politics in so far as joining any party is concerned. I consider myself too neutral and too inexperienced to even be of any help in the first place. And is this your only reason?” Samuel asked. “There is one more thing,” replied Nosferatu, “my boss is the owner of a leading research company. Their latest invention is perfectly suited for your situation after you leave this place. Not to jump to any conclusions, but what do you think would happen with your privacy, your safety? When you are released, nearly your entire life will have to be conducted sub rosa, since there is bound to be one person plotting against you, since people have died.” He lied. “But died for what cause?” Samuel replied, adding: “The Cause! The end of an epoch. The unchaining of a singular era: a dream for many, inexorable and growing. I should not have to tell you great achievements require great sacrifices, should I?” He clenched his right fist. “They generally do so, but why do we not go for the assumption that one person alone is likely to disagree with that and could requite for what you have done to his life? Considering such verisimilitude, we can grant you a radical new appearance, a new identity to subvert all that. Think about it, but your court hearing is due to Friday.” The man said. “Time is down.” The guard said monotonously. “I feel illimitably grateful, sir.” Samuel said to the visitor as he was taken out of the room. Night fell on his tangled thought and he was scribbling meaningless lines on the wall of his cell. Or they were not totally meaningless. He was trying to clearly remember life before his imprisonment, maybe these lines came out of his suppressed memories? Upon second inspection: probably not. Would they ever come back fully? They said it would, incrementally, but slowly. He only vividly remembered the life around two years ago and before that, and everything from there to about a fortnight ago was as meek as moonlight, like his thought, seconds before drifting off into the wilderness of hypnagogia.

The next day he worked on a letter to send to his brother; it went as follows: Dear Antheros, Please accept my apology for answering this late. I remember that in my last letter, I mentioned the fact uncle has tried to contact you, and I do not see how you can be so unreasonable about it. I have also come to the attention of a paper by a black hole physicist, this was made possible by the director himself, as he is a scholar and avid reader of the pataphysical; so you can see how this interested him and we get along well. I am truly fortunate to having this occasion granted to me and could not even imagine living without the vast library which he holds. By the by, have you seen the light at the end of “Sein und Zeit” yet? It gets better and better doesn’t it? Don’t you think it a comical serendipity that nearly everything was paid with governmental allocations, yet moreover coming from the public wallet, your own purse, mind you? The days of late have been a little lonely, but I do not suffer much from it. How are mum and dad by the way? Are they still not really settled in the place? I cannot blame them for it. I have also come to the attention by newspaper that in the farthest corners of the world, and even our own cities there have been rather rambunctious demonstrations. This is not a worrisome development as it also shows the beastly power wielded by an entity which stands above conscience. But since when did newspapers write anything memorable? Oh, and today I gathered my trial will commence soon. I feel like a mote. Yours, Sam PS: Memory is gradually increasing Some news got to him right after it hit press; some weeks later after hearing it from guards, for newspapers were not at hand every day. Although he read on many topics, he read mostly fiction, on mineralogy and botany. In this sense he was privileged; some inmates were not allowed to read at all. Let alone access the library of the director, with whom he had a kind of friendship. This was all possible because he was actually teaching him to play the guitar and made him feel good about his amateur verses. The director was just like Samuel a lover of Shakespeare and maybe this is what connected them. It all started when Samuel dropped a line from Julius Ceasar after the director said: “Alae iacta est.” To his collocutor, when he walked through the complex, whereupon he was more than surprised to find out about the denizen of his cell. After a little meditation a guard tapped on his door. He had another medical exam today. He despised the daunting doctor. “Always contradicting herself. What pills this time? The diarrhea from the Zeticon was horrid. Inhumane.” He thought. While thinking about where he would go after his release, the first moments before incarceration crept into his mind. Eyes felt glued together. He was lying down on the comfortable floor, it was dead silent. He felt shattered inside. It was lonelier than ever. Rather falling into a black hole. His time stood still, but the universe passed by in a few moments. The memory lasted for a few seconds before a guard intervened on his train of thought. “Time to go see the doctor, prisoner.” “Rather mad witchdoctor.” He replied. “Well? Does it still give constipation, Mister Warsa?” “Certainly not, it is rather the opposite. Did I not tell you previously?” “My apologies, I have a lot of patients.” She said. “Well, irrespectively, should you not prepare? I see hills of dossiers in those archives.” He said with a sordid tone and after realizing it would not be beneficial added: “I am sorry doctor, let us get down to it.” He walked to the chair and lied down.

The doctor stuck six nodes, which were connected to the quantum ganglion flux-capacitator, to his head. Pressed a few buttons, turned a knob, and changed the lightening. “Are you ready?” She asked. “Discharge!” Samuel responded before she typed a few commands and induced him into a dream state. The cranial electrotherapy consisted of intermittent micro-shocks directed to specific areas of the brain. The intentions were curing his peculiar amnesia. When forty five minutes passed, Samuel was already half conscious. “Good. Splendid.” said the doctor. “The charts look, meh. Your dopamine and phlenalil receptors are inhibiting less and less. Iron content in your blood is a bit low, likewise your insulin. Not to worry though, diminutive deviations. What is this? High Ephrol reading? That is strange, that should have been out of your system by now. It is the leftover from the Xalamor you were administered a month ago. Not a problem though, I know the right cure for this!” Samuel came out of his slumbering state. “I am sorry madam, but can I leave?” “Hold on there mister. A couple more cycles of mRNA cataloguing. And the PCR is unusually slow today.” Besides several cameras there was also a guard present every visit and it was always the same man, taking the prisoner out of his cell and to her. He was a fat jolly guy, or at least judging from his exterior, yet he told a lot of stories about his old loves, whom supposedly always managed to make him miserable by ending their relationship with an email. He was trying to palm the doctor. It was not flirting, but attempting to gain empathy by expressing sorrow. The doctor was in her thirties. “Fine looking, caliginous on some occasions. Ensorcelling eyes: two rivulets rending the soul beneath, suspended in air. Very short hair; probably a lesbian.” He thought. Now, her last task was her overseeing his consumption of the medications she just gave him. “One more pill.” He noticed, doubting it would really help him, but took them in all compliance. When he sat in his cell he reflected upon the day, how it could have been so miraculously in his favor. This day the universe did not seem to oppose him. He felt urged to write down his thoughts on a paper he managed to proclaim from one of the offices, before he fell asleep:– The hour has struck wherein we arrive at a rim, sinking, dartingly to a phase for the sake of change; let silence roar through these hallways and fall deafening upon ears as my purpose is to evocate dormant energies, and recreate the states as my stars have no impediments and die not in a lifetime– “By Zoroaster, do you call this nourishment? I require vegetables next time, at least with this. And the rice was not well done either.” He flung the plate to the door and upon the clattering a guard came over to check on him. “What is going on 21452?” The guard asked. “I want to file an official complaint against the institution; can you please offer me a form?” “What is the nature of your discomfort prisoner?” The guard asked. “What does it matter to you in the first place?” Samuel asked. “We do not have forms, what I could do for you is inform my superintendent.” The guard said. “On that note, never mind, I will speak mine at the director.” Samuel replied. Like many people living solitary have reported, the psyche, senses and perception go a little nutty, or to the extremes. The case of Samuel was different from others in that he was crazy to begin with, or call it impassioned. He was convinced he blew up parliament, but in fact only plotted to do so: in reality he believed not; yet his message scared the Reich. Afraid of an irrepressible stand alone complex, they wanted to assure none would take the side of his. However, they were wrong; his initiative would resound with the vox populi and spur a true revolt in a matter of a short sequence. But Samuel would be railed by Gandhi as well; notwithstanding violent actions can’t be the solution, but a means to an end.

The hearing was in seven hours, his attorney told him he was charged with twenty years and after release had to wear a ankle bracelet which perpetually recorded his whereabouts. Whether or not the game was rigged, he would do his best to defend himself, as if his life depended on it. He was considering to contacting his cousin for a temporary refuge. Upon conversing with her in his mind, he decided not to go with it, for he might endanger her with his baggage. This morning the bass line was perplexingly mellow in conjunction with the deep vocal expressions known as grunting. A glorious atmosphere arose by the entranced droning on the lower tuned guitar strings. The man behind the wall was certainly ardent, for he didn't give in. At least we can infer the state–it was a governmental establishment after all–reckons this person has vital information which could be of danger to it in one form or another. But for all he knew it might have been a different inmate every week. A voice reached his ears: “Repent! Repent! Revenge is delicious, a tightening confluence of savory emotions flowing through every thread and sinew of being. Balance the checks, off the malefactor! The scurry, impertinent, impudent fool should wither into earth. Atone for the disequilibrium caused by Minerva.” This was not part of the composition; this was coming from his own cell, he figured. The two sounds were definitely separate of origin. “Partner? Checks? Lying malefactor?” His head was spinning and trying to find meaning and detangle the just heard utterance from the unknown. He let it slip into his to-be-contemplated-on section and got ready for a guard taking him to his transit for court. Upon arriving at the courthouse the friction from the shackles was so intense he was getting agitated before the event even started. He had to wear them throughout the day. His attorney was already present and he took him after a walk of twenty-some minutes through marble hallways, unmanned faces, suitcases and large glasses, to a room. They had little time to prepare for the hearing. “Alright, let’s see.” He took out of his suitcase some portable speakers. He put on Coltrane and turned up the volume as to obfuscate the conversation, lest anyone should eavesdrop. He seemed a little nervous, judging by the sweat on his forehead. He was a man of skinny composure. He had black hair, wore thick round glasses, and his already big pupils were even more greatly magnified, giving him an endearing appearance. “If our initial plan should fail, and you will notice when it does, we have a second stratagem as cop-out: try to make a scene shortly after the verdict.” He told Samuel, who was drifting off into the delicate panoramas in the paintings which were in excess. “Did you hear what I just said to you?” The suit asked. “It is a subterfuge. But for whom are you exactly working?” Samuel asked. He replied longwindedly and made it apparent he should not ask in that direction. He was indeed prosecuted with the penalties his attorney had mentioned, but not on the grounds that Samuel had expected. He also figured they had actually caught the wrong person; the man in the cell behind his would have befallen this. Surely, the thought of twenty more years to last in that place did not fare well with him. After tedious hours of biased word-twisting, insinuations and suggestions, ad hominem and anecdotes then finally came the jury out of their meeting room to declare their state of mind on the account. He was found guilty by the majority. The money would not do, and immediately he was trying to come up with a way to make a fuss. After the annunciation of the final verdict there were three guards walking over to him that were coming from there giddy state during the hearing. They were corpulent, with daft expression over their countenance. As Samuel got manacled he uttered: “Justitia, mother of objectiveness and rectitude. Do my superintendents know what they enact to their demerit? Deracinating the individual for what good and to what end? Do you fear the penalty of free housing, food and clothes? When you can take what you want, when you want, And you will not be sought after the full eclipse? Today a devious deed against justice has been displayed, on the circus stage; in the limelight, her adversaries: the puppets of whom?

Taking my freedom for the price of freedom! Scoundrels and vermin! Phony cronies, baloney! Defy the primal laws of man, our right as kin to this planet, and you won’t sustain!” “Take this man to the precinct!” The judge called out with an agitated tone and faced toward her assistant, discussed on what she just heard, both disembogued their disregard. Samuel overheard them talking, he however misheard a part of their conversation, which in his turned mind morphed into how one of their nephews will have a fun time with him in prison. Samuel, enraged by this thought and compelled by the previously given instructions, gave a firm head butt to the guard that was holding his left arm, which made him fall retrograde with his head against one of the banks, and knocked him out. While one guard behind him tried to take out his taser, Samuel turned and gave him roundhouse kick, which made the last guard in the room pull out his firearm. When a group of four men with moustaches came walking through the ingress. “Hold it! We are of Theta.” One fellow with curly whiskers said to the guard in pertinent fashion, showing his identification: “We have orders of the president himself, which include taking this prisoner to Reverie’s End.” The guard, who was completely flabbergasted by this proclaim, did not know what to say, and by his instinct, that of the subordinate, shoveled back and holstered his gun, and gave in to higher authority. “Reverie’s End has been closed for two years now. What is the meaning of this?” The judge inquired. “The meaning is classified, your honor, but it has never been out of use all these years.” He said while they took Samuel and left court. The agents escorted Samuel through the building, to the parking lot, when they halted at a dark blue van with windows tinted likewise. When in the back, with two of the men unshackling him, the smallest fellow spoke: “The president himself! I can't believe they would buy it, in all honesty. That's why we had these,” he showed Samuel an eccentric looking rifle, “that guard certainly did, hah! Did you see their faces when we came prancing inside? Pure discombobulation!” Samuel was silent. “Step on that pedal!” One dictated. “What in Brahma’s name is going on here? Where are you taking me?” Samuel asked. We are not all that inclined to have a conversation now, so here: have this.” The man next to him swiftly stuck a syringe in his neck which rendered him unconscious. When he awoke he uttered: “Conjure the words of Aldebaran, the auguries of night. Decry the demoniacal demiurge, parallax of Perseus, pervade me! Breathe the canonical glory of Gaia, quintessence of life. Edifying sunbeam and perennial sun flare: conjugate and scorn us! Seethe the flourishing heaths of our terrestrial Elysium!” “I think the asylum is a better destination, don't you agree Kappa?” The short fellow asked his comrade. “Perhaps, there is some lucidity in his raving; I bet the poor sod has been indoctrinated.” “Indoctrinated, that is his predicament, yah. How dreadful. Why not make it a crime? I mean, I don't see why not: it is an extremely powerful tool to use another potent tool, for any purpose the devisor and user of any cunning canon can come up with. Furthermore, having only to spend energy in the time it takes for a person to bend toward them, which can be minute with such lissome minds alive. Then breaking such a spell takes much effort, if not for no gain at all or ending up with a firmer belief than before.” “I sincerely assure you. I am not so....Indoctrinated... My beliefs are self-formed, autonomously: rather the autopoesis of what I am.” Samuel replied. “Are you then what you believe? I do not believe that you are, for who has the ultimate truth?” Kappa asked. “No, I believe you are wrong, we are what we believe to be and no more or less.” “Whatever, this deepity goes beyond what I need.” The thinnest said. “Let’s listen to some music.” The thickest said. “Before we do that, may I ask what exactly will happen to me?” Samuel asked. “Of course you may, but we are not at liberty to disclose that. I however will lift the veil slightly, because you are a decent fellow: you will be a lot better to the eye. Trust me on my hazel ones.” He said as they laughed.

The van came to a halt; the driver gesticulated towards his men in the back, for everyone was floating in their own sea of thought. They were listening to Prokofiev. “Which song was playing in there at the moment? Why did he not give in? Perhaps, the man is afraid of a death sentence?” He thought. They were quite far from any densely populated area. But he knew the place. They were in a valley where he sometimes went throughout infancy and into adolescence. Here, the forest was very dense. Hemlocks, cypresses and pines stretched out over the horizon. The sun was setting behind the sierra where on the other side of it lay a splendid little town. Sonderzon: he was born there. He set his mind to go there first and stay there for a few days, maybe hunt her down and requite for what she had done. The voice directed his rudimentary stream of thought, influencing his decisions. And he was convinced that was the answer, what he needed to do. “Well, what are you waiting for? Don't just stand there cloudgazing!” Kappa said to Samuel. They took a clandestine route by foot to the place. “Let’s see. Where was it? Do you remember, Apillon?” Kappa said to the small man. “Your sense of direction is really like that of most ladies, we shouldn't have made the left turn at the crossroad back there.” Apillon said. “Why didn't you tell so beforehand?” Kappa asked. “Is it that hard to conceive that I'm not wont to be disparaged anymore or suffer the shots and slings from any of your berating on every single second opinion that I give you? If memory serves me well, then this is the first that you are also surprised.” Apillon said. “Don’t take it too seriously; I am not your lover. Ah, there it is!” He pointed at the cleft fifteen feet beneath. The small man was first to descend the lichen-covered rocks, Samuel followed with the others behind. Inside the crevice there was merely on the floor a large steel hatch. “Well isn't this cozy with us four in a place so tiny?” Apillon said. “Just grab the key and shut it.” Kappa snorted. “Yes, alright, where did I put it, not here, not here, nope not here? Ah, here we go.” When he opened the hatch, ambrosial scents effused from within. They had to go down a ladder, then through a mine, then through a tunnel, then some hallways which resembled a labyrinth and finally ending at a grand lift. “Well, you have been quiet for a while, Samuel. What do you think of the place?” Apillon asked. “Well, it feels rather, extensive. And you were just telling me this is the tip of the iceberg? I can't fathom this place being that large.” “That is the great thing about underground construction: it can be as large as you want it to become, with only the liquid outer core, a few miles beneath, and capital as limitations, and let that last be no problem whatsoever. No insanely overpriced land to buy from vested people or any intransigent district. No sir! We have 6 stories below ground, around two and a half acres of mines at our disposal and circa five square kilometers for our current workspace. You have to agree it's quite something.” Kappa said. “Oh, yes, indubitably, to deny my intrigue would be foolish. A question though: for what do you actually need all these mines for? I do not hear any drilling. And the 6 stories under the surface?! Are you expecting a nuclear strike?” “Well, the mines aren't precisely mere mines; some are passages: but for what? We can only speculate, we carry out orders and that's it. I reckon our boss doesn't even know, or if she does she deserves an Oscar. After some inquiring of me into the ongoing explosions I wanted to know what was behind it, why they were extending the mines. I remained with more questions than I previously had, thus I didn't spend any more thought to it, since its futile: none of my business nor yours, that's all.” Kappa said as the lift doors opened. “How do you know that some are tunnels then?” He asked as they were heading down to the sixth floor. “Well didn't we just walk through an underpass smart-ass? Did we speak Klingon? No more claptrap!” Apillon sneered. The sixth floor was very sterile, hospital style times three plus advanced high-end technologies riddled over every corner, some of which would have a strong alien appearance to most. Every worker he had seen up to now were androids. There wasn't full homogeneity, he noticed, or it appeared to him that the androids had three sexes, or one androgynous type. All of them had some kind of specialized or either customized cybernetic enhancement. The ceiling was astoundingly high, over thirty feet, where craftily and impressionably a firmament was painted upon. A cosmic mural it was, with galaxies and quasars illuminating the place: very vivacious. A contraption which looked like a vault was now in front of them, Apillon using the gemstone again to open it. “Nice wee key.” He thought.

Inside there was a huge biodome with an artificial sun. “Bio-engineering.” Samuel said when they trudged in. “We just call it engineering around here. But we will meet someone soon who can tell you a lot more than we can, just got to follow this path which leads up to her house.” Kappa replied. “Good, I want to know why there appeared to be three sexes among the cyborgs, surely they do neither fornicate nor mirror us.” “I could tell you that, it was an experiment of her. I reckon it mirrors our heterogeneity to the extreme.” Kappa pointed at a grand sequoia, he then walked over to it. “Hers? The tree's?” Samuel asked. He wandered around the tree for a while, meticulously inspecting it. Then he stood focused on a discolored spot where he knocked on thrice, the tree then in a magical fashion uprooted itself, showing a penumbral narrow gorge. “We are almost there, he-he, all these paths. Our boss loves it.” Apillon said. There was classical music being played, Rossini and someone singing along, a female. Might have been part of the record, but the acoustic had a undeniable real sensation to it. They were now entering the house. Incense was burning. It became obvious the singer was real. A fair lady, dressed in quartz satin, sat in a sandy divan. She had brown hair and was of callipygian appearance. The room was vast but cozy, there was Greek sculpture, Zulu artifacts and a van Gogh's Starry Night and Monet's Water lilies hang opposite to each other. Next to classical automatons like globes and telescopes there was again, a fair amount of hyper technological equipment present. “You must be Samuel then?” She abruptly ended her singing.”Well yes, may I ask thine moniker, madam? Are you fumigating this place?” “I like Nag Champa and my name is Roselet, but irrelevant, I highly doubt I'll ever see you again. Not to say anything grave would happen to you. But let me explain why you are precisely here: we, or me and my crew, have of late developed new techniques for ensuring full-fledged cerebral transplantation. Former experiments, we thought, were displaying a positive result, yet some complications arose in all subjects about a week and a half after. We had a team of experts researching the occurrence and they inferred certain neurological agents were incompatible with each other; since we conjoined two pieces of different biochemical constituencies, it resulted in a virulent lagged auto-immune reaction. However, we have come thus far, to allow you to be our first successful human test subject. If you want to know any details or have other questions, please feel free to speak your mind.” “It is a lot to take in. Do I honestly need a new body? It seems an extreme solution.” “It might come off as quite a profound transformation, but have a look at your new suit.” She opened a large receptacle and took out a few pictures from the corpus of files and showed images of what seemed like a random male supermodel. “I don’t really care for the looks, what if the experiment goes wrong? And where did you get the body from? And why did you pick me from all the average Joe's?” He asked. “As you have been told by one of my messengers, we have a few strings to the opposition. The pamphlet you wrote hit the nail on its head and therefore alone you would be an invaluable member, however, after an extended period you will play a prominent role in furthering our adjacent political ends, but be sure to keep a low profile before that, you do not want to risk anything that might endanger your identity or ours. Our technology is still classified, this entire complex actually is. And as you might have noticed, we possess very sophisticated technology. All sprouted out of the novel and diligent labor of my team, in turn built on my father's legacy, but do all the greats not stand on the shoulders of giants? I digress, to come to your point, bodies have been printed since decades, this should not be a real surprise to you; but a concrete replica of Man, leading science has long abstained from such a goal and only was but a nebulous dream to some, until we revolutionized the entire process. There is a myriad of built-in safeguards and supplementary devices to turn to if something should go wrong, yet never anything has gone irreversibly wrong. Notwithstanding, do you really have a choice? Think about it: there is no way you will not permanently suffer in your life if you don't have this procedure done. You must live like a full recluse, which we all know is impossible in today’s society, in order to feel not the adverse aftereffect of your actions. Unless you want to live in the wilds, but are you the type? You don’t strike me as one who would go out and live life ascetically, even feudal. No offense.” She said with mind tricking eyes. “None taken, but perhaps I am and I would!” He exclaimed. “You are a precious asset, since your perfect eligibility for the procedure; your genome looks to be fine-tuned for our nanomedicaments” She said. “Such lofty

talk must come with ample recompense. But honestly, no, such I am not. And how long will it all take and do I have to stay here?” He asked. “Don’t worry, you will be funded sufficiently. About the procedure: you will only dream very vividly during it, but wake up with quite a headache. This is due to the drug we will give you for alleviation of greater pains and simultaneously inducing hypnapompic cognition whilst you are anesthetically unconscious. We have found that while the brain is in this state certain chemicals release out of the pineal gland, which stay in the body for up to a hundred hours and increase a soporific state and genomic revitalization, next to a brief and mutually fortifying link between the former and anesthesia. These cannot be induced in any other fashion that we know of. The procedure will only take around five hours, depending on whether or not the zetazines fully hydrolyze and perform thorough methylation, and the pentinomes bind to their respective biomarkers. It might take an extra hour if they do not.” She said. “I am sure you all know what you are doing. It sounds like it at least.” “That is an astute observation: but moreover, a computer does nearly all the work: biological quantum processing, to be precise, which is one of our company's specialties.” “That sounds all fancy, but can you speak English?” “With all due respect, my lady.” He added. “To explain it fully would require me to give you a proper lecture, and this is neither the time nor place for that. However, we have more than decent courses that can be followed for a small fee, at our own educational institution, applications are available at the reception where you will pass by tomorrow. In essence what we do is pushing a button and all the billions of puzzle pieces fall rightly together.” “In theory.” Samuel said. “Well yes and no.” She replied. “What about the tunnels?” He asked “So you have heard of the underpass then? I already wanted to make sure you did not inform by not letting any explosives go off during your stay, but I guess one of my men let his mouth go too far. It is classified, I am sorry.” “Well, we came through the shafts on my way here so it wasn’t very stealthy anyway.” “Ah, I guess they are already working on the–official–entrée. I see.” The other men were not in the room anymore. Samuel followed Roselet who walked over to a machine at the end of the room. A vast aquarium was now visible at the sides of corridors which were only then apparent. These were tropical; the colors of the fish gave it away. When he walked closer there was a plentitude of coral visible, with brown shark and moray eels that were hunting for their favorite food. Now a violent scene was playing before the eyes of them both. A shark was attacked by an octopus that extruded from his dwelling. His waylay was in vain; tentacles were sliced over the place and in turn eaten by the eels. The assailant however dealt a thrusting peck to the shark’s eye, which saved his life, because the shark cowered away. “You certainly like nature, in all its virility and cruelty.” He said. “Do you really think this is cruel? I adore everything about nature. I think nothing natural is cruel. Only men have that power to inflict.” Roselet said. “But is man not part of nature? Therefore making his actions natural?” “Maybe, but let’s not try to define what is natural, yet what is cruel. A lion killing the cubs in another’s nest is natural, you might find it cruel; but it is in no way comparable with the callousness and brutalities bestial Man has displayed on a grand scale.” “Please stand on here.” Roselet said while waving at the ground beneath her which contrasted with the rest. “It will take us to the place. Also, you will see your new body, in flesh and blood.” Samuel walked over and stood next to her, she touched a few directives displayed on a screen of the machine. They seemingly dematerialized or otherwise disappeared only to appear again in an entirely different section. “Whoa! That was quite some physics. What was that?” “Merely altered the state of the quantum continuum.” “Naturelement, which was exactly my guess.” He said. The two met with a couple of patrolling androids. Roselet had a small converse with them in an unintelligible language. He drifted away from them and got attracted to a large canvas on the side of a wall. It was a mirror, but not fully. When you looked at it from the sides, you could see the sky, when directly in front there was the regular mirror-like reflection. He touched it, it was very cold. The water molecules from his breath turned to ice

on the surface of the majestic glass. “Quaint fellow.” Roselet thought, when she glanced him, while the droid reported their most recent developments. “Bardza’ko bler berkapt’to.” Roselet said to the androgynous android. “Babdar blop ktu ktu'ko, bardza.” The droid replied in similar manner to his partners and left. Samuel followed Roselet as she entered the experiment section, as was readable. She told him to wait in the room they were in now as she had a meeting to attend to; another droid would come and take him for the procedure. She said goodbye and left. He could leave now and find a way out of the premise, but perhaps that wasn't the brightest idea, he thought. A droid came up to him soon after his contemplation and asked: “Can I help you sir?” “Yes, where can I go? Where can I live? I could die tonight. Everyone could die tonight. One sitting at home might have a higher chance to off himself, when you think about it, and look at the statistics, only one rat out of nine hundred died in the course of experimenting, which could have even been due to natural causes. But I am not a rat, and are we all statistics? How far do they come to reflecting reality? Maybe a significant amount since life seems but the constant flow of probable outcomes. Hence chance is inherent. Free will is illusory. Could this be all just an illusion? Descartes, the debonair doubter, refrained from such thinking. He loved to assume though. Is reality what I think it is? What you think of it? What no one thinks of it? The moments of anger and anguish feel so real, the dice and wineglass likewise, but when we look at the subatomic level this sense of actuality is not present anymore. Is emotion matter at all? Is mind only real? It is not obvious that our feelings and that temporality is matter, or at least that energy is solid, as we know matter to be; here lies a seeming contradiction: a paradox. Thus, we perceive what? Merely energies crystallized in permeating fields of? Moments, time is what is really real; it seems immutable in the sense of our concrete existence. But is it? In any case, even time was demonstrated by the great Jew to be relative; and instances that appear one after another could well be happening simultaneously when you were to stand in a different position. Consciousness is what is real and absolute. It shows to merely exist in this. However there seems to be a contradiction in this. Could you help me with that? Or otherwise, could you tell me the meaning and purpose of strict biological life and after that add infinity with infinity and posit a theory of everything?” The droid was unresponsive. It just stood there, the blinking however stopped. Samuel lifted himself up and walked through the door the droid first came in, to look for another. He finally found one and was guided to his correct destination: a room with two scientists and a robotical surgeon next to a large table where papers lay or moreover, papers where under a table stood. “Welcome Samuel, to our section. I am professor Thoreaux, and this is professor Rothart. I am sure you have been informed as adequately as possible by Roselet, but if you have any more questions, then ask away. If not we can swiftly begin the procedure. We have been waiting a long time.” He said. “My fingers started to itch.” Reinhart said. “No I am fine, thank you very much, I want to get it over with now already.” Samuel replied. “I can understand that, it must have taken you hours to at least get here, and I have heard what you have been through. Let us just get to it then.” Rothart said. They moved through white curtains that divided the room in two, one for discussion and theorizing, and the other for what seemed the surgery. “Ah, there is my new body! I am going to look like Adonis!” He said. “I could make my living as a model, although that might be dangerous.” He thought. For all he knew the model was taken from catalogue that was once made or is still in circulation. He could not risk any exposure yet as he was told by Roselet. He was asked to lie down in translucent fluid. Upon doing so, he was immediately rendered cataleptic. The android made a few maneuvers after instruction from Thoreaux; a tubular extension put into the suspension and releasing agents including a small device. It descended Samuel’s neck and followed along with a laser, which diametrically oscillated, thereby separating his skin and spine. Moving over to his skull, which the device removed from above his brow line, and very precisely leaving the brain unscathed. A minute passed and there was a body and there was a brain without eyes, but including a spinal cord. Samuel’s new body was taken by the droid and laid down in the same solute. Thoreaux was instructing the droid again, with Rothart laboriously taking notes. Samuel's former body was placed in a different container. When the droid took out his former body, there were some sparks appearing at the surface, suggesting a current was now flowing through it. The droid then

reassembled the brain to the body. The current was turned up. An injection of more odd substances from diverse decoctions made the suspension tangerine and oily. “It seems the xanthochyme catalyses the homogenous indoles and mitigates the impurity of the sigma hexane-tryptophan.” Rothart noted. The scientists left the room after they carefully inspected the data of the machines and the surgical work done by the droid, which remained and recorded the entire process. It did not actually take up as long as Roselet said, since the metabolism was better than expected. “By Saturnus! I feel like falling into a hypothetical black hole: spaghettified by one of the more brute forces of nature. Not cruel at all. Ironically I feel reborn!” Samuel said as he awakened and to his surprise awoke in the middle of an oasis that was apparently part of the biodome. “I told you it would be a heavy ride. Did you have some sweet dreams? How do you feel?” Roselet came from out the foliage. “As a matter of fact, or fiction rather, I did. They were phantasmagoric. Pretty much like you said it would be: I would have sworn that I was commander of the Oriental fleet and were declared war upon by the Uruguayans. We decided to go for an assault, but once our armada reached their waters we were ambushed by the East India Company, which decimated us. Having stranded upon an islet I had to kill to survive, because there was a small group of Inuit, which we were at war with: tremendously vivid.” He replied. He lost consciousness for a few seconds. “What were you saying?” He asked. “Nothing, you were speaking and lost consciousness temporarily, this is a normal symptom which goes away in a few hours. We are all very happy and our endeavors look extremely promising by the looks of it. The doctors just told me everything is in order. We perceive it as we have broken a boundary, reached a milestone. This will further humanity.” She said. “But only if I don’t turn to jelly any time soon.” “That is out of the question. We monitor your health by measuring every bodily sign. Should something considerably deviate, we are there to intervene. You will make our name resound through the deep, my father’s name. We couldn't have done this without you, therefore as a token of our gratitude, take this.” She gave him an origami. “Well, isn't this nice: a little crane, as a souvenir?” He said. “This concludes our communication, as I will leave this place for a conference, and you won’t be seeing me anymore. Your healing process should be relatively fast, if not, we will certainly be there with you as soon as possible. Because the situation is precarious, we are taking every precaution possible for ensuring the maximum safety of you and us, the investors and their investment; further contact will only originate from our side.” Samuel watched her leave. He looked down at his new body, to the ceiling, to the sky with the great ball of plasma burning at the centre. He had to sneeze, it hurt a lot. His eyes glistened when he watched the flock of sparrows whirling in unison, to the rhythm of the wind, like a dream forming and collapsing, a thought coming and going, breathing. What he exactly felt here, we can only speculate. One thing we do know for certain: he was going to settle in the town beyond the promontories, maybe build his own house or boat and live on it, which was a possibility for him since there were vast bodies of water all spread and intertwined throughout the region. What would his family think of him now? His brother lived there; what would he say? He pushed the button to call for an android, which instantly came. He asked when he could leave. An hour more to be sure the medication had efficacy, he was told. He wrote the following letter in the meantime: Dear brother, As you might have gathered by now, I have left prison. Disclosing much else in a letter or through any other medium than in private conversation would not be very wise. I hope to see you soon; at the place we always used to go when we were teenagers. Let me end on the note that my outlook has significantly changed. Yours unfeignedly, Sam

He was flexing his much larger muscles, grabbed his leftovers and put it in his mouth in one go. He left the place upon changing his clothes. Now he could hear a deep booming and feel some perturbation on the floor ground. Finally, he found the exit, decided to take the road to his destination by foot, there was public transport but he now craved for the sweet scent of the forestry air. As he walked, he burst into a monologue, half internal, one quarter bumble and one quarter discourse: “How do I know I am not dreaming? What if what we see is but the dream of a dream of a child? Do we not all sometimes feel like this is a dream? Or maybe we wish it were so. For when we wake up we know it was not real; are in awe of perception. What if death is not eternal sleep, but the waking from the dream of life? Being awaked; soul released from the world of matter. Dissipating energies. Soul cycles? Does it go on for eternity? Ouroboros. Do we live again when we die? We are not merely atoms, what are we exactly? We are not just the body or mind that is us Relations and time defines us more. The sense of time comes from consciousness, or rather being. When we die our consciousness is carried away as energies through fluvial nets, lesser excitations. No sense of time is there anymore, however relative. The flux of our essence ripples through the quantum field and this way lives everlong, influencing everything as time meanders. And we still are.” A cloaked person appeared before him, a women laughing; she spoke and then he knew it was her: the woman he loved but who betrayed him. The one who spoke in his cell. She had to atone for her concoctions. He grabbed a small stone and cast it at her, it went right through her. “How is this possible? Explain this witchcraft! You sunken sorceress, why are you doing this after what you have done already? Stop playing these insidious mind games and tell me where you really are!” “Do you not see that I am just a figment of your imagination? Why are you so upset?” “You might be, but I was backstabbed by my partner in crime, my lover. Of course what we tried to do was more than committing a crime for the mere gaining of pleasure or wealth, at least not in the monetary sense. In the end perhaps, but the act was certainly altruistic of nature. It was done for a greater good, that of the people and not the government colluding with corporations. The motive behind it was to preserve human dignity, righteousness, a free society and economy. To begin and end the battle for freedom and truth at the same time.” As the apparition disappeared he remained silent, and ruminated on how he would find her and what this all signified. He decided to hitchhike the way back, just to meet some new people. He got lucky right at the start, an old lady in a station car let him inside. “Thank you so much, my lady, you are brave for letting a big man like myself inside your car, you never know what can happen.” “That’s why I did it, you never know, and I love that, I think there is beauty in the unknown, know what I mean son?” She looked askance at the tulip fields. “You mean like not knowing with certitude what will happen to us when we die? Do you think that is beautiful? I actually just thought about that.” “Well, we know so little when you think about it, we have not even enumerated every animal on this planet, I don't think we ever can, and I think that such boundaries of knowledge are beautiful. What I believe is there is more than just the solstice and equinox, the sunflowers and ravens, feldspar and curcuma, an apocynthion and cohomology.” “That seems rather spiritual.” He said. “Yes and it is spiritual. I am not religious anymore; I used to be a devout believer in Yahweh, but left my faith after a few incidents in my life. I can't fathom the idea of a creator anymore; it began to repulse me more and more when I grew older. Of course this all might change on my death bed whether I believe now or not; this occurrence is common. Oh by the by, have you heard the morning news? A group of four anti-de-

establishmentarianists were caught plotting a terrorist attack against the central bank and parliament. Could you believe that?” “To call that a terrorist plot is highly comical. And quite ironic, since the incurring of fear is being orchestrated by the Reich itself. I guess it is all just relative, but from the perspective of the people it is rather salvation.” He said “Maybe so, I don't comprehend that much of what they are all exactly doing and the financial schemes behind it, but I do not pretend to. I think it is set up to be convoluted and nebulous. But what exactly is the salvation? What do you think will happen when these buildings are destroyed? Its certainly what they were hatching.” “What they are doing is actually quite simple. Fiat money is being excessively printed and digital currency copied to cover up the holes in the holes of the abyss; a never-ending entropy of debt. Anyway, I hardly believe buildings will be run down or statues destroyed, rather statures. But I do not profess to know what exactly will happen, I am no Nostradamus. We can however say that it starts to take the form of the storm of the Bastille. Obviously this hasn't happened yet, but history tends to revolve around the axis of pathos; man and the ‘evil’ that he carries with him in his ideas of ultimate truth and knowledge, the absolute and supreme being, propagating. Enlightened ideas are first shunned. A paradigm shift occurs; new powers start to concentrate within: the creation of cults and lies grow with time, as is inherent to man. This cannot be stopped; time and ideas are those which do not stop. Now, the salvation is there, although of a transient nature, see?” Samuel said. “I guess so, you can't stop it neither can I, nor any individual for that matter. But how do the current affairs equate with the supreme being? Are enlightened ideas not ultimate truths?” “Concerning your prime question: the current state of the Reich is that it views itself as the supreme ruler, being: the men who work for the state view themselves as disciples and the hand of the absolute, the divinity: Omega. The answer to your second question is no, because the ultimate is a concept which does not exist in objective reality: an idea, or ideology for that matter, is a design, which is always imperfect, so it cannot be absolute.” Samuel said. “You have me convinced that it might be a salvation after all. Ah, where did you had to go again?” “Sonderzon.” He said. “I adore the place; it is so idyllic and picturesque with the windmills, the great view of the valley. Too bad people live there. Ah, you should get off here, because if you follow that path down there, which is a shortcut, you will come to another road and if you follow that for like thirty some minutes, it takes you there, saving you around twenty.” “Eximious.” He replied When she waved farewell and he left, he had to think of his grandmother. She looked a tad like her. Identical color hair: bluish black, and the same manner of speech. An articulate and warm tone. The sunbeam was now burning his flesh and it felt like she was speaking to him in waves of corpuscles. A lark and wren were in duet, their dialogue reminisced him of the superlative fugue movement that resounded the obsequies. The rivers’ current dashed and whirled like the wind that roared through the diverse canopy; the interfluence of birdsong and breeze was as symphonic as galaxies colliding. Torrential thunders were the drums that completed it. The town was now close, he reckoned, since there were some cyclists he spotted, cycling towards the place. A voice called: “Samuel, repent! Retaliate! Obliterate! Righteousness shall avenge, justice will be victorious! Let the harlot fall and wither away, to me, to everything and nothing. How it boils your blood and cooks schemes of malice in your head. The injustice. The stupidity of such action!” The voice said. “Where now, who are you?” He asked, afraid of these directives. “Does it matter who I am? ‘Who’ implies nothing but a name. Who are you? Are you just Samuel or something more than that? The ‘I’ is hard to define, if not indefinable.” “That sounds awfully axiomatic. Where can I find her?” He asked.

“Look deep down, into memory lane, the one neither any perspicacity nor perspicuity has an easy task of cleaving into. And lower into the deepest cavern of your heart’s heart. The answer is where the question came from. You might find it more easily arising if you sit solemnly and listen to everything, listen long and wide.” The voice ended the last sentences faintly. Samuel stepped inside the first hotel he could lay his eyes on, and got to a deep sleep. The next morning he called the company's number which he looked up on the net, but he got an answering machine. Thus, he dedicated to the advice given be the voice. He was reading The Tempest from a copy of ‘Shakespeare’s Best’ from the hotel library, which consisted of quite a decent collection of books; one bookcase stuffed full of them: encyclopedias, dictionaries, biographies and fiction, one book caught his interest: Mankind in Amnesia by Velikovsky. The cover looked sensational, but he was not someone to judge merely by appearance, so decided to take it for reading after today. But before he was off to the local planetarium to see what they had changed as was shown on a leaflet he found laying on a bench someplace, he decided to read a page or ten. He reckoned Shakespeare was good learning of and insight into the human heart, spirit and our history. “And along with the droning synthesizer booming along the background, it provided the space with flair. Perhaps flair is the wrong word, better suited with classical or baroque. Oblique. Because of its contrasting chronicle–a disparity of four millennia–, but not as much as the, give or take thirteen billion and six million year old atoms in the configuration of my sentience, for perhaps less than hundred years?” He thought. Cervantes might have been his favorite author, notwithstanding his bias toward it, because he read it at a time when he was low in hope and by doing so replenishing it. It prompted him into a delirium: the thought he could be an artist himself, like the great Spaniard. Maybe even a poet, the foolish man was aspiring to be. “What an imprudent goal, for there is no money to be made with poetry, to not even speak of fame: what is fame if only a minuscule circle of people even acknowledge you? But what does fame matter in the first place? If my expressions are discharged, I am less unhappy. That and art is what matters, while being the same in a sense. But to not even commence on defining such a term like art; which because of the inescapable experience from our point of view will always be inherent, in general definition, to subjectivism: our background and surroundings, idiosyncrasy and preferences.” He thought. He left his hotel to go to the planetarium which was only a short walk away. He would love to see what they had changed as was shown on a leaflet he found lying on a bench someplace. After a short perambulation he halted, put his foot on a rock and glanced over the vista. He noticed nearly every corner and field was crammed; ubiquitous urbanization. There was almost no chance to build a house at this place. He had to go more rural for that, or get a boat. Although he had enough money, he was very much inclined to living like a transcendentalist now that he was free. He felt it was time, yet figured that his source of inspiration would be fed more when he lived in town. A neo-transcendentalism. “Instead living on land might be more natural, yet the environment on water is also naturally more quiet, serene and contemplative; the city is distractive, it doesn't really allow you any moment of tranquility, except for inside the house maybe, which turns into an oxymoron, defeating the purpose. Cafes are crowded, with loud and loopy loquacious people; there are of course some parks which do fit a more inviting picture, as there are always exceptions: but it isn't quite genuine. The parks here were also ridden with pseudo-art and beggars, reprobates and other scum, except for one park: where of course every sane person seemed to go and it consequentially was always packed with people. Not a good place for peace and solitude.” He thought. Perhaps a good dose of loneliness is also good for the artist, the latter which was in some of his more deluded crealities constituted an ultimate and reverent aspiration; a call of consciousness. Nevertheless, it did feed his soul with hunger. To strive for something which he will never attain. When he entered the planetarium he was gladly welcomed by the lady at the desk. She was Europan. They were apparently prevalent in town. She was considerably more beautiful than any other Europan he has ever met. They all had violet tinges but this woman had cyan swirls that interwove with flavescent streaks and dapples. He had not seen many yet, for they were migrating from the other side of the planet; from Europa to that hub, whence they entered Sonderzon.

The Europans came in these lands, give or take, four years ago. Two years after the landing of a satellite on Europa. One year after they for the first time officially recorded and immediately disclosed the presence of intelligent life, in our own solar system even! There was first much debate on the find, there were a lot of skeptics who believed it to be a hoax. The space agency was known for deception and they waited for the retraction and first apologies, and waited. Until a private company took it upon them to conclude it by landing and taking with them a few ‘specimen’ back to Earth. They were found to be humanoid and highly intelligent, but alien they were: thirty-nine percent dissimilarity in DNA. However, this isn't the time to expand on this, for something more at heart would happen to Samuel when he would come by the replica of the solar system, built on exact scale with respect to the sizes and distances. His brother was standing next to Uranus, scrutinizing the rings. “Ho! Brother! Can you believe it? They have a conference here soon about Hawking radiation, didn't you refute that theory by interposing the fallaciousness of the Laplace black body and Hilbert's solution to the field equations from General Relativity?” Samuel asked his brother, who was almost a feet taller than him, reaching two meters. “My good man! You look like someone from the Zarmini billboards I just drove by. I can't believe what has happened to you! You don’t look like diarrhea anymore whatsoever, that’s for sure, and finally you compensate for the lack of sense.” He walked over to Samuel and inspected his anatomy. “I have only heard rumor about this technology, I can't believe my eyes. So you are the first test subject?” His brother gasped. “Not the first, but the first successful one. It was a deal we made: I was given the opportunity to have my freedom but with the small chance of not living to tell the tale. It was Providence.” “Indeed it appears so. You were brave to do such a thing, daring, but daft, yet you are back and that is what matters to me most. And what you have said is true, they hold a conference soon and they will try to oppugn my attack on their foolish assertions, as I have heard from inside sources. It is very coincidental, but what selfrespecting human being would not defend his or herself here today? I am positive I can beat them; they are feckless and have no leg to stand on, yet keep pretending they do. They add this and that and assume that and those. By following Occam’s razor alone they would be out of league. Preposterous pseudo-scientific piffle.” Antheros said. “That’s how I remember you brother, feisty and headstrong!” Samuel replied. “Tell me one thing though: how are the lonely Socratic wanderings through the apple orchards and the shelly shores?” Samuel asked “My wanderlust is never-ending, you know that. And they are far from lonely as a matter of fact. Loneliness is a feeling and feelings ebb away when you stop thinking about them, moreover I just do the things I love doing most and pursue them, even if other feelings take hold of me; these will always be transitory. And creating is what drives off the loneliness best.” “By Hercules, just get a girlfriend.” Samuel said. “Yes that is what comes and goes just like the tide as well; maybe I am not as fortunate enough as you are in the charms.” “Retention has naught to do with charms. You are just afraid. First, get a courtesan or have some of my scopolamine. Then, shave your synophrys.” He replied. Samuel thus elaborated the whole occurrence to him at Quest and before, that which he could remember, when they entered the conference hall. The lecture consisted of ninety minutes packed with incredible, near magical, techno-babble. After it, his brother, who was making notes during the span of the talk, held a discourse with the orator. This in turn was as technical as the former, if not more. Samuel was not that much interested in this, and his attention was caught by an installment he had not seen before, what seemed like a ball of plasma confined in a large diaphanous and elliptical sphere, the information from the subscript read: “A flux of hyper voltage in the gaseous chamber, which consists of hydrogen and deuterium, induces a catalytic dipole cascade, which takes on the condition of a quasi-quark-gluon plasma state. Due to the isomorphic magnetic field that encircles the chamber, it stays in its globular shape. It is the same process that affects quasars. We think.” “Intriguing. An electrical model of the universe, embraced more and more by mainstream science.” He thought. His brother joined him and they were discussing this electric model of the universe and the implications it had on

anything, even us. “What I don’t get though is why some of these people do not want to debate about it, or dismiss the legitimacy of the presenter, when the former is one of the fundamentals of scientific advancement and the second exhibits a great lack of reason. These men of unctuous unscience, nescient trifles: dogmatic doggerel.” Samuel said to Antheros. “Is dogma not a part of a society, inherent to the human culture? Is there society without dogma? History is flooded with accounts of dogma.” Antheros asked. “Not of a society that fully embraces science and philosophy, then dogma is superfluous to say the least. This would require an evolution in our consciousness: the greatest evolution that we can imagine, and it can develop the quickest, if we put our minds to it, so to say. The changes in paradigms, revolutions and insurrections that occur right now, is this shifting of this consciousness. When we found intelligent life out there, and so close as well, man's reference of being has changed from thinking we were alone, to not even fathom the fact that it is in our neighborhood, to the fact we are not so. Isn't it funny how in the first place you can possibly feel alone with billions of individuals on this planet?” Samuel asked. “And secondly, with the knowledge that meteors were found to bear spores and viruses in their cores. Thus we can infer life exists beyond our solar system as well.” He added. “Regardless, we always knew we were most likely not alone in the universe, right? I mean: behold the illimitable vastness of space and life’s multifold precursors. We cannot even observe one tenth of it. And isn’t it also hilarious how we deem to assess absolutely and we can profess to know–approximately–the age of the universe, to not even speak of supposed inflation, with spurious assumptions concerning red shift? Did the great Jew not prove that time is relative?” He added. “Yes and no, since we do only experience life from our own point of view. The age is indeed relative. And concerning your other question: sometimes this can bring up the loneliness. Of which I by the way hope you make good use of in your Parnassian journeys.” Antheros said. “I can only try.” He replied. “No you can only do or not do.” “Whatever. How are mum and dad doing?” Samuel asked. “Ah so you are interested in them after all, huh? Last time I spoke to them they were fine, but I am visiting them tomorrow. Why don’t you join me?” “Ah, you know how the ties were severed between us. Thanks, but no thanks.” “By Boreas! You should make amends, they are your mother and father!” Antheros exclaimed. “At any rate, I was thinking about this thought, theorizing, hypothesizing: philosophical, chiefly. But I would love to hear your, scientific, opinion about it.” Samuel said. “Well I doubt such could be of use to a philosophical hypothesis, but shoot it.” “Is philosophy not science then?” Samuel asked. “It is a science, but not a hard science like physics. There are no general laws that come out of it. Or at least there have not been up to this point.” His brother replied. “I think it does enrich our lives though, and the scientific method can be applied to it as well. And reckon its roots in ontology, the science of being, in turn where every and anything buds out of. There is no science in the first place without the scientist, but I digress, let me state my thoughts: When we observe something, the wave function of the photon collapses right? In other words, we only see light as particles, which makes sense because matter seems to be solid in our diurnal experience. The underlying reality, nonetheless, seems to be a different case then: not exactly adhering to a wave of potentials or a ‘graviton’. When all we seem to be is the complex workings of chemistry and intricate structure of the brain, there is still more to it than that. Quantum mechanics also plays a role deep down in the neuron; does this mean superposition applies to neural activity? I guess it does. Then this also means our thoughts, apparent free will–choice–is in superposition, which means everything that can happen within the physical laws also does happen; and combined with the multiverse theory, suggests that our consciousness renders a lifeline through possible universes, states thereof, thus consciousness is not really

inside the universe or the universe per se, but moreover the experience of traversing through different universes as time develops.” Samuel said “If the multiverse theory is falsifiable then I am sure this could be a metaphysical possibility, it cannot be ruled out, it would be interesting to find out where consciousness exactly is located, if it is not the universe or in the universe itself.” Antheros said. “This could be an easy answer. Perhaps matter is the three-dimensional projection of a two-dimensional plane, with information down to the Planck scale. Located at the rim of the universe; it is forever unobservable, its akin to we cannot see with our own eyes our own hippocampus.” Samuel said. “Tough scientific explanation then, brother.” “Oh, yet we can infer it.” “In any case, it is still a subject of heated debate, I have learned from one of my colleagues there is no consensus. And you should know I am not utterly conversant in the field of quantum mechanics as an astronomer either, Sam. If you think you understand that subject, you do not. As the grand Feynman said. I really can't wrap my head around the theory; maybe you should ask Plini, he is the theorist of this planetarium. That is, if my answers did not satisfy you. I saw him walking here just before I left the lecture’s discussion.” “You know what? Forget it. I need to get back to my hotel soon or else they harangue me for not leaving on time.” He replied. “Alright Sam. It has been great seeing you again, as a free man. We will keep in touch. Call me for whatever there is.” Antheros said. “Cunning Cassiopeia: prudent portent prancing precociously; blaring Betelgeuse. Andromeda dancing, colliding with the Milky Way: duly years. Evolution from prokaryote to Man: from a man to what? After such a long time span we must be evolved into gods, at least from the perspective of men. Then we would traverse the universe, and explore other solar systems. Broaden the azimuth of awareness. What if we could evolve to a state where we had the technology to simulate reality? Why would we then not do so? Or we could be making precursors or copies of ourselves you could call semi-clones, and you could call the maker the creator, or the designer. We could be living in a simulation: although it doesn't make the coldness of the universe or the pounding of the clock any less harsh.” He thought. In the left corner, with sapphire belt on the holomorphic firmament shined the nebulous region of Orion. The part of his favorite constellation, Sagittarius. Concentrated on the belt, he felt like a pharaoh in his tomb, dead and reborn, staring in stillness, gazed unto sacred geometries, allaying him, and lascivious Cleopatra descended, from the staircase and walked to him: “Sir could you please move?” She asked “Oh, I am so sorry” Samuel said, realizing he stood right in front of one of the beamers present. “This was certainly the neatest show of the planetarium.” He thought. When Samuel left the location, his brother came running to him from behind. “Sam! A thought just struck me: I’d like to write a paper about what you have just told me, maybe you want to be the co-author?” He asked. “You want to write about my theory? My whimsical, silly hypothesis? Did you not write to me once, when I told you this in other words, if I rightly recall, that it was unreserved balderdash?” Samuel asked. “What can I say? I’ve had a change of heart when I thought about it just then. I think it deserves a little more research, for you might be on to something; but let me not get ahead, I just want to have your consent.” Antheros said. “Fine by me, what do you want me to write about? What could I possibly put down in and let it be read by more than a handful of people? I can’t even do a Lorenz transformation.” “No need for that and don’t forget there will be hours and hours of editing by myself and others, of course. Don’t sweat it.” Antheros replied. “Also, I know this great club in town, we should go there once what do you think?” He added. “That sounds like a fantastic idea. I haven't been knocked off my socks by drinking Philter in ages: it is a crying shame and unhealthy never to do so.” Samuel said, although he didn’t really feel like going out with his brother. They still talked for a while about neo-Hinduism on the way back to Samuel's hotel, where they parted and Samuel left for the docks to purchase a fine ship. Monetary problems could hardly occur: Quest endowed him an

exorbitant amount of credit for doing the experiment, next to two-hundred company stocks, each valued at a thousand ducats which were soaring at the moment. He still did not have a clue where to find Minerva, where even to begin. As he paradoxically wanted the harrowing voice to return, and wished she dropped him another hint, on the way to the docks he noticed someone was following him. He took a left turn to see what his tail would do; Samuel inconspicuously looking over his shoulder to the sky, as if he saw an auspice in the misty clouds. The man took a left turn as well, now Samuel confronted him: “Why are you following me?” He asked him. “Sir, I… I.. I am not sure how to word it…are .. ye... are…” The man stammered. “Well, speak up lad, word for word.” “Are ye not John Byron? From the Daily Haphazard? I love that show! I am a huge fan of your work. What are you doing in this sorry place?” He asked Samuel. “I have no idea what you are talking about, mister. I am not him, just a person incidentally passing by the same route minding his own business.” “Yes you are, unquestionably.” He said. “Just get away from me or face my wrath!” Samuel joked seriously. The man swiftly turned around and left the street. When around the corner said the following: “Yes, this is Usher Saturnine, I’ve found him, although he also uncovered me. You should send Silute or the dwarf to tail him from now on. He seems to be in a lively condition, showing high assertiveness and a tad of aggressiveness.” Samuel was looking at sailboats, skimmers, yachts and houseboats. After weighing all the pros and cons he decided to go for a medium sized yacht, it would be most practical for the winds are not windy enough for sailing inlands, the houseboat too slow, a skimmer to small. A yacht was perfect for his ends. He was in dilemma over which model to choose, there were two models and each of those had three different editions; where the models differed in the size of the pool, the editions in wood types and either deer, penguin or antelope leathering. He chose the edition of the penguin leather and magnificent, hand-turned acacia and mango wood: he fancied the pareidolia induced by the patterns of all these. He needed to come back in a few days for the edition he wanted was only just made, thus he had to find a different place to sleep now. He was on his way back to the same hotel again when there was some dissonance in his thought. “What if I go back to the same place where I used to go camping? It might swirl up and resurface some lost memories, maybe even give some clues to where she might be, doing without the voice?” He thought it more than a decent concession since he had nothing to lose: he managed to remember the instance: a cacophony of confusion. Her elegant body, her shallow waters, the beauteous deceiver; rising, falling, roguish plotter, shady strumpet. Repent! Atone for your sins! Such an absurd juxtaposition in being. Two-faced garrulous Medusa. He reckoned camping was a good idea: being one with nature comes easy while doing so. Literally, being on his own for a while, might do his memory good. And his muse, for we are all too often not ourselves. “How many times a day does one hear an original thought coming from someone’s mouth? Has not everything been done, said and written down already and thus making nothing inherently original? If everything has been said already, we surely were not listening. Perhaps something is original if it uses fragments we know not of, or known fragments as segments in an unknown configuration; else the word loses its original meaning? Although when we are truly ourselves, we then are as original as can be. But who are we? Who are you exactly? Are not your dreams or actions, those which define you? Is the key not to find or search yourself, but to make yourself? Yet, presumably, for growth, there is always a time when we do have to look inside ourselves. And is not everybody forlorn to a certain extent?” He wondered. He forgot about the divine feeling of camping: the general quietude and quiescence of rusticating and unfurling of Omnia. The love of solving the little problems that always came along, and every problem was a solution to another. It was a call from wild seclusions echoing through even remoter seclusions that were his, far below the Cartesian void that remanded him. When he reached the spot, he noticed the place was still used as such since there were traces of burnt out campfires and some empty bottles and roaches. He took out the newspaper he took from the hotel and seated himself on a fallen trunk and read:

“Sparren Walcott devastated by own hubris – Mob destroyed governors’ car – Actor still missing after two weeks – Man kidnapped from trial. He read the last article aloud: “On Wednesday the 23nd of June an inmate was taken by four individuals posing as officers from a covert governmental agency. The interlopers took the man, during his trial from direct custody of police officers and fled the scene shortly after in a dark blue van. His partner in crime was in similar fashion taken from her internment, only three and a half hours after the first incident. The local police department has put all their effort on this puzzling case, but so far has not found any suspects. Should you see anything or anyone suspicious, do not try to apprehend these men by yourself, but please contact your local police department or call anonymously at [...]. Note that impersonating any officer of the law will result in severe penalty.” “They have her! What if they changed her appearance? Got the same kind of operation? I then will never find her. Did they have to have a female test subject as well? They knew it! They knew I wanted to get to her that's why they transformed her as well.” He said. He immediately set forth to Quest again. Upon arriving at the main entrance, there was indeed a barrier placed with a sign on it that said ‘closed’. He found the crevice and hatch, but it was, as he had imagined, locked. On this tough luck he decided to leave the place, because the fence was insurmountable. However, not without a plan: he would gather information on the mines and tunnels that were under this soil; he would get it from town, for in the end, he knew this way was the way to get to the way to justice, to the truth. He knew from his youth that copper ores where copious here, so it most likely were dilapidated mines, and they were extending those into large underpasses. “But for what?” He thought. As he stepped in the bus he was confronted with two things: the lingering scent of luscious pipe tobacco and a person reading Ulysses, he couldn't believe someone would take such a large book with them and read it upside down. “Why are you reading that in such a peculiar fashion?” He asked her. “I like a challenge, so I am reading it again like this.” She replied as if it was total normality. “What do you think of the book?” Samuel asked. “It is my bible, my cynosure: my Aleph and Tav. Can’t possible go wrong with it.” “It sounds like a doctrine.” “Oh, what do you know about doctrines?” She replied. “The doctrine of worship for example: religions and some extreme convictions can lea-,” She interrupted him: “You and Edgar Cloverfield from Eidolons and Chimaeras are like two drops of ichor from the same deity. Are you him? I love your jaw line.” She asked and touched his face. He deliquesced. “You sycophant, stop it.” He replied playfully. “No, I am not jesting, you look exactly like him.” She said. “Well, I have to get off here; I might see you again.” She said with a questioning look. “Or not, because I have too many boyfriends already.” She added. He remained silent. “Not my loss is it?” He thought when she left the bus. He had to think about the other article he read earlier in the paper, were they mentioned the outcries for a revolt had begun to escalate at a press conference from the Reich. “Time will soon begin to show it's mutable nature, the natural pulse is imminent and the drift of life inexorable. Countries never existed before man; we fragmentize and unite ad infinitum. Like the continents we were once whole but now drifting away from each other; to gradually come back and unify? But to peacefully unite humankind by imposing it with any means: with government, banking, corporation is in the end never fully possible, as is demonstrated. The question is: can humankind be peaceful? History paints a grim canvas in that respect. Can we only transcend conflict if our inner conflict is gone, which will always remain our strife ‘till the tomb, and perhaps, who knows still thereafter? To love and hate, that is. It is permanent in its impermanence.” He thought. When back in his hotel room, he got to read Hamlet, one of his favorites, before going around and actually gather information on the tunnels. He was more driven toward the voice he heard once in a while. With this in mind, he hoped he would get the answers from that source alone, without stirring up anyone or aught. While and after reading no voice seeped through whatsoever. He stormed outside. The crystal moon roared out its beams and Venus flaunted her flagrant conscript. “What would the perspicuous teleologist illuminate on the night?” He thought.

He went to the plaza to pose some queries. Unfortunately, no one in that place could shed some more light on the whole matter. Even the internet appeared to have forgotten. Many did not even know of the excavations, but did mention sporadic sensations of quakes. Yet he was told that the seismologists could not come up with any educated guess whatsoever. There were booming sounds that accompanied these occurrences on many occasions which further suggested there was a strong correlation. One person he talked to told him he had to visit a cove, at the rim of town, where they would surely know of the supposed underpasses, for old miners were living there. When he got near the cove he saw an old man sitting on a large stone, his beard reached his waist and glimmered in the sun, to Samuel. “What happened to your legs, sir?” Samuel asked to the legless man. “Well, aren’t you a taciturn chap?” He said. “Hark. They both have their own stories: when I was about your age, slightly older, I used to work in the mines, where every day I had to pick in the dirt for my bread and had to carry a shitload more on my back than Atlas himself. And on one deformed son of a day a boulder fell down on this side here, while I was removing some loose dirt above what turned out to be an olivine vein.” He pointed to the fine piece of hardwood connected to his left thigh. “Twenty years later, when I was fishing on the lake you see behind you, I hooked a lone sturgeon. I was sure it was the best day of the year when I felt the sheer mass by the force of the pulling. However, the grips of the fishing pole slipped off by the fish’s strength, causing my costly fishing pole to follow with the fish into the nether. Upon this I decided to go for my money and jumped after it, only to land with my other leg on submerged rocks, wounding myself in the act. Although, this is not how I lost it. At the time I was fishing there, a certain algae were thriving in the region’s waters, these algae were the food of many frogs and upon this many birds came to feast. One of those infected me with a rarified Congolese virus, as I was told when it was too late, as they had to amputate it. But the worst thing about it all is, that I have paid insurances my entire life, but did not get one penny back from those thieves, despite my situation that you would say is precarious.” The old man said. “Correct, the insurance funds were plundered by insiders and bond holders, their malpractices went wrong and then they used the money saved up by ordinary people like you, intended for your recompense. It is a crying shame and as you know the world is turning toward betterment, don’t you think?” Samuel said. “You mean if I think the upcoming revolution is good? Who am I to say something is good or bad, is that not always subjective? The bettering or worsening of times is in my view just an illusion, things that go up go down, moral systems are from whatever azimuth you perceive them in homeostasis: that is to say if men do not transcend good and evil, they will think an action either good or evil and not it on itself or even the motive behind it. Will the powers that come in the place of the old be any different in acting toward the plebs? Good is irrelevant, son.” The old man said. “Maybe it is irrelevant to you, not to me. I still believe in good. I have a sense of ethics, if I may say so.” He replied “You may and I applaud you for it, but without ethics, life is easier.” The old man said. “Easier is not always better.” “No, but in most cases I think it is” The man replied. “Let’s agree to disagree on that point then.” Samuel said. “Alright, youngster, I haven’t had a discussion like this in ages, you don’t know how grateful I am for this.” “Before I forget sir, there is one thing I would love to know. Do you know aught about underpasses in the mines, or rather tunnels big enough for trucks to ride through?” “Why would you like to know? The place is very dangerous, didn't you caught on my story? And where have you heard this?” The old man said. “There was a curious parable circulating when I was an infant, out camping in the woods. They spoke of an ancient nefarious cult which was being hunted by the order, because they could supposedly turn bones into diamond. They had to leave all their possessions behind, it was rumored to be buried in its entirety, deep down, right in this region, lest losing it while on the loose. After they put a curse on the spot, they left and were never seen or heard from again.” Samuel said. “Hah! You want to tell me you actually believe that story? You are pretty suave, but that is claptrap and you should know better. Or perhaps not.”

“You know, they have actually found the remains of the purported cult fifty miles from here, which makes it a strong case, however I must concur with you, rumor tends to be false, but often based on truth.” “The truth that is, or you want to see?” The old man asked. “Sir, if you don't know about it I can surely ask someone else around here.” Samuel said. “Not a problem kid, I will spill it. I know of explosions still going on there as we speak. Well not literally explosions and at this instant, but you know, every week there are some, bangs” “Yes, I know, they are extending it but what is it used for? Where can I enter?” “I have no idea what it is used for; my guess would be for transportation. There is no way, that I know of, to enter the warren directly or without any ease, but there are two possible ways to enter the mine. I’ll draw it for you if you solve my riddle.” “Shoot it.” “Riddle me this,” he said gravely, “it weathers, but most think it does not. It is everything, yet almost nothing.” The man posed. “That was it? Phew. Is it time?” Samuel asked. “Wrong answer. Two more tries.” “Meh. You contradict. How can everything be almost nothing?” He asked. “Again, incorrect.” “It was a question! Oh, alright. Let me think about it.” He looked at the quarries down at the end of the valley. “Is it a diamond?” Samuel asked. “Alas! All three wrong. Checkmate.” “But that is unfair! You cheated and make no sense. How can you know what most people think? And do people not think diamonds are forever? And relative to the supernal sizes it is near nugatory.” “Perhaps you are right after all. But what would that make me?” The old man said. “What would it make you if would not help me?” Samuel asked. “I am not obliged to help anyone, but your temerity and persistence is pesky, and you reasoned your answer. Which all in all deserves some of my bestowing; to get you on track, off here you go thus.” He said. Finally, he finely drew something, the landmarks first, then a couple of circles. Samuel thanked him and left, but had a hard time to think he would really find the answers there at all. For all he knew Minerva was already on the other side of the globe. When he was walking between the edge of town and forest, from the rustling of the leaves and percussion of the branches, a voice swelled up which directed him to go back to his staying and look for answers there. As he was contemplating on what exactly he would do to her when he would see her, to his amazement he saw Apillon at the bakery. Samuel waited for him outside. When he came out he was confronted. “Tell me what you know about Minerva! I know you lot took her and experimented on her as well. I have the article here which proves it! Where is she now?” “Ah! You! How great to see you again! What Minerva, blasphemy? What are you talking about?” “My accomplice who was taken by Theta agents, does it strike a synapse?” Samuel inquired. “Maybe those were real Theta agents, or of another agency you have never heard of. I truly have no idea what you are talking about, I swear it on Mercury! Is it that farfetched to think that the Reich would protect her after speaking out against you? You are desperate, not destitute, be reasonable. Don’t resent. Don’t let your anger get the better of you. Balance, balance! Lastly, newspapers seldom write a truth.” Apillon said. “It could be possible, but it is highly coincidental if it were Theta agents, don’t you agree?” Samuel asked. “Affirmative, but the article doesn’t speak of Theta in particular. And I swear neither I nor my colleagues are cognizant of anything or affair linked to this, if you may allow me to speak on behalf of them. And you know what? I will even go as far as to helping you find her, just so you know that I had nothing to do with it.” “How can I know you speak the truth? Prove it to me.” Samuel asked. “There is no way to convince you of any truth if the evidence is lacking to substantiate it in the first place. Moreover is it impossible to prove anything without a shred of doubt or to be fixed and withstand any vicissitude and weathering. What we know for certain is that she is taken by agents after we had saved your ingrate irking

from the penitentiary. If you stay with me for a while, I will go past one acquaintance of mine who might tell us more, for he is with the police.” He said. “You are friends with a police officer? And you believe he has that information, let alone wants to share that with us? The naivety.” Samuel said. “The self-importance! With me! You will not go with me inside his house if I get invited; and stay back to not let you show yourself to arouse any suspicion. He and I go a long way back, so I bet there will be some fruits to our parley. There is a chance he might know where these people are taken. I will make sure he doesn't know that I am in the know of either cases, don't worry.” Apillon said. With this offer, he had convinced Samuel that they had nothing to do with the kidnapping. But he still held his eyes locked on every moment Apillon made, in case of ulterior motives. There was a band playing in the streets and Samuel made a comment on the incanting and the rhythm of the percussionist, which he both found dire. “You do not like music?” Apillon asked. “Oh, how can one not love the sweet notes of life? One must be deaf, dim, ridden with apathy or both to not feel the glory and triumph of an enticing progression unraveling. What backwards route did your thought follow that made you assume I dislike music while I was merely pointing out evident flaws? When one discerns music predilects are inescapable, therefore we might never agree on this subject; it will always be subjective and as far as liking goes: de gustibus non est disputandum.” Samuel said. “I guess you are right there. Nevertheless, when you say something like that you elicit the zesty odor of envy and anger: an acerbic waft is carried along.” Apillon said. “I am not censoring my opinion or shall withhold any criticism that comes to mind, despite of those objections you bear toward me.” “It's alright, it was between us anyway. You might get scoffed, or worse, had they fully heard you saying that.” “What do you think about music in general? In the van you were frowning, with a mean edge on the brow for the entire time I was awake. Are you not fond of the sagacious and mellifluous cello? Somehow I got the impression you hated music, but now I think otherwise.” Samuel said. “To tell you the truth, I love music as much as you do. There is music that is so refulgent it hurts, or makes you plainly happy–or despondent–, some so painful that it elevates, even alleviates: suspended emotions, dissonant dreams. Yet music is always motion, its spiraling crescendo, floating allegro, soaring sonata; an enigma of sensation: a cataract of emotion and perceptions. Music is love transcending time.” Apillon said. “That was fine spoken; please tell me more, so I can stick more feathers up your end.” “The impertinence! I was only expressing my thoughts and feelings on the topic at hand, forgive me, your excellence.” Apillon said with a sordid tone. “Hold up, we are nearly there. What if you hide behind that hedge up there on the left and go around the back when he opens the door for me, if possible? Don't worry, there are no kids or wife, the guy is single. The man is a lucubrator, though: I hope I don’t wake him. Alright, here goes, three!” Apillon said. He rang and Samuel went around the back when Apillon was invited inside. Upon going around, he noticed that he couldn't hear, nor see aught, since the curtains and double-layered glass made it impossible. He sauntered around the jardin and noticed a small pasture behind the flowerbed; the latter was very well taken care of: a lover of botany lived here, he could tell. There was not only the common snapdragon, lavender, basil, parsley, mint and phalaenopsis, but also the more uncommon genera like amaryllis and encyclia. He examined a floret which he couldn’t aptly identify: with sparkling indigo petals and an intricate rutilant-rosy–near hallucinogenic–stamen. His mind wandered off to a salacious butterfly situated on a rusty sundial. “Probably Papilio rutulus. Clap your wings and morph the air, perhaps tempt a storm or two. Magnanimous oak, symbol of the sapient, span the skies and fumble the heavens with your branches. The sun: sempiternal love searing: a warm blanket on hills of nihility; reviving, riveting everything: sentience. Rhizoidal fungi: spread through roots of society and as ideas clamp to minds, when the reverse is also true.” He thought. The wind cries and the sky’s wooly and overcast. A caterwaul; shattered dreams. Raise the curtains: assembled ensemble. Vermillion pool, man incarnadined. Disgorged postprandial liquorices. Effused as sapid sanguine from sliced cervix. Hurried sickly. Titubate over garden gnome. Blur! Away, away. Destination: anyplace. Serpentine voice impelled: nepenthe. Ecclesiastic tintinnabulations confer harrowing tints and hints of penitence.

And darkness was eating up the nacreous skies. The ground was coming closer like the shouting voice, ghastly form, touched him, and shook him. “Don't you see I had to do that?” The grasping mist said, “he was the investigator into our bamboozle! And not only that, but also a prominent member of the Reich: a man of importance. To us when he is dead.” Apillon said. “So now you are a hit man? I can't believe this, I am dreaming right? I am having a nightmare? I can’t believe what you just did.” Samuel said. “Do you not delude when you think this to be beneficial and you can get away with killing, a lead investigator by heathens, at the same time? In what pandemonium have I gotten myself into? What if someone saw us?!” He added. “No one has seen us entering or leaving, unless you didn’t simultaneously went to the back while I was invited. And to answer your first question: I am not only a hit man but yes, it is what my job also implies.” “Awful. Horrid. I cannot believe it.” Samuel said. “How can you even admit to not believing what I am when it was me who rescued you in a fashion no lesser than a sinecure from the rat hole you would be dumped in again?” “Well this seems more like the rat hole to me if you ask me.” “Even so, you have your freedom now. And concerning your other remarks: the man had knowledge which brought him close to the crux of the case. Thus like Icarus, he got too close. They have data of us; he knew we were working on cerebral transplants and more. Yesterday, we had discovered a mole of theirs. When after questioning and firing him, we performed rough calculations, in- and deduction, and analyzed how much we were compromised. He swiftly became a mark. Moreover, he and his party members were trying to close down Quest with legislature; its jurisprudence in effect preventing any further advancement in a myriad of scientific branches, of which we all make us of. This is why we found it necessary to eliminate him. Do you not see this is for the greater good? For the betterment not only of you and me, and my employer, but science: the whole wide world.” Apillon said. “Essentially, it is a temporary solution to a permanent problem; the man isn't solely the idea or action. The action in politics comes from ideas, which are always shared. Or any conscious action with the slightest of conscience is preceded by a reflection. You can kill a man but not the influence he had. I am shocked at what happened and how you did it.” Samuel remarked. “Well did you expect killing a man would be pretty? Not to say it went unerringly according plan.” He said. “I still don't see how this will stop anyone from banning this research if the will to do so has presented itself already.” Samuel said. “You might not see it, but that is because you do not oppose these things, thus have no need of any fear to catch a bullet by standing in the line of fire. Do catch some sleep now, for such a strapping body cannot wear this worn and unmanned visage. How is the body by the way? Still no strange side effects?” Apillon asked. “None whatsoever” He lied. “Good. Let me tell you how important you are to us. You can make us everlasting, that’s how. When you are fully a successful experiment, which we can assess soon enough, we have crossed the Rubicon and crushed the rivals of science. For their existence stands on one pillar alone, which you are now fracturing. Before you, countless of people have perished at the expense of technologies we now seem to hold. This is the argument they use against us, it would be unethical to continue these experiments for the risk is supposedly too great. Not a single eligible person was willing to cooperate to testing anymore due to incessant propaganda: we were in a rut. The man, whom I just murdered, dropped your case once in a conversation, upon which I guessed you would be a perfect candidate: Roselet agreed, et c’est ça. You have your freedom, a new body; Quest can live on with the research, and science can freely evolve: imagination is the limit.” Apillon said, trudging backwards and added. “Tomorrow I will tell you more about Minerva, for I might have a clue on where they have her. You really need some rest. Let’s meet at the bakery again tomorrow around daybreak? It appears a secure rendez-vous.” Samuel agreed and Apillon disappeared into the night. Still, Samuel was left with so many questions, feelings and thoughts about what had just all happened and had been told. And having to witness the murdering of an innocent man, any person’s death, would shake any one to the bone.

“Whence does this precisely originate? Most of the time, when we see someone experiencing something, our 'imagination', or mirror neurons, reflect that experience, therefore when we see someone dying we experience the event as if it was our own. Those most afraid of death would have the most trouble with seeing a man dying, or those with a love of life as well, they are not mutually exclusive.” He thought. Whatever the case was, Samuel wasn't feeling that tired after all, the adrenaline was still streaming rapidly; the cognitive dissonance between writing and reading at this precious pathological moment, or go out and wash the memory away of today with a few pints, made him look at the zenith; as if going to read the right decisions out of the constellations. A meteor burst out of Sagittarius and fell into the chalice of Aquarius. “Would Theocles argue that he was to be ill-fated if his next decision should be wont to materialism? He then would probably drown to death, but it could happen this year or in fifty years. Now, if he was talking about a cataclysm or a subsequent rapture, then I might have been more inclined to believe. But what would Heidegger posit? Tackle, dissect, turn inside out, rip it apart and create a new? Is there any teleology that can elucidate on the ontology of this phenomenology? My good old psychophile Nietzsche, what would thou discern in this insouciant night, the untabulated reign of stars?” He wondered. “The imbroglio you have put yourself in has begun to show rancid side effects. Was it really a good deal you think you were making? Ha-ha. Sorry did I startle you? I am sorry to disrupt your elegy —truly—don’t be afraid, I am neither the devil nor demon.” The euphony continued: “Although you must know that would be his most well-kept secret, the greatest trick by him to be played on mortals: to let them think he was not there. So now you can safely assume I am neither the devil nor a demon, or not.” She said. “What could a wrench like you possibly want from me? And don't be sorry, I don't believe in angels and demons anyway, fables are for kids.” “Do you believe in free will Samuel?” “There is incoherence in your questions.” He replied “I am not speaking in riddles am I now? Just answer my question until you can see beyond the horizon.” “One cannot look beyond the horizon.” He said. “Indeed. Were you to be anchored, then it would be increasingly more difficult. Hence you have to stay in motion as with body and with mind.” She said. “I do believe there is free will, but to know without a doubt I cannot. Unless you can prove me otherwise in any case?” “You have followed my directives without question, volition didn’t interfere.” “That is no proof whatsoever; that doesn't make free will non-existent. However, I must admit, your tone is entrancing, but manipulative; lascivious, but imploring. When I come to think of it you are a caricature of a demon in a most feminine way. Your bifurcated tongue and slithering trickster song.” Samuel said. “Repent! Avenge! Evil plots in night and day, hunter of the Hatcher, slay her, for that she may pay.” And the susurrus dispersed with the laments of the wind. Samuel woke up after four paltry hours of sleep, opening his eyes felt like burden almost too heavy to lift. Yet he sprung up when the thought of Minerva struck him, like a jolt of lightening it animated him. He recalled a dream he just had: “another planet, a strange society. A world without borders. Where none stood divided. There was only one pursuit: that of wholeness. It might sound like subverted Bolshevism, but there was no government except for the peoples own moral systems. The core value was unity and through unity love. The economy was fully resource based: not derived from futures or monetary sources, which are decoupled from the former. The really odd thing about it was that crime was non-existent: somehow following the values did not give any grounds to crime, but what was it precisely that made the people embrace this value, no matter what? And not give rise to holding two conflicting morals? There simply was no reason at all to have a conflicting value or to abandon it all together: life was fine as it was, for everyone. Utopia or not? Who can tell, they say if we can dream it, it can happen. And every year some technologies surpass the sense of what is possible or not. Let imagination limit itself never. Nevertheless, a utopia is unattainable, since else it wouldn’t be a utopia, at least not for different minds.” He thought.

He read an email: Mr. Warsa, we are pleased to inform you of the completion and docking of your Seasabre Soot-Magnolia [...]. He quickly left for the bakery to meet Apillon and suggested to him they would have the conversation one-on-one on his yacht. They were discussing the research of Quest's competitors and Apillon elaborated, slightly arrogant, on how he managed to infiltrate a few of these and booted a virus in their mainframe, in order to copy any targeted database from the servers. And how some of the ‘toughest and waterproof securities’ were a sham, which for him boiled down to child’s play cracking. “So how exactly did you turn from a hacker into a hit man?” Samuel asked. “It was an accident.” “That doesn't sound awfully accidental to me.” He had a hard time believing him, because they were still in public. “Well, you do not know my story. I was twenty seven when the first-” He stopped talking, turned his eyes. “Let me just cut to the chase. The person you seek; we know what happened to her. When I went in the house of the lead investigator, I took with me his most confidential documents. On these documents,” he took them out of his jacket, “is stated tenuous information regarding your accomplice; noted where she had been taken and to what purpose, although her current position is unknown. But foremost, what we have found out is, that the Reich is surreptitiously colluding with several bio-engineering companies themselves, one of which, it states here in this file, paid a supernumerary amount of credit, in cash. Apparently, the Reich knew that she was afraid of her life, perhaps they as well; the day you got out. It is fascism. Put in other words, we think that this is why they want to ban our research, lest we overshadow them by multitudinous orders of magnitude.” He said. “Do you have any clue as to her place of existence?” Samuel asked. “Unfortunately, besides the obvious possibility she might be still there for physical and biochemical analysis, we know not, but we have a few other agents who are trying to find out more as we speak. You furthermore are prohibited from doing anything yourself.” Apillon said. “Why? And now you have her in your crosshair as well?” He said. “For your safety. And let’s not forget she is of scientific interest to the team. Our techniques are wholly unique and probably their methods are as well, or else they would not be latently supported by the politicians. They can learn a lot from her molecular makeup. She is of great value to us.” Apillon said. Samuel shuddered at the thought of her in his hands. “Alive or dead?” He asked. “Well what do you think? Does the molecular level care for life or death?” “Lots of molecular processes are reliant upon our bodies being alive.” Samuel replied. “Yes, the processes are, but not the constituency, and those are what we are interested in. Did you think you where made of flesh and blood like I am? Think again. Your body is not born like mine; but to put it crudely, you were printed. Artificial biology: daedal biomimetics.” “What does it matter?” Samuel asked. “It does and it doesn't, your mind is still the same, right?” “By Zarathustra, indeed. But what about the revolution stirring up your plans?” Samuel asked. “You mean the revolutionaries actually obstructing the science? That is a stretch from here to Jupiter! And would in a sense be ironic, since we are the revolutionaries ourselves!” “It might be implausible, but you have to consider any possibility. However, pretty unlikely.” Samuel said. “That might be true, although it is hard if not unquestionable to prevent a revolution and its consequences, especially when the power is already shifting from the Reich to what or whom exactly? A new and erudite, humane and efficient government?” “A fresh government with ideals, vision, reason and transparency, honor and dignity; a power combined with a sense of direction, righteousness, reflection and affection to overcome the taints of corruption and malice of collusion; with pecuniary gains for a select group as the goal. Here comes a new order, that of humans, that of art and science, which renders the former inert.” Samuel responded while Apillon chuckled at his utterings. Samuel continued: “A world made by men, with men and only for men! Where no Europan belongs! Do you not see the problems that were conferred unto our serene state of being, our happily round and blue home, by those who where led in, and by those of insatiable greed who enabled this? The impudent roguery of those cretins!” Samuel exclaimed. Apillon looked at him, then askance at a group of people, Europans, coming towards them.

“Why are they here in the first place? Is it not merely to keep current foul governance alive? Those falsely under the banner of science and knowledge, when all they do is colonizing space, armed satellites, battling, diffusing its monstrosity throughout the cosmos.” Samuel said. A great Europan came and stood in front of him, had let him finish his raving, before he punched Samuel in the stomach and gave him a bursting left hook. Samuel fell down, but stood up again and decanted, staggering: “Zephyrus, align these impetuous luminous sprites with the cosmic syzygy. Foretell my engagement with the copper moon and Purusha! If not, stand betwixt the empyrean and acumen; rend the air with transient meso- and lithospheric discharge: along sinuous fractals and interwoven synergies! Let the Perseid fireballs fall like a regal raiment from her scurrilous profundity. Her impervious depths and rotundity! Vishnu, you beseech me! Pendulous Prakriti, it pains, it pains…” And he fell again. The adversary’s punch was simply too quick for either Apillon or Samuel to respond to, and when Samuel recuperated, the entire group of around six bulky guys enclosed them. “Please, my friend is a little crank in his upper cabinets. Do not lower yourselves to beating down a man of such degree and credence!” Apillon exclaimed. On this, two others replied apace with an equal amount of enmity and knocked him out as well before walking away. “Those Europans sure know how to fight.” Samuel puffed out with what seemed his lasts breaths, he crawled over to shake Apillon, and it looked as if he was in apoplexy. But when he awakened, he delivered Samuel his right fist. “By Notus, you morologist! Why would you say such things while in propinquity of those you speak of? My vision is a haze!” He said. “To abide the second law of thermodynamics.” “Aside from such radical notions, can you not be marginally more considerate in your speech? We could have been bludgeoned to pulp!” Apillon said crossly. “Nonsense!” Samuel replied “Those men did not intrinsically mean us any harm! They would not resort to such violence if they would not be threatened likewise in the first place.” He added. “Well, what do you think made them act like that in the first place?” “I don’t know, did I insult them personally? In what kind of world is violence an answer to truth? Should we not all be resolved to find truth?” Samuel asked. “Violence is a facet of truth, that’s for sure, but even so, I just thought you were mean spirited to them to say the least, unreasonably malignant. Think before you speak, blithe padawan, lest we lose more than consciousness in another ordeal.” They arrived at the docks and when being showed to his new toy. After the paperwork filling they went for a sojourn along the shoreline. Samuel inquired at Apillon after the competitors of Quest. They talked about Roselet and her father's research. After a few subsequent discussions on multifarious topics Samuel asked him if he knew anything about the tunnel complex. “Ah you mean that instance, where you are only paying attention to one thing and the rest you disregard, not even register? I am curious about that as well, I oftentimes suffer from it.” He said shamelessly. “No my good man, that is called tunnel vision.” Samuel said. “Hah, undoubtedly. On that note, as Kappa told you, the project is classified. I have heard rumors rustling about here and there, but most make no more sense than that the pie is a lie. In this it is interesting to know that these absurdities came after one which in my mind may be a likely explanation, but to add validity to a rumor would be foolish.” “Hang on, which explanation is that?” Samuel asked. “The passages may lead to underground bunkers, spread throughout the nations. Perhaps the thought of a total nuclear holocaust happening is pressing, or on the loom. People say a cataclysm or apocalypse might even occur, but that wouldn’t make sense if they were bunkers; unless its very valuable storage, like warheads. These are daunting thoughts to juggle, but if I honestly believe it? No, I think it's just for transportation and, or a depot of ammunition or something of greater importance, hence it is classified.” Apillon said. “Very interesting: perhaps it is storage not for bombs, but for people? As in camps for those who oppose the makers, buyers or instigators? The government already has thousands of souls, if not many more, incarcerated for whatever reason they think fit. Isn't that ingenious and grizzly morbid: underground camps? Their fear of a revolution is constantly looming, growing, breeding, and enwrapping its immeasurable arms around all: now that

the flames of the fiery core in the heart of man are spreading, it seems their countermeasures could be taking a similar reach as well.” “Isn't it a logical fallacy if you have no evidence for that assertion whatsoever?” Apillon replied. “Logic does not apply to reality.” “In so far we use logic to find truth; we cannot establish truth based on speculation, because it is just that.” Apillon said “No, we live to find the truth, it drives us, gives us a sense of purpose. We experience searching a truth constantly, our truth, with respect to objective, absolute truth, which transcends ours; by discriminating information and disinformation, misleading rhetoric and blatant lies.” “And that is what the scientific method impels us to do. Which is, hardly arguable, an effective method for advancing the state of mankind. Ergo, you cannot make that statement you just did” Apillon responded. “Not with logic, but with science or ratiocination I could. That is way to advance to the truth, the way to rid the seemingly from what is.” “And I have the strong feeling they have taken Minerva there, living in a safe ‘house’ underground.” Samuel added. “Acting upon feeling is not that wise, my friend.” “Does intuition not evince itself in wisdom, which comes down to instincts, or innate directives, which in turn is based on experience and emotion, thus feelings?” Samuel replied. “What is wisdom in the first place? I don’t mean to offend you, but wouldn't it be wise to look at the situation with a more sober eye and gather evidence before going to embark on a mission which peril you can’t fathom? Of which you are sentimentally invested in. And secondly, not really having the experience for, for have you ever experienced something like this?” “How can I gather evidence without being able to gather it in the first place?” Samuel asked. “Are you not trying to as we speak?” “And succeeding.” He replied. They were on course for mooring, when Samuel was scanning the interior with a crestfallen demeanor and said: “I cannot imagine what it must be like for someone to be given a utensil like this.” He moved his arms outwards. “Then, take it: she is yours.” Samuel said to Apillon. “What?” “I grant you, lethal oneironaut, this all!” He said sincerely. “Are you joking?” “Not a shred. Does it look like I am a jester? Because of you I have my freedom, please view upon this as a symbol of my appreciation.” “I cannot accept it; I don't know what to say.” He said. “I make more than enough to pay for this myself, but if you insist.” He added. “It is yours, a gift to you: like I said.” Samuel led out a sigh and explained: “I’ve always wanted to have a yacht. I never in my endless dreams would think it a reality, because it was just that, a dream. I could see myself slicing through the gurgling green snot and feel achievement: fulfillment and liberation. But now, it being right here, such a majestic piece of decadence and conception, perhaps even art; with my name written on it. It doesn't really affect me much anymore, neither to possess nor use it.” “Why did you buy this anyway?” “Well, you might think I purchased it out of emacity or for personal aggrandizement, yet by the presence of all these precious filaments there was maintained an osmotic balance in my wants and needs, between what we have and haven't; it was an exigent epithymy that would prove a holistic remedy, yet not for long. As I now feel woebegone in what I thought would be a halcyon.” “So that’s why you give it to me? Shouldn't you find a nice lady to hang out with by the way? Now with your physique it wouldn't be that much of a problem. I might know this one girl who you’d love.” Apillon said. “Where did that come from? I don’t mean to sound disingenuous, but my path does not concern you, and what is love but a debilitating state of delight: but of aleatory chemical cascades perchance multiplied by arbitrary

acquaintances and arisen arousal? Thanks though. Although, are you implying that without my transformation I would have a hard time to pick any girl up?” Apillon was silent. “You little!” Samuel said as he threw the ice cubes that were in his drink to him. “Hear him talk! As if he experienced it all already, thrice!” “Not in this life I haven’t.” Samuel remarked. Samuel stood up from his seat and shuffled to starboard, looked over the railing at the dandelions swept by the breeze, below the Altocumulus floccus, and along the seamless and rimless ocean. “What if we never find the truth?” He asked. “Maybe the truth would be that knowledge, of it and in general, is always limited; and knowledge is gained but also lost at the same time. Behold the vast ocean and it's sequesters. We roamed the sea, cataloguing for hundreds of years, but taxonomy can hardly keep up. The same goes for the forests. But oh, how many knowledge has been lost on us by having forgot the riches the wild offers us; men should feel more connected to their environment, to the planet, lest they end up more foolish.” He abruptly remembered something which startled him so much he quit his monologue; the thought was transient like a fallen star. He tried to remember it again and again, looked at the sea once more: the dashing swell; the pearly emerald glisten; the lush foaming and concupiscent chanting of the waves. Seagulls dancing at their fishfest. The gobbled sun slowly repainting the lacuna in his mind as it was saturating the sky. He saw himself sitting with Minerva on the finest bench of the park. The sun was just set, a glaring pinkish twilight and lavender lenticular clouds waltzing with rubedinous cirrocumuli bled on the canvas. Where she said something which didn't make sense to Samuel until this reminisce. She was talking about a phase approaching her; she could feel it crawl under her skin and trickle through her every thought; like a primal fear, a profound dread of the change he and she were about to make. “Are you alright there steersman?” Apillon asked while turning his moustache. “Yes, I am fine. Let us moor the yacht. I am only slightly seasick.” “Yah, I figured you were you land rot, it's too blatant.” “Even seamen get sick sometimes.” Samuel said. He asked Apillon if he could come with him to find out if there were bunkers, bombs or camps underground, but he refused to and strongly advised him to keep from investigating. Instead he told Samuel to rather go and leave town. But he wasn't interested in that at the moment, to say the least.. Far more important work had to be done: like finding evidence for the rumors so he could convince him, writing his assertions, reading Shakespeare, write music. It was obvious Apillon wanted to play his feelings down. Samuel decided to rent a house, because he was becoming increasingly paranoid in the hotel. He distrusted any personnel and watched every tourists like the eye of Sauron. The residence was more a palace than a house, negating the neighbors; there was present: a vast garden, a patio, a library, an observatory, a pool, canaries, domotics, a cupola–all except for the scepter, harem and vizier; the choice was impulsive, because he needed space after still feeling encaged from sailing. This was in a sense odd, because seldom do people feel like that, if not the contrary while on sea. He walked a hundred feet through the garden, along gargoyles and chimera’s, slipped into the Jacuzzi and put on some experimental post-ambientstep for a sonorous ambiance. Meditation felt the right thing to do at this unfurling of happenstances. He concentrated on the dignified obelisk perpendicular to him, with a Tibetan Cintamani beneath an onigawara, and on the effulgent satellitic interrelation of uncouth celestial spectacles; the diminutiveness of his being, superimposed on the endlessly growing, ever expanding spatiality of devoid or imperceptive realms. “Ironically, being being the source of this thought. Renders you not a diminution, infinitesimal, or ‘just’ a person. Consciousness is time and inversely, experiencing different possible universes as we progress through it, based on our apparent choice. Thus, we can do anything which is possible. Carpe noctem!” He cheered as he uncorked a Languedoc-Roussillon from the year 2024. “Ah, such a splendiferous year indeed. Red wine at the insurrection, champagne at the revolution!”

A few neighbors heard his outcries. “What revolution are you raving about there exactly?” One asked. “The one wherein the Reich wants to annihilate most of the biosphere by plummeting thermonuclear warheads on your heads, lest they lose power by your hands, should you use your heads.” Samuel said. “What are you talking about, dude? Do you even grasp reality?” One neighbor asked. “Yea?! Are you some conspiracy crank?” The guy next to him asked. “Hold on. Aren’t you Murphy Grandsock?” Samuel stepped out of his indulgence, took a towel and trudged up to them. The man continued: “From what’s that show called Mark?” He turned to his friend, who was thunderstruck. “Master of Muppets; a sure stool slayer! Oh yes, you are right, he does look like he’s a twin.” He said to Samuel when he stood closer. “No, such similitude is overstated, but still it is striking.” His friend said. “Well, I am not that guy, which I can assure you. My acting is lousy.” Samuel said. “Liar, liar, pants on fire. Your nose is budding slightly, but continue your ranting please, we enjoy listening to moronic gibberish.” “Hush your audacious flap flapping like the flip-flops you are flopping with and heed: you have not seen or heard what I have witnessed. A grand subterranean bunker complex is what I am talking about. What do you think they need them for? A convivium?” Samuel said. “Hah, those are not bunkers you gullible halfwit, my father was employed at the mining company that still mines there, it is in regular operational mode; and that is just what they are: mines. You can stick that thermonuclear war up your derriere.” His neighbor said. “Adding insults to your argument does not add weight to it. Furthermore: that is merely what you are being told, and that would be exactly what I would say if I were to be in their position, hence it is of no surprise.” All now seemed to enjoy the thought of winning the debate, as if it was a game. “But how then is that a revolution? It seems to me like you are just preventing a possible disaster, a contingency, with one of the most rigorous phases in culture there can be. You could even argue that it redeems the planets dignity, for men has squandered all these years and still are none the wiser. This is displayed throughout the world. Ignorance foments stupidity; the human canker is growing. Like a ruinous virus we multiply, divide and conquer, until only vestiges remain of a former self. And as the parasitic teak we are minute and inconspicuous, an entrance for the gossamer criminal, dormant assassin; if the bearer is not wary, he or she could not live to regret it. Perhaps we deserve it.” His neighbor said. “One teak can destroy man as one man can destroy a planet. Although I think you have a point, you also took a bite too many from the apple of cynicism. The revolution will be the only realistic alternative to bring an end to much of the current suffering of humanity. Can you not see what type of detriment, what form, and what abuse of power, profuse of avarice and surfeit of violence the Reich has displayed? Do you live only day by day and let the nights wash over you? Or rather by ideals and dreams, meaning and purpose?” Samuel asked. “Any day can have a special meaning if you want to. The world is not dichromatic. As desires and convictions are infused upon the kaleidoscope of existence.” Another one of their friends said as he joined the interlocution. “I am not repudiating that corollary and observation, good sir. I only think his analogy doesn't quite make it. Although, it would certainly suffice if one would compare it to the Reich’s conduct.” Samuel responded. “I think a more subtle standpoint would adorn you. When has there ever been a government without people? The government can't solely be the problem or cause. And merely overthrowing it the solution.” “No, you are correct. A revolution in our way of thinking, which always shapes our actions, is antecedent to a coup-d’état: the revolution of physical nature. It is efficient to throw away stuff you do not need.” Samuel said and added: “Of course, I would be on a slippery slope here, thus let me paraphrase: it's more efficient to recycle rubbish, such as, but not limited to: quisquilian bumbledoms and supererogatory bureaucracy; insane policies ensuing inane expenditure, which results in astronomical deficits. A diseconomy. Reform it into a more beneficial form, design or state: for other purposes than letting it rot, and pests swathe about, and bud its appalling quasi-skeuomorphs, adding nothing but a flavor of shame and an absurd hue to the whole. A hellish comedy.”

“But even then the conflicts are ineluctably going to escalate, not in the least something I’d look forward to.” His neighbor’s companion said. “They will either way, don’t you think?” Samuel replied. “Perhaps, but would you want to find out? I relish what we have now.” He replied. “What we have now is a sickened society. It is doom and gloom all over, and sooner or later the carcinoma of greed shall devour the planet.” His neighbor said. “I am sure it is not all that bad as you portray or shall develop like you portend.” His friend said. “What we have today is a klepto-corporatocracy, a pseudo-capitalistic, neo-feudal-fascist regime. Change needs to come from the inside they say, but this we can induce ourselves. We need to preserve our dignity and freedom.” Samuel said. “I see you are into politics, but these things can only change with playing the same game they are,” the neighbor’s friend said, and continued, “that is to say: politics. Not violence, we have come a long way to be able to rationalize and discuss our way out of conflicts, let us not give up the civility or deface cordiality, and forget the peace which we have so long and fiercely fought for.” “But what for do you think, we would risk to, temporarily, give up all that?” Samuel asked. “For what it is worth.” He replied. “Exactly, and it is worth a life if that makes you save two.” “Aside from a possible Pyrrhic victory or the value of a human life, we are going out tonight: do you want to come with us to a club in town? There are lots of willing females there, the most gorgeous women swarm around there, herds.” His neighbor said. “There are stellar Europans as well.” His friend said. “Ugh, let the Europans be cast off to where they belong; they are nothing but splinters in my eyes.” Samuel said. “How come? Do they not help us with science? There is no need to make a scapegoat out of those nice beings.” The neighbor’s comrade said. “I strongly dissent that sentiment; numerous problems have arisen subsequent to them entering our lands; namely higher crime rates, culture clashes –the discrepancy is too large –and more violence; but moreover they effectuated crises of a pious and fanatical nature. You can't negate the mass violence, in whatever faraway longitude or latitude.” Samuel said. “But what does it have to do with them on itself?” His neighbor asked. “Everything.” “Don’t diverge from or obfuscate the point with rhetoric, tell us.” He said. “If they weren't here, then the aforementioned problems would not have occurred.” Samuel said. “But how can you tell? I don’t see any causal relation between the two; your inference doesn’t have to follow from the premise per se. Therefore their existence, here, is no reasonable prerequisite for the effects we see; thus, as it is likely, they cannot be the cause alone. Perhaps the sole cause to the crises, if I were to lay a finger on such a matter, is the truth that cleaved the devout haecceity to uncover its cold and bare veracity? And the moiling and toiling of the unaware; somnambulants: underbelly somniloquism?” His neighbor asked. “Haecceity, somnambulants? What grandiloquent circumlocution do you dare use? Can't you speak in normal terms?” Samuel said, but the other gainsaid: “Normalcy is mediocre and mediocrity is meager and meagerness is for nincompoops.” “I think to be able to speak limpid and succinctly is more important than trying to prevent to come off as a stooge by doing the opposite. By my judgment, you resemble an orgulous and pretentious bombast, a supercilious pseudo-persona.” Samuel said. “Is it me boys or is the irony lost on this guy?” They chortled. Samuel continued on his previous point: “But an abnormal fear of truth, or fear of anything, to be exact: the fear of holding false beliefs can spur one, in certain cases, into deliria or hysteria when he or she is confronted with a discordant notion, or to be precise, a more objective reality. When this happens one can defend his belief as if it was his spouse being threatened. In the end it is his framework, his clad of conscience.”

“True. Oh, parenthetically, have you heard about this new technology they are now developing? You can plug yourself into a computer which renders virtual reality reality, or vice versa, however you look at it. Finally we can slip into a world fully abiding our wishes and deepest desires!” His neighbor’s friend said. “Where have you read that?” Asked the other. “Some esoteric website.” He replied. “In truth, that doesn’t sound too convincing. And it appears silly though, to have all your wishes and desires granted.” His comrade said. “I would say that too if I was to wear that shirt. They did supplement it with a scientific paper.” “But isn't it boring, really? To be able to get anything you want? And if it sounds too good to be true...” Samuel said. “No, it is really true, trust me, I’m a doctor. Although, how can the infinite playground of imagination possibly be in any way tedious?” “I think you would never be content. Isn't the hunt for a desire, wish or goal not that which makes you really tick? That pursuit in life, which makes the days after today even more interesting; and upon crystallization, imbues us with gratification and confidence to embark on new, bigger journeys.” Samuel said. “What I know is that every person has his or her own opinion, more or less, similarly the desiderata. In any case, it would then still differ from a boring life. And even if the wish is granted, the hunt is not lost, as you suggested. Though how happy are you now? It would not make you any less or more happy per se.” “In the end: it is just a rumor right? Let’s not get too exuberant.” “I have heard another rumor pertaining to the same topic, which allures me just as much...” Samuel told them about cerebral transplantation and a short discussion ensued on the utility and implications. “That seems like a technology that could change our lives in a very different way than my friend just mentioned.” His neighbor said. “It could. It somehow feels more natural to me than to live inside of a ‘hard disk’. Even if you can't discern whether or not one is living inside such a thing. The mere thought of it scares me out of my skin, to be honest.” His neighbor’s friend said. “So what does it really matter? No pun intended, because you could actually be living inside a very large computer right know and you wouldn’t even know it.” Samuel said. “That was what I was alluding to: like a simulation, that actually is our lives and memories?” “More in the metaphorical sense: like a video game, where you can choose your own path, within a set of rules or boundaries. Better known as the physical laws.” Samuel replied. “It is a daunting thought, but isn’t it just making up a new meaning for the word, and then attempting an extrapolation of it to the full scope of existentia? The simulation of being? I mean, what is it then a simulation of? Something of a higher order of reality? I would beg to differ that it is true, because this current world where we live in is quite real. Watch.” His neighbor said and threw a pebble at Samuel. “Yes, very funny, but you cannot prove that reality is really reality, without circular reasoning. For all we know it could be like a dream, and when we wake up we live actual reality. What if we wake up from our ‘deaths’ as if we weave again into this world when we wake up from sleep? Then like in a dream, everything feels as real as in the reality underneath. We do not question it. It is imposed upon us.” Samuel remarked. “Or it could be an awakening into a state more in vein of the lucid dreamer. And like the lucid dreamer, someone who questions reality, his or her own seeming reality, this gives rise to the occasion of transcending the moment: free will in her highest and most gracious form.” His neighbor said. “I might just skip tonight gentlemen; I am feeling drowsy. Its not the Europans anymore that bother me there and certainly not you lot, I am giving in to the thought of my bed.” Samuel said They ended the conversation with cheap puns, not to be written down here, and Samuel walked away from the hedge where he was having the conversation. A scarlet lotus in the pond caught his attention. The penumbra was growing on this side of the garden and the lily’s flower emerged. “There are some things that blossom in darkness, flower from falling blackness. And does the universe itself not inflate the void; flaunting stroboscopic tears on the nightgown of Earth? Is our life not shaded, when there is a mask before us?” He thought.

The flushed lily was now whelmed by blue shivers, searing through the stratified atmosphere. Bundles of corpuscles traversed from their origins which lie in the range of 160.300.000.000.000 to 920. of kilometers, give or take; to undulate with the water strider’s waves, sprinkling its cosmic attire on his dance floor. “One asks himself to what extent the squashy creature is acquainted with his starry environment. We think not much or at all, but how is this justified? He might know they are there. Is our comprehension of the universe a priori greater? Just because we have the ability to communicate our knowledge, it doesn't preclude any preponderance in understanding. We only understand the world around us through the medium that is us; there is no science without the scientist.” Upon these fancies and the drizzly night surging over him he grasped for his relief, which was pressing. He jubilantly decanted his tangerine excretory into the basin along the weeping willows’ gloom, and regressed inside after having harvested a pear. The interior was extraneous, a striking resemblance with the yacht. A chandelier hung over a beauteous Persian rug, which lay beneath a walnut arc. “Meh, I would despise owning this all; but it is weird and surprising how no occupant with either a false name or with any need of quick cash would leave with any of the arabesque ceramic or apparently antediluvian ornamentations present. Perhaps I am being watched.” He thought. He dropped himself into a sofa next to the fireplace. “Why are you not looking for me?”A voice said. He opened his eyes and looked perplexingly around. It was so real. “Why would I still believe that you are alive?” He answered, and closed his eyes again. “Have you any reason not to?” The voice asked. “When I might lose my own life in the procuring of that which might be not there anymore or never was?” “When you are lonely, and to end it follow my voice?” She replied. “Sophistry.” He responded. “Is it? Why don't you see it for yourself and go to Loughrigg Rue 22?” His heart was unsure, but his mind was resolute. Dangling down anxious alleys and gutters of unrequited amore. Howling and prowling for concord. Stuttering love. Invisible. Trekking along the moats and quays–through Xantippe, Medea and the Sirens–stammer upon Scylla and Charybdis. “Psychophillia & Hypnodisiacs” as the sign read. He glanced at Perkamentus' hat. “Good evening sir, how did your vespertine splendor bring itself to the oneirous realm of the numinous, the meridian, the ravel unraveling, conversely, the everlong reverie?” The shopkeeper asked as if it was a recorded voice being played. “By utilizing the ingress, after seeing the vortex on your mint sign. What is it all about? This is Loughrigg Rue 22, right?” “Oh, you are mistaken. The sign is hanging upside down, sorry about that; seventy-seven is my address. But didn’t you hearken, boy? Behold the finest produce you will ever lay your goggles on. Your most extravagant dream is lackluster in comparison. Tumble down the rabbit hole of enamors and paramours, or stumble along enchanting segues of the bizarre and Kafkaesque.” He said as Samuel considered leaving for the other address, but in the end decided to stay, because the man's prelude interested him and the voice had implored him. It was destiny. “If it is really better than my dreams I will have to try it, but I haven’t once met a man of business who wouldn't praise his catalogue, and I don't assent with such a notion as if everything is fine and well, or even unsurpassed; when in reality there is always something bigger and better out there.” “Alright, you know what; I'll give you two for the price of one.” “But if it doesn't work, I still lose.” Samuel said. “There is no game in the first place. And a transmigration is definitely not such.” “Or is there one?” “Just have a look around and read a wee bit.” The clerk said.

He walked over to the adjunct counter and read some of the descriptions that hung above their respective biologics. Espersil maxillius: Root endemic to Southern-Europe. Use at least an hour before sleeping. When dreaming, the person enters his or her realm of memories, which become a palpable surreality for up to four hours. Megoria genii: Hailing from the Mediterranean; this dried organic lump is actually the tail of a salamander. When this animal is in aestivation, its tail is harvested for the chemicals that only pertain to that period. After consummation, the effects lasts for a day and can include mild to extreme sensations of euphoria and a total adoration of everything. Bombulium bomsentia: Rare root endemic to northern south-America. Fuddles with dendritic endocrines. The effects last for up to one hour. Ten to twenty minutes after consumption consciousness detangles, altering the perception of actuality and time. Effects vary per individual: temporal experience may be dilated to having sensed a year has passed. Use while lying down in a comfortable and quiet environment. Drogmadora certelus: Resin from the xylem of a prismatic birch. Its potency varies, but when the tree carries a specific pathogen this is vastly increased. Its only cultivated with this pathogen. After consumption the person seemingly enters the mind of a deity for over thirty minutes. Granting omnipotence, except to be able to construe indefinitely, influence or otherwise tamper with the duration of the effect. After having skimmed the descriptions he decided to go with the Bombulium bomsentia; he felt intrepid and had nothing of value to lose. He was urged by her inflections. He turned to the clerk with the products when the man told him: “If it should happen the effect is not exactly what you had in mind, then consuming the same root, in your ascension, will result into you spiraling down to reality again.” The clerk said. “What if I forget it? Wouldn't I then feel utterly lost and stuck?” “You won’t forget, but if it makes you feel better: your mind is still in full control.” “But what if I torture myself?” Samuel asked. “Think merry son! You can have a but for every and anything. Follow your inner voice.” He more or less convinced Samuel in the end, because he left with two packages. “It is merely about the principle and not the purse. Men who stand by their principles are fixed men. Even more transfixed if their beliefs are resolved. As if it was like the pole star, instilled in the expanse, and the universe revolved around it.” He thought, as he ripped the packages and begun to masticate the roots. The taste was savory: sweet and sour, it reminded him of cinnamon, almond and unripe kiwi. He hurried to Loughrigg Rue 22, which appeared to be a large and abandoned building. It was fully boarded up, yet he found a plank where the screws were protruding. He nudged them off and squeezed through the aperture he created by slanting the wood. Desperate for answers, he scuffled around in near eigengrau and after finding out the electricity was still there, saw chairs, bureaus, archives and cobwebs all interspersed. After searching every drawer, box and cabinet he found a few extant missives with both recipients being Copernicus Mining & co. One was a correspondence between the overseer and manager. The overseer stated how the adamantine deposits made it practically impossible for the team to continue drilling 'chambers' with its then outdated technique, yet ephorized by the Reich, continued in spite of it, because the deposits purportedly reinforced the ‘bunkers filled with provender’. The end result was more and more equipment ceased to work. The second document was from the accountancy, condensed it stated how they were losing financial support due to lower subsidiaries; plus the aggregate supply of dynamite was depleting; the demand with respect to their offset had risen in two years with a staggering nine hundred and two percent. They were nearing a capsize and the author suggested selling the company.

He did not hesitate to show this to Apillon as evidence for a second. Upon arriving at the docks, in the apogee hope of meeting him there, he instead encountered symbols of alien calligraphy across the sky, and a deluge of umbrae and opalescent froth touching the silvery clouds: a daunting aqueous reign cast before the sun. Engulfing his breath and being. As he undreams.

Sign up to vote on this title
UsefulNot useful