Archive | spoRE:MIX

spoRE:MIX 4.[16-20]

 

Il y avait deux réplicants à temps partiel, accros à l’alcool à brûler, qui tenaient un hôtel pourri sur Lee Street. Un soir, un homme est entré, il a demandé une chambre. Il a dit qu’il s’appelait Escher. Il donnait l’impression de ne pas avoir été achevé : un bon projet, mais la construction de l’être humain avait dû être interrompue par manque d’argent.
Ce que les réplicants ignoraient, c’est qu’Escher avait une malle en fer-blanc, et qu’à l’intérieur il y avait un robot, un mécanisme vivant gagné dans un casino du centre ville.
Encore un truc : le robot, c’était une robotte. En fait, c’était même une poupée en plastique, avec deux cristaux pour faire les yeux et une porte dérobée qui donnait accès à son cœur battant. Mais ses doigts, il faut le préciser, étaient conçus pour la mort plutôt que pour l’amour.
Escher était fait pour raconter des histoires. Sans doute, en des jours meilleurs, il avait été écrivain. Souvent, la nuit, l’un des réplicants venait tambouriner à sa porte pour lui dire de la fermer. Mais Escher avait une passion. Il aimait faire asseoir la robotte sur son lit et la régaler d’histoires : œil géant lâché dans les rues, visages humains volés pendant que les gens dormaient, miroir doué de conscience aux trousses de la beauté d’un soldat nommé Turing. Tant et tant d’histoires. À la vérité, la robotte tombait doucement amoureuse d’Escher, et lui d’elle. Mais, une nuit, un rival est apparu. Un type qui s’était installé dans la chambre voisine. Il s’est mis en tête de séduire la robotte. Il l’invitait aux soirées qu’il organisait.
Escher, assis sur son lit, buvait du whisky en écoutant les bruits de l’autre côté du mur. Il entendait le rire de la robotte. Une image douloureuse lui traversa l’esprit. Il se sentait prisonnier d’une de ses histoires, sans voie de sortie. Sans réfléchir il tira une longue lame étincelante de sous son oreiller, il est sorti de sa chambre, il a remonté le couloir jusqu’à la chambre 29.
L’un des trois mourrait ce soir, il en était sûr. Il le fallait, pour que l’histoire trouve sa fin.

 

There were these two part-time replicators, totally hooked on methylated spirits, who ran a cheap-rate, burn-out joint down on Lee Street. One evening a man turned up, asking for a room. He gave his name as Escher. He resembled a half-finished person, a good idea for a human being whose construction had come to a halt, due to lack of funds.

What the replicators didn’t know was that Escher had a tin wardrobe where he kept a robot locked up, a living mechanism he’d won in a gambling palace downtown.

Now here’s the thing: the robot was a girl robot. Actually, more like a plastic doll than anything, with two crystals for eyes, and a secret door that led to her beating heart. But her fingers, it must be noted, were designed more for killing, than loving.

This Escher was a man for telling stories. Probably, in better days, he’d been a writer of some kind. One or other of the replicators would often bang on his door in the night, to ask him to be quiet. But Escher had a hobby. He liked to sit the girl robot on the bed and regale her with tales of giant eyes running through the streets, of human faces being stolen as people slept, of a sentient mirror that prowled after the handsome features of a soldier called Turing. So many stories. In truth, the girl robot was falling a little in love with Escher; and he with her. But one night a rival turned up, a man who had taken the room next door. This neighbour started to pursue the robot’s affections. He threw wild parties and invited her along.

Escher sat on his bed, drinking whiskey, listening to the noises coming through the wall. He could hear the girl robot laughing. A painful image flashed through his mind. He felt he was trapped in one of his own fabulations, with no exit route. Without thinking, he slid a long clean blade from under his pillow and walked out from his room, along the corridor to room 29.

One of the three of them would die tonight, of that he was certain. Only then could the story end.

spoRE:MIX 3.[11-15]

 

Vampires cloaked their true status in order to cross the borderline without detection. They smuggled illegal vials of Lady Diana mutations, hidden in secret compartments. Now they walked unknown through the city, their bodies passing as normal.

In secret, they licked at blood-stained lips, and mixed the Princess DNA with lower elements.

Six months later there were over 250 variations of the Diana face on the streets. The police testers tried to scan them all, hoping that the original, stolen DNA would emerge. It never did.

Diana Variant 45 lived alone. She dissolved the stalks of magical plants in chemicals. Her eyes glowed as she conjured up the biographical data of the true Princess. That night she lay abed, dreaming of cameras.

Her days of borrowed fame were numbered, she knew that now. Her red lips were cracking. She got up and went down to the all-night medical centre, to Room 601, where human features were removed to be sold on to image designers. These women without faces became known as Vapour Girls. But at the last moment, she could not go through with the operation. The face would stay with her, for a while at least. She took a cab back to her complex.

Diana Variant 45 woke up in darkness. She could sense a presence in her lonely room. It was a body devoid of sunlight, a ghost, but neon-lit. The true Princess stepped out from the shadows.

The two faces, real and fake, kissed and intermingled.

spoRE:MIX 2. [06-10]

 

Eros recognized himself in the newspaper. It was a story of 17 people found dead, a family, buried under icy ground.

The police took him away for testing. They were certain he was to blame, in some way, for the murders. But he could speak only a few words, in riddles, and these in a strange language. He had lived too long inside his own image, which he saw now as a mirror coated with poison.

They broke his arrows in two, and placed him in quarantine. He sat in a corner, staring at the walls and ceiling. It was hot in the small, enclosed space. He felt sticky, he was sweating. He tried to speak, but his lips would not move.

Night fell outside the tiny barred window. A woman’s voice sang in the dark, the same three notes echoing over and over. Eros listened, enraptured. The song invoked the ghosts of the old country. Eros had once been real; now he lived on as myth. But still, he was troubled by fear.

The Minister of Love consulted his Narcissus Screen. The sacred reflection spoke of the need for a replica, a replacement Eros to be built, an android. The Minister made a broadcast, using an artificial tongue to convey the message. The new Eros was shown off at a press conference. He bore a slight resemblance to the original, but for the skin, which was transparent. And inside his chest a heart of glass could be viewed; it pulsed with a crimson fluid. His arrows were blunted, as required by the safety regulations.

Years later, the real Eros was released from his prison. He booked into a small dingy hotel on a back street. Here, he passed his final days. His skin cracked and poetry seeped out, released at last from its bodily confines. Now the poetry needed a voice. It needed to escape the poisoned mirror: to sing again, to whisper lyrics of flesh and fire. Invisible, it floated across the city, searching for a host.