BIBLIOTHECA ALMIKA

SF STORIES

Book Title: Bizarre Lucid Dream

Editor: Julija Bek

Illustrator: Dubravka Korci

Copyright Author © 2025

RNB 01-06 25

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CONTENTS:

Naida of My Soul……………………………………………………….4

The Door……………………………………………………………….12

Parashurama`s Dreams……………………………………………..13

Hunting High and Low……………………………………………….18

Sequential Storage of Reality……………………………………….22

Bizarre Lucid Dream………………………………………………….32

 

  

 

 NAIDA OF MY SOUL

                    .

Labrusca likes it rough. This is my additional problem. Muscular substance of Aminod body is pretty robust, in comparison to fragile, spongy tissues of average female Floran.

Yet, do I complain? With offshoots like Labrusca you don`t complain, just adapt. Although that`s easier said than done. Especially with offshoots like Labrusca.

Her sumptuous body is nothing but a cluster of spindle-formed and spherical shapes, connected by delicate, wonderfully executed folds. The entire package is wrapped in a satin sheath of purple grape skin. The fruity scents of her intimate areas take on a bitter note of fermentation in moments of excitement. This is just one of the reasons why the word “intoxication” would be the most accurate description for all kinds of intimacy with Labrusca, just without the quotes.

There’s no doubt that my Aminod exotic vitality was the deciding factor when she chose me as her official “pet”. Not to mention my personal charm, of course.

So what!? If it suits her, it suits me. The possibility of influencing such a highly positioned Floran is a valuable gain for any Xen. Especially for Aminod with a mission.

Labrusca looks at me with her bean-shaped motley eyes; from above, over her bare shoulder. She says nothing. She doesn’t have to. I know she’s pleased. She gets up and approaches the bland red polyvinyl table, the only piece of furniture in the room besides the bed. Suddenly she turns theatrically and throws at me a handful of gold coins. One rolls under the hot skin of my thigh. Shocked by the icy touch, I raise my hips. I catch her hungry gaze as the intoxicating scent of must fills the room.

“I love that you’re always in a good mood… Whore,” she scraped her crackling staccato through her ruby-encrusted lips.

Whore, that’s the only human word she uses. She’s perfected it so much that, surely, even the inhabitants of terraformed planets in all three inhabited galaxies could understand it.

Why three? Because of those three “wormholes” that were stationed in the vicinity of the Solar System even in the post-atomic era. At least, everyone knows that.

Terra itself? It’s gone. As a child I watched the growth of a red giant, then… nebulae. And what did I feel? Nothing, like watching fireworks. Spileogeia is my home. I was born here.

As she was leaving, Labrusca creaked: “Be prepared when alleviation occurs. I’ll send for you.”

***

I wouldn`t like to go into details about how the Floran laws prohibit foreigners from spontaneous access to the local population, with particular emphasis on female members. I mention this just for the record. I intend to bother even less by saying that Xens are prohibited from using covered public spaces of the settlement, as well as public transportation services. All this on the condition that by some wonderful miracle they received papers to enter the central Lega, which means – to pass through the “curtain”.

The prohibited public spaces, of course, do not include the neighborhood known as the Xen Ghetto or, as it residents like to say back o` town, intended primarily for Aminods and for other Xens, newcomers from the terraformed planets of the galaxy. This disgusting apartheid is justified by the fiction that ammonia fumes from our bodies cause epidemics of lethal allergies in Floran natives. Nonsense! But we won’t whine about it. From “alleviation” to “glitter time” the Xen Ghetto is filled with free-thinking Florans who have absolutely no problem with ammonia scents!? Non-free-thinking Florans have no business here. They know it themselves. The exception to the rule is a heavily armed “law and order” patrol, which is very welcome. The dickheads act on their own responsibility.

Labrusca`s real name is not Labrusca. I agreed with myself to call her that. She has no clue. If you insist on me teaching you to pronounce her real name – which I strongly do not recommand – you will have to use your tongue to make a sound similar to running your palm over the surface of a rubber bladder. Like that, roughly.

And although I have spent years perfecting my Floran voice on the water-cabin terraces of Merga – watching the yellow water of Sigret flow through my toes – I still scrape it with a nasty accent. Labrusca pretends not to mind. Only, every time I address her, she unconsciously blinks her frontal ciliary eye veil. Sweet, tolerant Labrusca!

I’m staring at a colony of rust-coloured mold, nestled in the groove of a poorly executed screed of a raw concrete wall. No windows. Just that unglassed loophole opening. My gaze descends on a battered squat toilet, wedged in the corner of the modest room. A twisted strip of water leaks from the faucet on the wall into the sewer. It purrs pleasantly … lullingly.

And here I am again on the rough logs of Merga. It is the time of “glittering” when the giant, orange sun Namu tries unsuccessfully to hide behind the dwarf, many times brighter Bef.

Sigret murmurs; Damne speaks, and I stare at the children jumping over the logs of Djurba on the opposite bank. Naida is there too. I know it, even though I can’t see her… because of the haze.

“Sayme, you’re not listening to me at all!”

“I’m listening, teacher…I’m listening. I can repeat every word by heart.”

Damne pretends to be angry, but he’s not – I know him well.

“Sayme has been chosen,” I declaim pathetically,“ one day – when he is ready – to restore the disturbed order of things. Because of this, he cannot live like other children. Sayme must prepare for his mission. The fate of the human race on the planet Spileogeia depends on this mission!”

The fate of the human race … the fate … of the human race … while Sigret murmurs pleasantly, and Naida’s sweet little feet jump … in the mist … on the rough logs of Djurba …

I wake up sweating, jump out of bed and run through dusty, trash-strewn hallways. Grayc sits on a smelly, tattered sheet in his corner, surrounded by a bunch of young people I don’t know. They stare at me, in awe. Grayc winks at me meaningfully. As I pass, I knee him in the ribs. He grins proudly and coughs.

I step out into the hustle and bustle of the street. Like a satiated harlot, the shadowy Xen-ghetto prepares for another sleepless “alleviation.” I look up; the dwarf, whitish Bef is just slipping behind Namu’s orange disk. I’ll have to hurry!

***

“He’s so handsome… Are you sure he’s not for sale?” asks a large Floran woman, shamelessly staring at my cheeky buttocks, tucked into a too-tight corset. The bark of her neck is irreparably furrowed. Her breath reeks of rot. Fortunately, all this is just her polite attempt to get in touch with Labrusca. The conversation is not interesting to me in an intelligence sense. Being bored, I look at the art installations in the gallery’s exhibition spaces. The closest one irresistibly reminds me of a massively disproportionate copy of the toilet in my little room. It`s no coincidence; only the exoticism of Xen Ghetto can start the gooey juices through the half-clogged pipes of the Floran society`s rotten pillars. I would like to get closer to the group of old men rustling right next to the glass wall, but the chain is too short. Only discontinuous fragments of the conversation reach me from a distance.

Labrusca skillfully gets rid of unwanted company.

“You must be thirsty,” she says to me in a sweet crackle, briskly running her hands through my thick, black mane.

“Yes, yes, yes,” I gasp submissively.

“It was a pleasure,” she bows slightly to the rotten … while pulling the chain behind her. We head towards the bar. She sits on a dizzyngly high bar stool and orders a mineral water. Like the other “pets”, I remain standing behind my domina.

As Labrusca hands me a glass dose, the elderly Floran approaches her – one of the top positions holders of power from the competing “Girdian” lineage. On the back of his withered head, pruned, dull blue shoots are gathered in a bundle. His wrinkled face is dominated by clear, aquamarine eyes. The sly old man tries to hide his indignation. Yet every movement betrays him. Too cunning to admit defeat, the deposed “chief executive” offers Labrusca meaningless concessions.

His bodyguard is standing right next to my shoulder. The racial Floran male stares provocatively into my eyes as he elbows me disdainfully. The collenchyma of his arms, tightened to the point of  bursting, pulsate under the cloak. The sclerenchymal tendons tense, ready for lightning-fast action.

I suppress a mocking smile. Could they really have forgotten how much stronger the Aminodian bodies are than their own!?

The proud warrior let his thick epidermal hair fall freely down his armor made of pina nobilis shell tissue. Covered with the abonite cuticle, his striking bust takes on the appearance of an unbridled waterfall of petrified anthracite resin. At the same time, the shell of the armor breaks up the light of the reflector into a dazzling array of iridescent rainbow colours.

Labrusca doesn’t care. She looks through old Girdian and is silent. Everyone in the room already knows – he is the past… she is the future.

I see what is happening. Bathed in the glow of indescribable happiness, I try to suppress my reactions, to restrain my feelings to the point of non-existence. My journey is nearing its end. Soon all the sacrifices, all the suffering and humiliation will have their final meaning.

Dissonant silhouette far on the horizon; the crystal Curia tears the muted sky apart. With sharp cuts in the frame, my gaze descends to the points where the glassy rocks of the walls unevenly penetrate the ground – as only He could have imagined. The quadrophony of a shrill murmur thickens around my head…

 

I crouch on the edge of the “grotto” and listen to my father’s voice:

“The one below – in the very center – Sayme … it is the “Heart” – the eternal safety pledge of the human race on the planet Spileogeia. Remember that well!”

The giant construction site is filled with hundreds of captive Florans. Among them, here and there, my eyes catch the indigo of some guards uniform standing out or Namu suddenly shines the silver of the watchman`s helmet.

People approach my father and ask him… this and that. He answers, briefly and decisively.

With goosebumps, I solemnly pronounce:

“The wise men sailed in a wooden tub… A strong wind threw them out to sea…”

“What are you mumbling about?” A crackling voice jolted me out of my reverie.

“Nothing. Just a nursery rhyme.”

“Let’s go!”

***

We sit in the corner of the hallway on a tattered, smelly sheet. The three of us in a festive atmosphere. Grayc lights a candle even though visibility is good. Well it’s the pinnacle of the “glittering time”!

We remain silent and wait for the teacher to speak. As if hypnotized, Damne stares absently at the concrete wall behind my head. I look at Grayc, who is proudly grinning, rihtly. How did he manage to drag the teacher here, all the way from Merga?! I know one thing for sure – there is no kind of torture that would make him admit this to anyone.

“Tomorrow is the day of a new awakening,” Damne speaks softly. “All the hearts of Spileogeia will beat together with yours, Sayme … to reach the Curia’s “Heart ” and to free our people from slavery.”

After these words, the old man’s shoulders slightly begin to tremble. We rise to our knees, embrace each other and press our heads together. We cry in silence for the souls of  those who did not live to see this moment. For them, the dead, and for us, the living… drowning in captivity; from that terrible day when the golden circle of Bef walked across the sky of Spileogeia and caught Namu in a fatal, deadly waltz. From the moment when – at the dawn of the first “glitter”, in the ghostly silence of Apocalypse – countless bodies of untouched, dead Aminods floated in the yellow water of Sigret; that fateful day when the Florans celebrated their final and undeserved triumph.

***

The elevator car, the size of my room, plummets down hundreds of floors of the magnificent crystal Curia. At the top – in the shadow of the sunlit domes – the ceremonial handover of power is taking place. I sincerely doubt that they interrupted the inauguration of the new ruling dynasty because of a minor security incident. But down below – in the “grotto” – they are waiting for me impatiently, for sure.

“With you, everything always has to go in the most painful way possible”, I mutter to myself. “Nearly naked … against an enemy armed to the teeth. Even without the advantage of the surprise moment. This can only happen to you, Sayme! Is this what a hero who fearlessly rushes towards the “Heart” of the Curia to free his people from Floran slavery!? And … what about all those Aminodian hearts that, in this fateful moment, are beating together with yours? Will those hearts help you survive, if right after opening the door you run into a bullet!? I don`t think so. You know that the whole burden of this story rests on your back. Well then, come on, Sayme! Try to get your ass out of this shit!”

I climb up the nickel pipes that follow the elevator door frame the entire height of the cabin. I press my body against the horizontal cork of  the ceiling. Like a spider, I nestle and calm down. The giant metal panels open silently.

The room echoes with the clang of broken mirrors, followed by the vicious bites of ricochets. In a sulfurous haze of glowing metal – in a rain of shattered glass – I prepare to exit. I grab the horizontal tube of the rim with both hands. As I throw my body out, a deafening explosion rips apart the elevator. My left knee and hip hit the ceiling of the auditorium. I fall to the floor. Dazed and bruised, I try to make out my bearings in the thick, black smoke. I can barely see anything. That’s exactly what I need. I know where everything is. I’ve been through this situation with Damne countless times. The critical phase of the operation has been successfully completed. I’m still alive. And that’s good… very, very good. I’m not even seriously injured. Just those burns on the outsides of my hands.

I stand up resolutely and, hunched over, zigzag through the stinking darkness. With my arms outstretched, I stumble upon three warriors. They have taken up position to the right of the glass entrance niche protrusion. Quite expected! Sliding, I pass through the body of one of the Florans; I decapitate two of them with my forearms.

Further from the elevator door, the smoke from the explosions is thinner, and to the left, in the depths of the hall, I can see vaguely the rest of the guard. From the machine gun nest, they watch their tribesmen who, petrified with shock, motionless stand around me. I know they won’t wait for long. I snatch the weapon from the nearest warrior, along with his right forearm. I lean against the embankment, made of hemp sacks filled with platinum gravel. The bursts are already whizzing over my head. Some are hitting dully the sandy shelter. Still standing, the warriors around me tremble from the multitude of bullets they have received. Their bodies are melting and, like gooey syrup, they slide over my legs.

Hidden behind a steel parapet, one of the opponents is firing like crazy from a heavy machine gun. The others are supplying him with rounds of ammunition and cold barrels. They are right. Their reinforcements should arrive any moment. Time is not my ally. I am the one who must take the risk. I set the automatic rifle to single fire and wait for a moment of respite. While they are changing the red-hot barrel of the machine gun, I stand up and lean on my left knee. I aim carefully… The head of the central Floran blossoms into a cloud of yellowish popcorn. It smells like roux soup. I take advantage of the opposing camp confusion. In a few jumps I reach their “nest” and knock the heavy machine gun off its feet. With my “automatic” aimed, I try to convince them to throw their weapons into a far corner of the room. For a moment they are hesitant.

“So, what will it be? Or… should I put the paprika stew on to boil?” I calmly blurt out.

They throw away their weapons and lie on the floor, arms outstretched. I go to the niche of the entrance to the “Heart” and press my face against the interface groove.

“Pronounce the code text … Sayme,” the recording of my father’s voice echoes. Although I’ve always known what’s coming next, I’m left breathless. The sound of clogs from the auditorium stairs wakes me up. I pronounce clearly:

“The wise men sailed in a wooden tub… A strong wind threw them out to sea!”

The “Heart” doors open to a width of some forty inches. As I crouch down and enter, a gunshots hail bounces off the bulletproof glass of the niche. Behind me, the entrance slowly closes.

***

I sit – deeply reclined – in the egg of the cockpit. The control unit structure rotates in predetermined directions as needed. The command console helmet is attached to my head. My hands, seemingly senselessly, are scribbling in space. At this moment I am upside down, although I am not aware of it. In the center of  my vision-field virtual space, a transparent Spileogeia rotates. The outlines of the continents and significant toponyms are drawn on the surface in green. The lonely “islands” of Aminod reservations are marked in blue, as well as the secret launch pads locations of our missile systems. They are surrounded by a red “sea” of the enemy army. The image is constantly pulsating. A merciless battle has engulfed the entire Planet.

Countless alarms flicker around the perimeter of the holographic display – both from points placed on the front and those on the opposite side of the globe.

I look for a priority list and touch the most vulnerable location with my index finger, dragging it into the free space. I enlarge the image by spreading my arms. Now I can see the arrangement of units on the given battlefield section. In manual mode, I activate firepower and destroy the enemy force that is encircling the Aminodian village.

It’s clear to me that I won’t get far this way.

I touch the “icon” < Projectile Installation> I select the option from the offered menu: < Select All > … then < Automatic Target Selection … Unless> .

This means that every Aminod base – on the entire surface of the Planet – will automatically react by self-activating and then destroying the opposing forces in the area of its combat jurisdiction, in case the base itself is threatened or, on the other hand, the civilian targets of the region it covers with the range of its firepower. Now the situation on the globe is almost completely acceptable. The number of alarms has been reduced to a tolerable level. According to the priority lists, I get involved in problematic situations and solve them.

My eyes accidentally fall on the “icon” Spileogeia/Terraforming. Out of sheer curiosity, I click on it. Reading the basic information, I immediately notice the discrepancy. A cold shiver runs through my body. There is not a shred of doubt about what is at stake here.

Spileogeia is among the first planets ever terraformed by the human race. The terms of settlement, however, show a dramatic deviation from the legally prescribed procedure. This is, undeniably, a clumsy cover-up of the earthly bureaucracy sloppiness. Horrified, I listen to the report of Commodore Elmar Braddy – the senior Space Marine officer in charge of operations:

“… The planet is inhabited by bipedal humanoid entities of plant origin … Without the necessary scientific tests I can say almost nothing about their mental or emotional habitus. Still, it seems to me that … Damn it, Burt … we seem to be too late!”

The following is the agitated response from the Secretary of State from the Earthly Ministry of Colonization:

“Oh, get them off me… Elmo, all those walking pickles. Just do your job. And do it properly!”

My lips form the words: “Crime! Unspeakable… unjustifiable crime!”

In accordance with the Code of Ethics for Settlement, all initiated activities should have been immediately suspended and thereafter, a delicate – elaborated in detail – procedure for determining the existing local civilization level was supposed to be lounched. In the case of Spileogeia, the final result would undoubtedly have been a complete and permanent abandonment of any colonization of the Planet. True, then someone – up there – would have had to draw the consequences.

“Now you know everything… Whore. “

The helmet conveys a crackling voice to me, located in the chamber of the “grotto”. Labrusca stands alone directly behind the niche of the glass entrance. The inaugural uniform of the “chief executive” could not be more modest. It takes my breath away. Any kind of decoration would only spoil her natural beauty.

“So, what are you going to do… now that you’re almighty?”

“You haven’t exactly made a name for yourself either… Slut ,” I blurt out, unsuccessfully trying to hide the effects of her presence on my body.

“What does that mean – Slut ?” She paused, confused.

“Same as Whore ”, I snorted.

The skin of Labrusca’s cheeks turned slightly blue; the corners of the lips turn up barely perceptibly. The command console helmet is unable to transmit the interlocutor’s scents. Yet somehow it seems to me that those words produced the same effect in Labrusca’s womb that her appearance produced in mine. Only, not so obviously.

We stare at each other through the bulletproof glass that separates and connects us.

“I see you’ve decided,” she whispered softly.

I look away. “Of course I decided. I had to. And you… what would you do!?”

There is silence. After a short pause, I ask reservedly:

“Shall we impose… democracy?”

I don’t dare look at the expression on Labrusca’s face. I already know, there is a long and thorny road ahead of me. After all, am I almighty… or am I not!?

                                                          .

 

THE DOOR
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I run through the eerily empty spaces of the Ministry of Science and Education in a cataclysm. The corridors, all alike, stretch endlessly. My appointment has long since expired. Yet I continue to run madly. Experience tells me that after persistent searching, the brain arranges the “cubes” of the labyrinth and miraculously hits its target. I found the room number three times, but the wrong floor, sector, or wing of the building always got in the way.

I pass by the rows of doors that, this time unstoppably, are approaching the number I’m looking for. A fleeting glance through the giant window pane freezes my run. The silhouette of the man – deep in the street – looks familiar to me. Too bad he immediately moved to the foot of the building. “I’m sure I know him from somewhere,” I think absentmindedly as I continue my chase.

Here, the next door and … I’m standing at the end of the corridor. I look around in dismay. The stairs lead to the mezzanines, up and down; and the corridors stretch to the left and right. Frantic and speechless, I climb and descend. Everything is wrong again: the wings and the floors and the sectors. I stop for a moment … silence. However, as soon as I move on, it’s as if I hear the delayed echoes of my own footsteps. I stop again. This time, the muffled echoes from the depths of the building echo several more times. Is someone following me? I shiver.

I let my intuition guide me. Bulky windows and doors; antique ceiling lamps … rough walls and upholstered staircases; handrails polished by countless palms line up endlessly. And, again and again, those mysterious echoes of footsteps that stop. Exhausted, I crouch on the creaky parquet in the corner of two corridors, leaning my back against the icy wall.

I look up and realize that the first door in the hallway leading to the left has the number I’m looking for. But the first door in the hallway on the right also obviously leads to the same room. Surprised, I get up and head to the right. I see the sign on the door that says “Door”. “What nonsense”, I blurt out, “of course it’s a door!” I turn on my heel and return to the left hallway. I knock and enter. The secretary looks at me critically and then says coldly: “Mr. Smith, the time for your scheduled meeting has long expired.”

I leave the room urgently and head in the assumed direction of the exit. My eyes fall on the sign “Door”. I wave my hand and continue. As I pass by… I hear the secretary’s joyful exclamation from inside: “Mr. Smith, you’re really early today!”

Satisfied, I sit down at the foot of the nearest staircase and breathe a sigh of relief. I arrived on time. I just have to wait a little longer until I leave the office. I need confirmation that I’ve completed the interview, don’t I? And then the two of us – along with all the rest of us who, individually scattered, are still arriving from below – united in the cabbage head of our own shared personality will head out for a well-deserved morning coffee.

                             .

 

 

PARASHURAMA`S  DREAMS

                      .

 At night, Rama always had the same dream. He would reach deep between his wiry, hairy thighs. Alas, he would find nothing there! Only that tiny fold of soft, silky skin. A sweet shiver would run through his body. The very next moment he rode, hunched low, on the back of his most fiery stallion. He would firmly clasp his knees around the horse’s croup. The black stallion would suddenly rear up. The whole world would then explode before Rama’s blinded eyes.

“A dream… just a dream again!” he sobbed, disappointed, rolling around in the hot, damp bed. “Counselors!” he roared.

Three disheveled figures staggered into the room. “Command, O Immortal Avatar.”

Limping and hopping, they tried unsuccessfully to tie together the piles of colourful cloths and belts. They eventually fell and remained lying there, shaking with fear and cold.

“I don’t want to be a man anymore … I want to become a woman,” the master calmly informed them. “Send me my medicine men.”

A few moments later, the bedroom was filled with a dozen picturesque figures who, with indescribable smugness, circled the bed, discreetly peering under the canopy.

“So?” Rama spoke.

One of the priests snapped his fingers loudly. A young man entered the room, loosely wrapped in a white sheet. He climbed onto the bed and disappeared behind the colourful curtain. In an instant, there was complete silence. And then the richly pleated silk of the royal canopy was cut by the flat blade of a war axe. The priest’s head rolled across the polished ceramic floor. “Konk,” it bounced off the wall, finally coming to rest between the legs of one of the healers, swaying slowly on its left ear. The face still retained its smug, victorious expression.

“That’s a eunuch, you fool. I said I want to become a woman!”

After these words, the fearsome warlord pushed aside the wings of his canopy, appearing before his subjects in the full splendour of his mature male nudity. All present immediately sprawled on the smooth, cold floor.

“Proclaim to the entire kingdom: Whoever turns me into a woman will rule with me as king, as my husband! But… be careful! Whoever tries and fails… will lose his head! I have already exterminated the warrior caste, because of their wickedness. I even sentenced my own mother Renuka to death for her sin. I will do the same to you if you are not efficient! Do not dare hope that I will spare your worthless lives for any reason,” concluded the fearsome warrior, his voice sounding like a hyena’s bark.

An awkward silence fell. No one had anything to notice.

***

A glorious day dawned. Anticipated with the flames of hot desire, it was also filled with the quiet whisper of suppressed anxiety. The overstressed air hummed with the drawn-out sobs of sitars. Like close thunder, the deafening blows of countless warrior tambourines echoed through the chest.

An immense crowd of people poured into the main square. The brightly painted facades of the surrounding houses groaned, swarming with curious onlookers. Not even the branches of the trees were spared the unexpected, overabundant fruit. The acrid scents of hot spices, mixed with the smell of human sweat, made the humid air so thick that it had to be swallowed.

Magic attempts were performed one after another in the great ring erected in front of the ruler’s tent. Spells and enchantments were cast by all means and methods. The screams of the unfortunate, as well as the wails of mourning, echoed throughout the kingdom. The heavy, black smoke of the funeral pyres spread everywhere the sweet smell of burning human flesh.

On the eve of the third day, the exhausted king shifted nervously on his luxurious throne. He stared blankly at the scene of the terrible bloodshed.

Only one candidate remained. A tall, fair-skinned young man stood proudly in the shadow of the royal tent. Rama had never seen clothing like this before. Astonished, he looked questioningly at his aide.

“It’s a stranger,” the adjutant whispered. “He comes from the far West. Where the waves of the warm sea mourn countless islands.”

“Go away, honorable warrior. I dismiss you,” Rama spoke magnanimously.

At those words, the young man approached the throne, bowed politely, and spoke in a ringing voice:

“My name is Svarog. And… if you allow me, Your Highness, I would still try!”

A sigh of disbelief echoed across the vast square.

“Some truly do not know how to respect the ruler`s mercy,” muttered the astonished adjutant.

“What necessity drives you to lose that beautiful head of yours so easily?” Rama continued in surprise.

“It`s not about my need, immortal Avatar,” the young man replied, staring openly at the ruler.

“Well… what then?” Rama said in disbelief.

“I would like to banish the sadness from your eyes… my King.”

“In return, for such kindness, I will forgive you one failure!” the ruler joked cruelly, with a warning spasm of a smile on his petrified face. “Well… then, go ahead! Turn me into a woman.”

“There is a legend in the land where I come from,” the stranger began slowly. The king’s aide immediately jumped up, intending to punish the impudent man for taking up the king’s precious time. Rama stopped him with a decisive gesture.

“I heard that story from my dear grandma Yaga, when I was still a tiny child,” the stranger continued in a soft voice, as if he didn’t even notice what was happening before him. “The legend says: If a girl wants to become a boy, she must run under a rainbow.”

At those words, the entire square fell silent with terror.

“Blasphemy!” the adjutant jumped up and drew his saber.

“Slowly… slowly,” the ruler calmed him down, patiently addressing the stranger: “Are you sure that your… magic… also works in the opposite direction!?”

“No, Your Highness… In the land where I come from, no boy ever wanted to become a girl. But… it would be worth a try.”

“So be it,” Rama agreed.

***

And so they waited. And they had to wait a long time. They waited for months. The stranger had been pampered and cared for at the royal court all this time, like the most beloved guest. When the monsoon rains had ended, the King harnessed eight of his fiercest black stallions to his chariot. Twenty servants barely held them in place.

They set off before the first roosters crowed. When dawn broke, the kingdom was covered in a fan of gorgeous colours. The warrior chariot rode through the sparkling clear air, barely touching the ground. Yet… they did not reach the rainbow. As soon as they got close to one, it would already straddle another field, another river, another hill. Eventually they figured it out:

“We’ll have to trick the rainbow!”

Said and done! They chose a smaller, inexperienced one. Svarog walked towards it, across the meadow. He distracted the rainbow, pushing it slowly towards the large hill in the background. Meanwhile, Rama waited in the ambush. At the right moment, Svarog ran with all his might towards the rainbow. It laughed sweetly at his ridiculous attempt. In its arrogance, the rainbow did not notice the warrior’s chariot, which was hilariously riding towards its foot through a deep, shadowy canyon. When she saw him, it was too late to retreat.

A moment before the rainbow was about to fade Rama, dangerously riding on the black horse leader, grazed the rainbow`s supporting pillar. In an instant, his body was bathed in the reflection of a bright blush. Due to excessive speed, the wheels of the chariot came loose and the entire composition plummeted into the canyon of the nearby river.

Resisting the powerful river currents, Rama struggled to pull himself out of the foaming waves. Still enveloped in an aura of radiant blush, he looked at his manly body and concluded:

“Unlucky young man… you just threw away your penultimate chance in life!”

***

In the city, they were greeted by the mocking glances of sarcastic courtiers. Svarog withdrew into silence. He did not allow anyone into his chambers.

“Leave me alone,” were the only words that could be heard from him.

After ten endlessly long days and ten sleepless nights, Rama had enough.

“My patience is at an end! Bring him here to me… willingly or by force,” he commanded his stern guards. They did not hesitate for a moment.

“Svarog, can you turn me into a woman now?” the warlord asked decisively.

“Of course, Your Immortal Highness!” the young man replied, in a surprisingly good mood. “I realized where I went wrong.”

Early the next morning, Rama harnessed eight fair white mares to his royal chariot, made of pure gold. When they reached the same meadow, the tyrant stopped and ordered: “Get out of the chariot!”

“No!” the young man protested authoritatively. “From this moment on, I give the orders!”

Lightning flashed from Rama’s eyes. His thick, shaggy eyebrows rose menacingly, like those of a boar under attack. And then, with a mocking smile, the warrior complied:

“Okay, hero. Just make sure this isn’t your last… moment!”

“I will take the reins, and you will sit next to me… with your back facing forward,” Svarog continued confidently.

So they did. They drove the chariot into the canyon and… waited. Many rainbows straddled the hill, but Svarog did not move.

“What are we waiting for?!” Rama asked impatiently.

“Noon,” the young man replied.

They waited for hours. When the sun reached its zenith, a rainbow, only a hundred yards ahead of their ambush, timidly rode up the hill. The mares set off quietly, then began to accelerate their trot. The unwary rainbow sensed something approaching her support pillar from behind, out of the canyon shadow. It looked carefully under its wide, colourful skirts and was blinded by the dazzling reflection of the golden chariot. The team of mares, sparkling like sun-kissed snow, now grabbed as a sudden gust of wind. In an instant, they had already flown under the dazed, confused rainbow.

A powerful explosion shook the canyon walls. A flash of neon enveloped the chariot. Bathed in violet light, the warrior’s body stopped in midair. It twisted unnaturally, only to crash violently into the roadbed immediately afterwards. Svarog tightened the reins and turned the chariot on the spot.

A strange apparition stood in his way. Completely covered in dust, torn and tattered, the royal expensive clothes hung miserably on the frail body. With a smile on his lips, the young man reached out, grabbed the girl, and gently laid her in the carriage. She drooled and whimpered, trying unsuccessfully to clean the dust from her nose, eyes, and mouth.

***

The wedding celebration lasted for weeks. The impatient spouses soon left the drunken, debauched crowd and sought intimacy in the shelter of the royal chambers. For three unbridled days and three lustful nights they were consumed by the passionate fervor of carnal love. Gentle and rough at the same time, Svarog was an excellent lover. Endurant and equipped like a donkey, he satisfied Rama in many ways.

Yet… something was missing. She could not possibly reach that delirium of frenzied excitement experienced in lustful dreams. With disappointment, Svarog noticed the shadow in his lover’s eyes. The next morning, Rama’s darling had disappeared without a trace. She was rolling alone in her damp, hot bed again.

“No one leaves the Vishnu avatar unpunished!” she wailed frantically before the terrified guards. “Find him and bring me his head!”

After that, she withdrew into solitude of the royal canopy and cried inconsolably:

“You have, surely, returned to your ancient stone palace on the magnificent shores of the Adriatic. Your home that you spoke to me about… over and over again… with so much longing and love.”

The fugitive was pursued in all directions of the vast kingdom. They exhausted themselves in vain in fruitless efforts. Despite the rich rewards, no one could find him. In the end, they returned, dejected, empty-handed and with their heads bowed. These heads soon fell off forever.

Time passed. Nine months later, Rama gave birth to a fair-skinned girl with four arms and four legs. She gifted the child to the priestesses of the Nataraja temple.

***

During a stormy night, Rama had a strange dream. She was lying on the shore in the form of a divine half-lion, half-man. The fabulous sorceress Mohini emerged from the ocean, covered only with a lace of sea foam. She offered the beast delicious “soma”. The effect of the heavenly food instantly aroused Rama. The lustful avatar jumped on the fairy, overpowered and raped her. At the height of passion, the whole world exploded before the blinded eyes of the predator.

“A dream…just a dream again!” she sobbed, tossing and turning in her burning bed.

“Counselors,” she yelled, bitterly disappointed.

***

Rama was a great warrior and a stern but wise ruler. Yet he could not understand what every child knows, playing in the dust around the royal palace:

You should never… ever… chase rainbows!

.

HUNTING HIGH AND LOW

 

 .

 I’m on a train in Fashion City. Across from me are a woman in a crinoline and a man in a powdered wig. Next to them stands a guy in a tight, silver suit from the early 1970s. A gray-haired old man dressed in a Roman toga approaches the back exit and looks at me disinterestedly. I grip the handle of the giant revolver, even though there’s no real danger. Hmm, yeah… there was no real danger in Sousréalville either, until that sweet little girl showed up. Anyway, I have to tell you this story!

At first, I didn’t know if it was an infection or just a bad scenario. In the end, it turned out to be a completely ordinary city, with somewhat unusual views. Cars drove freely through the streets, pedestrians walked their pets, and houses formed streets and squares. It’s just that something was always missing, visually, not materially or functionally. Large building in the middle of the square was – from top to bottom – peeled like an apple. Here and there, on the floors, you could see employees sitting bored in their offices, scratching their shins. In some places, the steep slopes of bare spiral staircases, the eroded spaces of conference rooms, or the halved swimming pools of fitness centers peeped out. However, everything functioned normally. No one was surprised. I don’t know if the locals felt the same way about their living space as I did, but the trams ran calmly and orderly on the streets, which in many places were largely nonexistent, so that somewhere you could see holes in the ground containing cut off cross-sections of water or sewage pipes and electrical cables.

A woman walked past me with a huge Great Dane on a metal leash. Although many links were clearly missing, the dog was panting and pulling hard on the chain. The owner held it with a hand that was merely a skeleton. The rest of her body looked completely normal. The Great Dane’s chest was completely open from my perspective, so I could see its heart and lungs bulging as it tried to break free from the chain and attack me. The dog finally did it. Sensing the outcome, I pulled a crossbow from under my leather jacket and killed it. I was just about to take a breather when a little girl appeared: “Uncle, will you hold the balloons for me?” “Of course, honey.” I thought she had thrown her schoolbag off her shoulder. The object was so visually “eaten up” that it wasn’t until the last moment that I realized it was a flamethrower.

Through the train window, speeding over the viaducts of Fashion City, I see a beautiful cross-section of historic city architecture passing before me. I was jolted from my reverie by the sigh of a person who introduced himself as a ticket inspector. He wasn’t an inspector; just as I wasn’t a fool. I scattered his brains across the ceiling of the train car and got off at the next stop.

I walk through the city’s pedestrian zone, through a flood of indescribably diverse historical costumes. On both sides of the street, the shop windows of the world’s most prestigious brands line up. It immediately evokes memories of Brand City .

 

It all seemed like a game; and yet… I was almost stuck, sitting in McDonald’s, nibbling on my burger, when a “shamrock” at the next table caught my attention. The Playboy bunny pricked up her ears and eyed the large golden Oscar sitting across from her, whispering sensually, “We measure what we treasure.” “I am a treasure beyond measure,” the jerk replied arrogantly. Windows Clippy, sitting next to them, rolled his eyes mockingly and shouted, “Close the damn windows, Bill!” At the same moment, I heard from my left: “Bitte ein biss!” What followed was a lightning attack on my hologram in the middle of the room by “Puma`s” cougar and “Lacoste’s” crocodile. I only managed to pick up some French fries and launch myself out the closed window.

These memories awaken an irresistible hunger in me. I sit down on a stone bench, not far from the blasé CEO, who is eating a salad. I take out a bacon and onion sandwich and begin to eat. The businessman finishes his salad, stands up, and hurries away. Behind the stone wall at the base of the bench, I notice the edge of a zippered briefcase. The “blast shield” is activated. A massive explosion destroys the entire district. Sitting under the protective “bell”, I wait until the flames and smoke subside somewhat. All of this inevitably directs my thoughts toward Paradise City and how I even managed to get here.

 

“You have clearance to land.”

Thank you, Control tower.”

I land on the airport runway, inscribed on the raised front of Marilyn Monroe’s dress, on a gigantic statue, housing the ocean “mastodon” of Paradise City. The blue facade of the goddess’s “skin”—scaly from the balconies of the apartment blocks—continues into the neon-pink hem of the dress, which, in its smoothness, is more reminiscent of the silky texture of a negligee.

“Follow procedure C5 ,” the dispatcher instructs me.

“Roger that… Over.”

Blinding yellow spotlights stream from the goddess’s eyes. Behind the lipstick, her teeth are crystal white. This is where the city’s most expensive penthouses are located; those that offer a direct view of Pelvis City in the distance; where the god Elvis stands (seemingly life-size) between the rippled ocean surface and the red clouds at sunset, a guitar in his hands, gently swaying his hips.

My next stop is “Daliville.” If I remember correctly, the district was located right in the middle of the goddess’s left breast.

 

I sway uncomfortably in a temple gondola, stretched out on the back of a huge elephant, which—as part of a mad caravan—strides across the desert sand through the crystal-blue light of the air, partially covered by dark, black cumulonimbus clouds.

“Hey, boss, take it easy! My kidneys are failing,” protests one of several “Alibabas” from the lodge’s common area. I take my pocket watch out of my pocket and place it in my palm. The watch began to slip between my fingers and eventually hung over my left thumb like a pancake or a fried egg. I put it in my pocket and lean over the edge of the gondola. In the dizzying depths of the abyss, I notice ant-like figures. At the same moment, one of the “Alibabas” draws his gleaming Damascus sword and rushes toward me with a “Bazinga” roar. It’s too late to do anything. As if in slow motion, “Alibaba’s” baggy silk trousers, complemented by oriental leather shoes with sharply curved toes, move inexorably toward me, while his mouth—full of stinking, blackened tooth stumps—twist into a terrifying roar. Meanwhile, something strange happened to his saber. It was as if it lost its erection. The film picks up speed again, and “Alibaba” quickly stabs me with a leek leaf. He didn’t even manage to wipe the snot running down his face when he was hit on the nose by an “ushiro mawashi geri” from my left leg. The other “Alibabas” continued to sit silently, as if none of this concerned them at all. And it didn`t concern them.

“Ee-haaa!” I scream. The driver suddenly brakes; the elephant, raising its trunk, blows a deafening horn; the passengers fall to the floor of the temple hut, and a rope ladder unfurls from the open gondola door to a depth of about a thousand feet.

Half an hour later, I approach two hermits in the desert guarding the empty pedestal of the “Milk Fountain.” I greet them in the Dali language and ask the man with the enormous turban on his head: “Do you know where the naked young lady is who pours waterfalls of milk onto the thirsty sand from this pedestal?”

“Get your fat ass out of there before I fill it with red, hot potato chili,” the man with the huge turban on his head replied good-naturedly. I repeat the “mawashi” slap from before. This time, it sat down even better.

“Perhaps you know where I can find that naked young lady pouring waterfalls of milk from her swollen breasts onto the thirsty sand?” I ask the man without the huge turban on his head.

“She was apparently offered a better-paying job in `Puzzletown`,” he replies calmly.

I chase after my camel carrier and its rope ladder. An hour and a half later, I’m already at the Gondola Temple. Three hours later, I reach the entrance to “Puzzletown,” located in the right side of Goddess’s breast in the district I affectionately call “Pabloville.”

I’m still sitting under the bell of the blast shield in the destroyed center of Fashion City, so perhaps it would be the best if I continue to evoke my reminiscences of past events from the not-so-distant neighborhood of Pabloville.

 

With gritted teeth, I sail through the weightless space of “Puzzletown”. Dismembered and scattered pieces of buildings, things, animals, and people float around, trying in vain to “put themselves back togethe”. Everything is flat… two-dimensional. Next to me, a half-bald man’s head yells after the enormous butt of a surprisingly “complete” woman’s body: “Hey, girl, wait a minute!” He must have had to tell her something important. On the other side, a monstrously deformed man’s face groans in horror: “So far, I’ve found a nose, eyes, and a mouth… and both legs; a damned puzzle!”

I decide to address the head with a collected expression, who is calmly observing his legs, connected by a traffic sign indicating the required direction: “Have you by any chance seen a naked young lady with waterfalls of milk gushing from her enormous nipples?”

“She just sailed to Sunset City,” the man answered readily. I had already prepared my left arm—my only remaining limb—to rip him apart with my manual karate techniques… when: “Thank you.”

And as the smoke above the destroyed district thins, I stumble through the ruins of a women’s watch shop, looking for the most expensive example. I’d found it earlier, only now the store was but a mess of broken glass, plaster, plastic, concrete, and iron.

“There it is! Let’s go to Sunset City!”

In mournful silence, beneath a golden crescent moon in a dull blue sky, the horse-drawn carriage from the arch of the Brandenburg Gate gallops across the waves of the Thames. On its silent journey, the raft becomes entangled in the torn, rusty net of the sunken Eiffel Tower. On the opposite bank, below the Houses of Parliament with the tilted clock tower of the Palace of Westminster, stranded like the flayed ribs of a whale, the eerily whitewashed arches of the Sydney Opera House flash in the darkness. A little further downstream, to the right—cast ashore—is the magnificent pentacle of the American Pentagon. Everything is there; I just can’t see my Dulcinea de Daliville.

“Who is responsible for this program?” yells an angry voice, amplified by a megaphone. “This is sabotage!” At that moment, I notice the moonlight reflecting off the silent white of the waterfalls.

“There you are at last!” I approach her and lift her into my arms. She resists slightly. I carry her into the glare of Nothingvill, the district that lies in the whiteness of a goddess’s panties. We will stay there until the end of time; perhaps shorter.

.

SEQUENTIAL STORAGE OF REALITY

          .

 I allowed the vermin to push me against the wall. Stupid mistake. Struck with devastating blows, the mutated freaks are carried away and than fall at my feet. They immediately turn around and continue their mindless attacks. Unarmed and slow, they do not pose a serious risk. However, in the current situation even they could prove fatal, just like these demonic sheep that tear my forearms and thighs apart with stretched “accordions” of scalpel teeth. The real danger approaches me from the depths of the room in the form of a malevolent dwarf with a hypertrophied flamethrower barrel between lumps of bulging muscle.

On the visor screen, I watch the resistance of my protective clothing armour weaken inexorably: “Thirty percent – twenty three percent – nineteen percent…” These initial moments are also the riskiest part of the operation. I am even allowed to die, but not in a hopeless situation like this. It reeks of repeating the next few seconds over and over; for eons. I don’t want to do that; not again. I unhook the explosives from my harness, I lay down among the crazed sheep, and swing the scroll at the crowd of freaks huddled against the right wall. “Nineteen percent – seven percent and… save it!”

My brain screams in the agony of transmutation. The very next moment, the salutary calm of Intermundium replaces the battlefield inferno.

***

They call us sequences. There aren’t many of us. The leadership of the Galactic Confederation hires us for their most delicate operations. They don’t do it because of our blue eyes, but because our minds possess an extraordinary ability to sequentially store reality.

Sequential… what!? Storing reality! We are capable of freezing space/time in a strictly limited area, and then – from the point of interruption in advance – starting all new realities in countless sequences. Once, when the employer manages to deliver us to the enemy’s command center, it is only a matter of time until we finally take control of the entire enemy army. In a series of trials and errors, we will return to established positions and – from zero points of interruption – gradually conquer point after point, space after space. We will die a hundred times and always start over, until we find the key to each, even the most complex enemy obstacle. We will carefully insert the final version of the reality sequence into the corresponding cavity of the general puzzle of space/time. We will iron out the “wrinkles” and store everything together in a universal matrix. Maybe now you understand why we are so fabulously expensiv. The price list of our services, by the way, is not expressed in currency. No, don’t ask me.

***

I’m lying down, my cheek resting on the ceramic tiles of the Intermundium Stationary. The barrel of the broken assault rifle is pointed straight into my eye. The concentric circular grain guide grooves create pressure in my temples; pressure produces nausea; nausea causes irritation; the stimulus evokes pain. I squint to ward off the nausea. I listen to the rhythmic hum of the carotid, accompanied by a massive trickle of blood on the tiles. I still can’t breathe. With the automatic movements of my crippled fingers, I open the buckles of my body armor, helmet, boots, weapon and equipment bag. I pick up my wounded naked body and drag it to the Recovery Belt. I’m crawling into the Body Repair Unit. A suffocating cloud of narco-septic vapor follows, with the simultaneous pinches of external coagulators’ pincers. In agony, I count: “One, two, three, fo…”

***

With the steps of a big cat, I hop over two or three steps of the entrance to the Intermundium Residential. In the reflection of the mirror I check the condition of my tuxedo; I adjust my bow tie. Warned by a subliminal alarm, I stop, to which a chain reaction occurs behind my back. I look around to – perhaps after all – discover what my brain reacted to so briskly. It must have been something completely unexpected; probably in the reflection of the mirror. From this level of the building, only sequences have access to Intermundium. Does that mean that…!? Desubliminalization is an expensive and time-consuming procedure. I doubt that at this stage of the mission I could… mmph, I would want to afford it. So I will have to ignore the alarm and, with increased caution, continue with the outlined plan and program.

I notice my proteges, scattered around the residential building hall; I`ve told them nicely to stick together. Angry… I approach the larger group, in the center of which – with his barrel-shaped, gray appearance – psychiatrist Silvan Uzunov dominates.

“Shall we dance, darling!?” the gorgeous blonde addresses me too loudly, unsuccessfully trying to portray Sugar from “Some Like It Hot” with her voice. She does it much more successfully with her figure.

“Maybe later, Damiana,” I reply soothingly, while Uzunov avoids my accusing gaze.

“Why don’t you take me back to the Diligence?” the bony brunette grumbled in the background, simultaneously fixing the two men at the distant table with a killer scan of her eyes. Then she continues absently: “My molecular experiments must have already yielded results. I could find a medicament that will help you kill those disgusting creatures and get us safely back to Earth.”

“Really, why don’t you take us to the ship?” mechanic Mark mutters eerily behind me. “I could rewire the ship’s navigation… even without access to the bridge.”

“Thank you for the constructive suggestions, ladies and gentlemen. When the time comes, I will do exactly what you suggest. But where is our dear manga, our Dirty Nicole?!”

“She’s not your dear manga… she’s a lieutenant general and first officer for ship navigation of the Diligence Niko Ho Sengen, you… Mr. Niko No One,” Uzunov snappes contemptuously.

“Let’s leave aside the formalities, Mr. Pilulenko. If I hadn’t rescued you from the possessed ship back then, you would be waving your snake’s tail now… just like your intimus, Earth Fleet Admiral Porfiry Soyuzov, who gave his captain’s body to the enemy leader Grobb and now, in the form of a mutated `Vlad’, is calmly sailing towards our mother Earth.” At my words of mockery, the fat man only jumped comically, without uttering even the slightest squeak.

I glance anxiously around the hall. I know, time is running out. I have to destroy the Diligence before it gets close to Earth. Only… in the meantime, I still need to take care of my proteges, the civilians on the ship: the grumpy Pill-guy Silvan, the drunken Sweetie Damiana; the perpetually stoned Elvis – a handsome comming from a stinking rich family, who is also the real reason for my stay on the Diligence; and his slut – the gambler and hochstapler Aker – who stands in the relationship of debt slavery to Pelvis. I will leave the care of the former members of the ship’s crew – Aimee and Mark – to Her Alabaster Magic, Miss Lt. Gen. Niko Ho Sengen. It is up to me just to transfer all of them to the Diligence; that’s all and nothing more. It would be unfair of me to leave them to Intermundum. Only sequences can permanently reside in this area between reality and nothingness. Ordinary people very quickly begin to desintegrate; lose their physicality and turn into energy holograms that fade and disappear.

In the distance, in front of the door to the women’s restroom, I see Nicole. She stands there, beautiful as an arabesque figurine, her eyes fixed on me.

***

What follows will be crucial to the final outcome of my mission… as will everything else that follows. My first attempt to escape the enemy trap on the Diligence ended miserably. A hypertrophied malignant gnome burned me with a flamethrower the moment I appeared before the wall. Result: only two seconds left to escape this threatening, increasingly hopeless situation. I stand before my last attempt… and I feel none the wiser.

“Zennngg!” In the echoes of the explosions – grazed by tongues of flame – I catch the dwarf’s fishy gaze. There is no passion in it, no surprise or hatred; only an unstoppable callous intent. He turns the barrel of the flamethrower towards me. I throw myself to the right, into the space emptied by the dynamite next to the wall. I plunge into a slush of blood, entrails and torn fur. The remaining “living wall” of the freaks saves me from the blast of flame. The scorching air whirls with roars and screams. I blow the head off the dying demon sheep that is gnawing at my thigh. In the short pause between two jets of fire, I get up and rush towards the exit.

From the glass cube of the elevator I watch the roaring inferno. Reality evaporates – then thickens again – as I change decks of the Diligence. I look for a less crowded one, on which to put away this stupid crisis that has threatened the accomplishment of the entire mission.

“I’ll have to be more careful,” I say meaningfully… following it up with a sarcastic grimace, like: “How about you shut up, bro!?”

Satisfied with the calmness of the half-lit corridor, I get out of the elevator and tour the abandoned rooms. Originally made of metal, the walls increasingly resemble slime-soaked caves. In the corner of the storage room I find few exoskeletons, activate them and park them one by one against the hallway wall. I gaze in awe at my fleet. Than I sit in the much more comfortable version of the padmasana lotus position. I look in all directions, especially above and below me; that’s where the sweetest surprises tend to come from. I close my eyes and “store” the promising sequence of reality in the general puzzle of space/time.

***

I walk wearily down the Dormitory corridor, heading towards my room. Behind me, to the right… a door discreetly opens.

“Diamonds are not a girl’s best friend, Sugar`s alto echoes in falsetto. I frown at the faulty intonation and pause, thinking: “The quickest way to recognize a sequence is sex. At the height of excitement, none of us can control our mental activity so perfectly without giving away at least the tiniest ‘seam’ of reality. If I have no other choice, I’d rather start the investigation with Damiana than with Uzunov.”

I turn on my heel, beaming with a seductive smile, even though I know that the bottle of Sauvignon sticking out of my jacket pocket is incomparably more important to my lover.

I enter the room; I throw off my clothes; I slip into the pink silk…

An hour or two later, I walk down the Dormitory corridor, even more tired. The cutie is definitely not my blood relative or my opponent. Aimee sneaks out of Aker’s room, at the end of the corridor, on her bare toes. I retreat into the shadow of the nearest door, in order to remain unnoticed. In vain, it seems to me that I will have another sequence check tonight.

***

We are sitting in the final briefing, gathered in the sumptuous lounge of my work residence. There is tension in the air. I am being stared at with eyes full of anger and envy.

“I know, I know, it’s not my fault,” I try unsuccessfully to extricate myself, “the residence goes together with the workplace. But, so as not to repeat myself for the hundredth time, each of you knows what to do when we show up there on the ship. It should be safe, but you never know. Immediately upon arrival, stick to the walls and wait until the lieutenant general Niko and I clear the area. After that, Damiana, Aimee, and Elvis jump into the exoskeletons. The crew members, in the continuation of the action, follow Miss Sengen; and the rest stick to me.”

While I’m saying this, I look at Nicole, superficially. She seems neutral and professional; not a hint of insecurity or fear. She doesn’t even have that quasi-superior self-encouragement, so characteristic of female warriors. During that time, men are “as shitty as turtledoves”, and Aimee is as angry as a lynx at Elvis, who, sitting next to Aker, squeezes his hand until it bleeds.

“Next meeting in the hotel lobby, tomorrow at noon sharp,” I conclude. Everyone silently leaves. Nicole sits motionless. As I approach her, she looks me in the eyes. I lift her up from the armchair with my right hand; with my left I unbutton her blouse. She still looks at me calmly. The whiteness of tekstiles cannot compete with the whiteness of the skin…

I sit in the window frame and exhale fragrant clouds of smoke.

“Did you do that just to show me you’re a sequence?” I break the awkward silence. For the first time, I notice the hint of a smile on her face.

“I did it because I don’t know if I’ll ever have the chance to do it again. And yes, I wanted to show you that my task is basically similar to yours; with the only difference being that I had to eliminate you first, and then – just before the Diligence landed – to kidnap Elvis. Almost the same, right? Just for a different employer.” She said it neutrally, as if reading the weather forecast. And she could read it, with that body figure. I have to admit that I’m a little confused, although I didn’t expect anything else. She persists, staring at me silently; waiting for me to speak. And I don’t know what… without sounding like an idiot. But come on, I’ll ask her what any idiot would ask her in this situation:

“Still… why?”

“I don’t know, unplanned, completely hasty; for sex!? Maybe because the stakes are much higher than some Pelvis; because I have a bad feeling; because I need someone to protect me; Maybe because I would like that someone to be you.” She nodded and fell silent. I approached her, lifted her chin and kissed her on the tip of her nose: “Go now and get some rest. Everything remains as we agreed. I still have to visit the Diligence tonight.“

I watch her as she leaves, dejected. I don’t believe a single word she says. Dirty Nicole is a legend. I remember her gaze from the toilet door yesterday; it was determined and self-confident. The girl probably realized that she had been exposed, so she decided to play the card of false openness, in order to emotionally shake my stability and thus weaken me before the decisive duel on the ship. As for the size of the stakes, she was right: the very survival of the human race here is at stake. And yet, if we somehow survive all this, the sanctions for failing to fulfill the obligations of the Cartel agreement are drastic and disastrous: meaning the complete loss of reputation and the lifelong exile. Can love be so blind!? Everything she said seems completely reasonable and true, but… it in no way weakens her position; it weakens mine. I consciously revealed to her that I was going to visit the ship tonight. That way I will be able to check her further.

***

 

Report on the commitment undertaken

 

Type of vehicle: “Space Stegecoach DILIGENCE” – Oasis-class space cruiser;

Place of launch: “Baikonur” – Europa – Jupiter;

Total flight duration: 2190 Earth days;

Flight duration so far: 2188 Earth days.

Conclusion:

I have done everything I could. I have considered the various options that come into play. I have acted in accordance with the General Rules, as well as the highest standards prescribed by the Cartel. I have set my priorities as follows to complete the mission undertaken successfully and deliver the target:

 

To prevent the spacecraft Diligence from landing on Earth;

To prevent the elimination of the Human Race;

To save the ship`s civilians;

To rescue the surviving members of the ship’s crew.

Completion of the Report.

I store the rolled-up sheet of the Report in a cardboard sleeve and – like a trophy cup – I put it away, on a prominent shelf of the showcase; in case the development of events in the following hours does not follow the predicted course. I need to give myself a convincing discharge. At this point, all options are open.

My visit to the ship went smoothly and orderly. By the way, I picked up Aimee and Mark with me. They were surprised, but they didn’t object. After all, they insisted on it themselves… right?

And there was no sign of Dirty Nicole. Really, I didn’t expect anything else in this part of the game. It would have been stupid of her to have appeared there on the ship, in any possible subvariant. All of this – according to my inner impression and hunch – went too calmly and orderly. In any case, tomorrow I will blow up the Diligence; not into subatomic particles, but into nothing. Discreet manipulation of stable magnetic fields will bring the antimatter fuel into contact with the material mass of the container bed; and then… boom! During those remaining fifteen minutes – between the manipulation and the boom – I will take the proteges to the nearest “lifeboat”. And then: “Bye-bye, Diligence; bye-bye, Vlad and the Xens!” Nicole, at the same time, should take care of the former crew members.

That’s how it looks in theory. Practice is, as a rule, something completely different. I prepared myself – as much as I knew and could – for the second, and for the third, and for the fourth possibility. As a retreat. That’s why I needed Mark and Aimee there, on the ship.

And now, off to sleep.

***

“Zennnngg!” In the corridor of the Diligence we find giant floating Xen-boilers. As Nicole and I rake them with all our weapons, our proteges shiver, hunched over in the blood-soaked, stinking puddle of the elevator. This whole parade looks more like dystopian decoration than real danger. I’m becoming increasingly suspicious. I help Damiana, Aimee, and Elvis get into their exoskeletons. The situation at the exit of the corridor seems clear, so I signal Nicole to lead her group towards the Evacuation Deck. She hesitates for a moment, then reluctantly leaves. Either she’s a very gifted actress or she’s… sincere. I assess her for a moment, then take the only tube of anti-Xen serum from my pocket and hand it to her. She stands there, petrified, staring at me. “Take it and run!” I`m yelling to unblock her. I also add something about her having to drink the liquid three to five minutes before contamination – no sooner, no later – otherwise it has no effect. I doubt she understood my single word.

We run away slimy from bursting mushrooms. We will meet again in ten minutes at the “lifeboats” or we will never meet again.

Accompanied by the hydraulic whistling of  exoskeletons, by Silvan’s blowing and Aker’s grunting, I pass the hideous “vegetation” of the deserted corridors. It would be incomparably simpler for me to do the initial manipulation of the magnetic field by myself, but I am afraid of leaving the proteges abandoned and unarmed. Then the old man stumbled ending on the knees, wheezing and moaning. I decide ad hoc to take Elvis out of the exoskeleton. I hand Damiana a rifle with ammunition: “Put Pilulenko in the cockpit and go without me. See you on the Evacuation Deck!” She nods calmly: “Okay, dear.” The rest of the group stares blankly at me, showing no human reactions at all. They leave, moving automatically like robots.

I descend the slippery metal stairs towards the “Fireplace”, an interesting name for a large glass cylinder in which a completely black ball floats, surrounded by the bluish light of a magnetic field. No one anywhere!? No crossed laser beams… no safety measures. It’s clear that everything is completely wrong. Whether it’s wrong or not, I have to destroy the ship, one way or another. So, let’s go. In accordance with Mark’s instructions, I activate the virtual keyboard and enter the previously planned corrections into the system. The device reacts with the first level of alarm. “Excellent, so it worked!” The moment I say this, a bursting sensation shakes my brain. I grab my temples with both hands and kneel in stinking swamp, in order to endure the “subliminal presentation”. Foremost just the blinding glare, then the contours, the focusing, and then: “My dear good God!?”

I stumble along the slimy metal stairs as fast as my legs can carry me. I’m terrified of what I’ll find when I reach the Deck. Still, I rush breathlessly, without stopping. Just this corridor and then around that corner and… I’m “storing”.

“Welcome, Mr. Sequence ,” an ironic voice echoes through the room. Elvis stands in front of the entrance to the Evacuation Chamber, holding a weapon in one hand and Nicole’s helpless body in the other. All the other residents lie around in the mud, scattered like a cut bundles.

“You can store space and time as much as you like, and you still won’t reach me before I process your little beloved sequence the way only I know how,” Vlad continues triumphantly. A long, serpentine tail sprouts from his trouser leg, which, like a tendril of parasitic ivy, wraps around Nicole’s neck. I rush towards the monster and “store“ reality. I fall, cut down by a burst of fire.

“…So that then, together with her – thus renewed and perfected – I may sail to your mother Earth and there conceive a new – better, more beautiful and more perfect – race than your human one; which is not worthy but to serve as worthless slavery to my ruling divine being,” the bastard continues contemptuously, while the tip of his wriggling tail penetrates the girl’s mouth.

Horrified, I take another step further – I “store” it and, hit, I fall again.

“You say what!? Ah, yes – this is, unfortunately, the only working lifeboat left.”

He gently lays the girl’s tiny body on the floor behind the Chamber door. My new desperate step follows – then “storage” – another hit and a fall. My protective armour is back at minimum unit resistance.

“We have to go now,” Xen gurgles smugly, as the automatic door closes behind him. “Why do we have to go already!? Ah, you know that better than I do. Don’t you!?”

I stand motionless while the starship`s master-self-destruct-alarm loudly counts down: “…nine, eight…”

The Chamber’s door suddenly opens. Nicole appears at the entrance. She grabs my hands and, as if I were paralyzed… drags me towards the Chamber. In a flash, I hear her saying something, but I don’t understand what! Mesmerized, I stare at Vlad’s sprawled body. An ice pick protrudes from the bloody reptilian back. Instinctively I reach into the sink with my fingers for a bottle of Dom Pérignon, but – at the same time – I crash into the wall, hit with 6G of lateral motion. Followed by 20G upwards, and then… whiteness.

I watch as Nicole, focused, maneuvers the spacecraft. We approach the atmosphere.

“How did you know exactly when to drink that serum?”

“Ah, you’re awake! Welcome to Mother Earth!”

“How did you know?”

The turbulence of the aircraft’s collision with the air envelope begins. The “boat” trembles like a straw in a hurricane.

“You still don’t believe me?”

“Well, that’s not what I thought. But still… how?”

“Running through the corridors of the Diligence, we lost our way and passed the ship’s Recycling Unit. I peeked inside and, guess what I found there!?”

“…?”

“The dead body of Captain Porfiry Soyuzov!”

“And you realized that Grobb, in the meantime, had inhabited some other body and was now – together with us – rushing towards the Evacuation Deck; Smart little head of mine.”

“And you?”

“While I was placing the dynamite in “Grill“, I experienced a spontaneous desubliminalization.”

“Spontaneous?”

“Spontaneous, for the first time in my life. My brain must have decided it wanted braining around a little more, and so – driven by sheer necessity – it reached my consciousness. I spent the past few days under the delusion that, in the reflection of the Intermundium staircase mirror, I saw some other sequence. In fact, I unconsciously noticed the tip of Elvis’ “tail” sticking out of his trouser leg… while he, together with Aker, was sitting there in the hall.”

“So that means I didn’t have to reveal myself to you!? But… it seemed so obvious that you exposed me.”

“Thank you for revealing yourself to me.”

I’ve earned a slap for this. Dirty Nicole is mean. I’ll have to watch my behavior in the future.

“You know…”, she continues as if nothing had happened, “this craft is sailing under a false declaration; for which I am not responsible, but Vlad. On Earth, they have certainly already registered the disappearance of the Diligence. In a few days, the two of us – along with the other names on the ship’s list – will be formally declared missing. If you want to change your identity and way of life, now is your unique opportunity to do so. I am seriously considering it.”

“So it’s time for me to take a macrame course and raise cute little sequences?”

This slap, with its claws drawn in – like the previous one – I earned quite honestly and endured it with dignity.

“Still… something’s not quite clear to me,” I insist. “Why didn’t Grobb simply take over the Earth with the Diligence? Why did he bother with us?”

“He’s here, ask him,” Nicole snapped nervously, then added more calmly: “From everything the bastard said back on the Deck, it turns out that he wanted to take over the Earth all by himself and create a race – solely and exclusively – with his genetic material. Have you noticed any Xen on the ship lately, apart from those few decorative mushrooms? He was getting rid of all the unpleasant witnesses: the ship’s crew, his compatriots and the passengers. Doesn’t it seem strange that he allowed you to plant dynamite in his ship’s “Grill“? He even held the bars for you. And… the icing on the cake: the incubator!”

“What incubator?”

Nicole is now really pissed off: “Didn’t your subliminal hawk’s eye unconsciously notice that the fucking asshole stuck his shitty tail in my mouth and threw me into his bedroom, like some fucking luggage… or do you need another spontaneous desubliminalization for that to notice!?”

“Oh, this?”

“Yes, this.

I understand that our future relationship will be like a fairy tale; I just don’t know which one of those. I can’t yet judge whether this is the final end of our adventure or a transition into a new story, a story that is just beginning?

“But… what made you decide to offer me that serum? Back then you couldn’t have known that I wasn’t your enemy,”… and so the question of all questions arose.

“Well, that was the most elegant solution… Objectively speaking, your chances of destroying Vlad were far better than mine…”, I stammer unconvincingly. And even though I can’t see her from the front, I know that she has that bright, slightly sly expression on her face. I love that look; I love her when she swears; I love her…

“And we’ll talk about your elegant sequential ‘checks’ later; I heard it all!”

 .

 BIZARRE LUCID DREAM

.

BIZARRE LUCID DREAM

 

1.

Dživo tried in vain to suppress a fit of irritating cough during the prayer vigil:

“You, finally, walking the path of perfection, left everything behind and followed the naked Christ…”

He buried his face in the pillow and groaned. When he raised his head, the whiteness of the bedsheets was covered in a lace of foamy blood.

The blue flame of the candle trembled, casting flickering shadows on the bare walls and the great gilded crucifix that hung low above the massive door of the penitential room. He knelt on the clay floor, his elbows resting on the hard edge of the bed frame. He was lucky again. What if the attack had happened in the monastery dormitory, among other friars!?

He’ll fix it right away. No one needs to know. If it gets out, he’ll be put in isolation, and then everything will be ruined! He had to buy time, a lot of time! He knew his diagnosis. He found it in the old medical records of the monastery library.

Dživo did not want to die. Not now, in 1463, from tuberculosis, nor in forty years from old age. He never wanted to die, especially after this miraculous enlightenment that the Almighty had bestowed upon him.

“You left everything and, naked following the naked Christ, chose instead to become rich in heaven.”

“Forgive me, Father… ad vitam aeternam!” he concluded his prayer with a deep sense of guilt.

***

One thing led to another, to a multitude of others. And so on, endlessly. Dživo knew that even ten lifetimes would not be enough for him. He had to set priorities. Dreams shimmered, still completely enigmatic. At first he just looked at the pictures. Like waterfalls of colourful playing cards, they spilled endlessly and uncontrollably before his astonished gaze. He could only compare them to the miniatures of the Spanish manuscript /Codex Rossianus 3/, which he had examined in the Vatican Library during his pilgrimage last year. Although these paintings of his were even more colourful and richer. Well, simply… more beautiful. Most of the miniatures were static, like Božidarević’s “Annunciation” from the newly built Chapter House halls. Others were moving inexplicably, so it seemed like he was once again watching the procession that celebrates the Day of Saint Blaise held in February – better known to the natives as “Saint Vlaho” or “Parac” – the heavenly patron of the Dubrovnik Republic.

Dživo knew…what he was doing was a sin. He was obliged to report his dreams to Prior Innocent immediately. But he didn’t! It could have been the work of the Lame One. Who knows!? Still… he didn’t! He knew his confessor suspected something. Dear old Brother Benedict knew him better than he knew himself. Hadn’t he warned him gently this morning: “Ease your soul, Dživulin. Our life behind these walls is a life of sacrifice and renunciation, but it also has its advantages. We are a collective soul at the source of faith. “Satan” can enter one of us, but he cannot be cocooned.”

2.

Evening mass was being sung.

“What wonderful hope he gave to the bereaved at the hour of death, when he promised to be a shield and salvation for his brothers even after death,” echoed through the chapel. Someone imperceptibly nudged him with an elbow, standing next to him in the choir of young friars.

“Do, Father, what you said… (Dživo, gather yourself)… help us with your prayer!” Pjerin harmoniously recited the words of the mass hymn, at the same time looking steadily ahead into the deceptive eyes of Brother Ignatius. Blandly inclined, in his usual strategic position in the first row of encrusted wooden kneelers the prior’s commissioner for the monastery’s youth did not fail to notice any signs of weakness of faith in the newcomers, entrusted to his grace.

“What’s the matter, Dživo… you’re not sick, are you?” whispered Pjerin during the monk’s “raising the chalice”, pressing his lips together like a ventriloquist. Now he was seriously worried about his friend. Each of them had their crises, but this with Dživo did not bode well. He had not seen him for nights, neither at the Castelet inn nor at Della Sciocchezza. The mischievous Džono, who sleeps in the same cell, tells everyone how that insomnian lunatic runs into bed “with the chickens“ and then goes wild like a monkey all night long”. Sooner or later Dživo will catch the eye of the “fiery” Ignatius, and then he will end up in the lazaretto.

With horror, Pjerin recalled the neglected creatures, wrapped in tattered rags and covered in giant purple pimples. Their loved ones had left them to die in agony in quarantine, isolated from the whole world. As if they hadn’t once been … as if they weren’t still someone’s mothers, fathers and brothers, friends and dears?

For this cruel experience, which was completely unnecessary and inappropriate for their age, the young friars could thank Brother Ignatius above all. This advocatus diaboli managed to convince the wavering presbyter of the necessity of hardening their faith in the place of the most severe temptation. He was almost right. Some of them there irretrievably lost their faith.

Dživo was only slightly aware of the reality in which he had to participate; he had to… not that he wanted to. He leaned on Pjerin’s firm shoulder, staring blankly at the grinning skeletons that, above the chapel’s exit door, were dancing with – in the velvet clothed – the powerful of this world. He was opening his mouth, pretending to sing. He threw back his head and half-squinted. Perhaps it looked like dedication, and not the complete physical exhaustion. He`s going to skip dinner again. He had to get to his cell as soon as possible. Last night he had discovered something immensely important, something simply fantastic. Among the piles of incomprehensible letters and signs, the sweet words “lingua latina” appeared. He tried, with an indescribable mental effort, to transfer this phrase to the whiteness of the long, narrow rectangle. He failed, fainted and stopped dreaming. He will try again tonight. But this time he will succeed. He knew exactly how!

***

Just before the end of the mass, Pjerin – raising two outstretched fingers in the air – signaled to Brother Benedict that he, together with Dživo, would serve today’s dinner. He could not allow the entire monastery choir to witness the terrible state his comrade was in. He judged that it was only mental or emotional stress. There were no real signs of illness, in fact. He firmly grasped Dživo around the waist with his right hand, and then – rotating half-right – lifted him up and, literally, led him into the large group of young friars who were standing behind them. Sliding backward, he reached the niche of the side exit. Everything was done so deftly and unobtrusively that no one in the hall, except perhaps the closest guys, noticed anything suspicious. It was, on the surface, a completely ordinary, discreet withdrawal of the young men in charge of serving the monastery dinner.

Pjerin had to hurry. He lifted his completely weakened friend, slinging him over his strong shoulders like a sack of melons. He rushed to the cell and laid him on the bed. One of the newcomers rushed into the dormitory and froze, shocked by the unusual sight.

“What are you looking for!?” Pjerko jumped him decisively. “M … mmm … the grace of God … and … yours!” the young man replied in confusion, staring at unconscious Dživo.

“Go with confidence, the Lord will be with you and will give you the words to preach!” Pjerin said sending him off proverbially, then burst out laughing.

The next moment, with quick but measured movements, he was already arranging rough wooden ladles and bowls on the massive table of the monastery dining room. Then, from the red-hot kitchen stove, he began to bring large, burnt pots full of golden porridge. Giant bubbles were inflating from them like yellow geysers that, noisily exploding, threw clouds of enticing, fragrant steam from the depths of the pots. All that was still missing to complete this divine gift was a tub of cold milk. Pjerin had to rush to feed his weakened friend before dinner started. The most important thing was for the young man to regain his strength. Everything else would somehow take care of itself.

3.

Through the closed windows of the Chapter Hall, the unbearable noise of the massive construction work in the immediate vicinity of the monastery church could be heard, only slightly muffled. Tiny dust particles could be seen, densely distributed, in a strip of bright sunlight. “… Incline your compassionate ear to the voice of my pious … (Ap … shhhh!!! Damned dust!) cry … My soul, wretched and needy, runs to You, ” Brother Innocent uttered the words of prayer in a monotonous voice under the image of the blessed Jordan of Saxony.

“… And it spreads out before you!” Brother Ignatius nervously and decisively interrupted the old man’s prayer, obviously annoyed by his slowness.

“Have… the envoys from Bologna… arrived?” asked Brother Innocent, a little distructed.

“Last night, venerable prior!” replied Domini canis, finding it increasingly difficult to contain his impatience.

“So… what news did they bring us?”

„They agreed to everything, venerable prior.“

“And they should have.” The old monk looked thoughtfully out the window. And then, as if woken up, he continued resolutely: „Tell the Rector that I will visit him… tomorrow!“

” … Burning with zeal for God and heavenly fire… with great enthusiasm of spirit and a vow of perpetual poverty, you devoted yourself entirely to apostolic monasticism… I beg you, therefore, to come to my aid… and to all the clergy and the people,” the old man, now fully focused, continued his prayer addressed to Domingo Guzman, the heavenly intercessor of the Order of Friars Preachers.

Like a shadow, Brother Ignatius withdrew from the room without a word.

4.

In the bizarre state of lucid dreaming, Dživo experienced another miraculous click! He concentrated and firmly visualized the letter “p”. And he succeeded! His delight knew no bounds. A small Latin “p” flashed at the beginning of a long, narrow rectangle.

“Don’t fool yourself. This is just the beginning of the journey!” he tried to suppress his premature joy. “If  you fail, the fall will be all the harder,” he attempted to reason with himself, but to no avail. At the same time, the core of his being – like a child who senses the most cherished gift behind his father’s back – impatiently rushed forward, towards the solution to the riddle, towards salvation, towards … Life.

In the large, bounded space below the rectangle, a series of words appeared. He read them breathlessly. None of them were the words he had been searching for so passionately. He concentrated again. This time it was much harder. However, next to the letter “p” there was now a small, sweet “h“. He realized with disappointment that the space below the letters still doesn`t contain the expected content. He was running out of mental strength. If he fails with the next letter, he will have to give up. Again, it would all be in vain.

After a short pause, he imagined the “t” strongly. “Now… or never!” He immediately saw the searched term. At the top of the column was the word “phthisis” – such a sweet and cursed word! There was no time to celebrate. He was already scanning the options. He was drawn to the Latin words: pulmonalis; scrofula , under the second heading in the column. He activated the field labeled Tuberculosis. It was an incomparably easier task than typing letters into a rectangle. All he had to do was mentally press the searched term.

A long text appeared; a text written in a language he could not understand at all. A wave of heavy disappointment and despondency washed over him. “Was all that hope in vain?! For what and whose sins am I paying such a high price!?”

And then, on the left side at the bottom of the virtual interface, he noticed the word Croatian. He leaned against it and… it opened! The text suddenly, as if by magic, became completely understandable: “Tuberculosis… an infectious disease caused by bacteria Mycobacterium Tuberculosis. It most often occurs as pulmonary tuberculosis.

Dživo was reading carefully. He knew that the words that followed would bring him the final verdict. There was no point in burdening himself with it. Gritting his teeth tightly, he continued in a trance: “On March 24, 1882, the German physician Robert Koch discovered the causative agent of tuberculosis, a pathogenic rod-shaped organism.”

“Okay, dear God… anno Domini 1882. So that’s going to happen in four hundred years!?” He was astonished. From the beginning he suspected it was some kind of time shift, but… this much.

“… It was only with the discovery of the antibiotic streptomycin in 1946 that adequate treatment became possible. Ordinary soil is capable of generating organisms that produce antibiotics, a pharmacological agent that can destroy pathogenic organisms.”

For a moment, a glow of infinite happiness illuminated him. „So, there is a cure for his illness! After these words, relaxation followed, complete relaxation. Ever since that cursed day in early spring, after the first hemorrhage, his life had been nothing but spasm, suffering and agony, complete hopelessness. Now he could relax. There was a cure somewhere. He was saved!

He slowly regained his composure. He activated the offered concepts one by one and eagerly absorbed the knowledge, clutching at the straw of salvation.

“Bacteria, microorganisms or microbes – is a collective term for organisms only ten-thousandths of a millimeter in size, visible only under a microscope . A microscope is a device for observing objects that are too small to be seen with the naked eye.”

“Is this what’s killing me!?” he couldn’t believe it. “Something so small I can’t even see it!” He skimmed over the terms in disbelief : lens … optics … Leeuwenhoek.

“Using hand-made microscopes, he was the first man to observe bacteria. His microscopes had the power to magnify up to 275 times.”

He carefully studied the design of the microscope, trying to memorize the pile of numerical and conceptual data that flooded his brain : “… magnifying glasses, tubes and slides … concave and convex lenses …”

Since childhood, he had possessed an exceptional ability to visually memorize entire pages of text. This unusual ability, which he had to hide his whole life, was now extremly important to him, it could literally save his life.

“Fleming discovered the direct effect of antibiotics on a sample of bacteria he kept in a Petri dish. Where he added the antibiotic, clear circles appeared and the bottom of the dish became visible.”

Dživo read the work of Albert Schatz on the discovery and synthesis of streptomycin especially carefully: “I isolated two very active species of actinomycetes (Streptomyces griseus). One species comes from richly fertilized soil, and the other from the throat of a healthy hen.”

And then he devoted himself to what interested him most… preparing streptomycin.

“…The antibiotic is obtained in the process of anaerobic fermentation. A large number of microorganisms, primarily fungi, are grown on a nutrient medium made from soaked grains. The influence of metabolites (released by certain microbes) on experimental bacterial samples is examined. It is necessary to constantly maintain optimal conditions that are favorable for the development of the selected strain… (concentration of nutrients and oxygen… temperature and acidity). Necessary…”

Dživo was awakened by the ringing of the church bell. His body was tired, but his spirit was cheerful. He got up immediately, rushed to the washroom and immersed his body into a large container full of warm water. He shaved carefully, put on a white robe, and threw a short black cloak over his shoulders. “Black cloak for black brother,” he hummed enthusiastically. The world was beautiful. He could once again enjoy the unimportant events that make up everyday life. He could enjoy life like any healthy person his age; a person in front of whom stretches an endless field of time and possibilities. With a broad smile on his face, he set off for a morning prayers.

5.

Standing high on the city walls, above the Great Arsenal next to the Fish Market Tower, two elegant old men leaned on their jeweled canes. They were exactly on the axis of the city’s central street – Placa . From below came the noise of construction of the bell lounge – Luža, located in the narrow space between the Sponza Palace and the new, sixty cubits high bell tower. To the east, the view stretched freely across the city harbor, with anchored ships, to the village of Ćilipi, and further southeast, to the haze-shrouded islets of Cavtat. What interested the two dignitaries much more than the beautiful landscapes was located further north. They turned their thoughtful gazes towards the mainland. From there now threatened the most serious danger. The mighty rivelino, the Revelin fortress , built last year, served as additional security for the eastern city entrance – the Ploče gate. But all their hopes were pinned on quadrangular Minčeta tower, freshly surrounded by a wide circular fortification, connected to a newly built defensive system of a low sloping outer wall. The fortress rose , majestic and slender, like a warning finger to the enemy, dug into the high rock of the city’s hinterland.

A group of builders followed the old men at a decent distance. Spreading plans and drawings on the walls, they loudly commented on the stages of construction:

“Don’t you worry Đuko, my fortress Lovrinac will defend the city from the west, on the sea and on the land. Holy brothers in the monastery can sleep peacefully,” arhitect Zanchi from Pesaro told local builders Utišenović and Radončić.

“And my fortresses Bokar and Minčeta will stop any artillery!” The famous Florentine Michelozzo di Bartolomeo boasted to Rector’s Commissioner for Construction, Grubačević. It seemed that nothing coherent could come out of all this noise. Yet these were the best fortress builders that Europe had to offer.

Ragusa was a great building site. As far as the eye could see, carts were dragged, loaded with hewn blocks of stone, lime, sand, and wood. With unbearable noise, raising clouds of thick dust around them, large groups of strange-looking people, dressed even stranger, were digging the city’s moats and embankments.

“Do you remember, Miho, when we read about the Levant in school!?” said the tall, skinny old man, his chest adorned with golden markings. “Who could have thought then that it would all end like this!”

“Yes, my Lujko, we could not have imagined that we would have to build walls and fortifications against these … non-Christians!” with contempt and disgust, the short monk, dressed in a snow-white habit, searched for the appropriate word. His wide tonsure, framed by a thick crown of silver hair , gleamed in the fierce midday sun.

“It’s not just the Republic that’s at stake… The city itself is in danger,” said a member of the Consiglio dei Pregadi in a muffled voice, nervously looking at the large entourage. “We’ll have to live with these unbaptized creatures, my dear Miho… one way or another,” Mr. Lukša continued, making sure no one was listening. “But tell me, what did you agree on with the Rector of the Republic?” he asked, as if he had only just remembered it.

“The entire area of the Dominican monastery should be immediately included in the city’s fortification system!” Prior Innocent declared decisively.

“Bravo!” the councilor exclaimed happily. “Let your church colleagues loosen their purse strings a little too. It will be for the salvation, defense and security of the entire city of Dubrovnik.”

6.

Dživo squinted and absorbed the hot rays of the sun that fell directly into his face through the bars of the high, slender window of the monastery library. That was why he had chosen this particular bench. Exposed to strong insolation, and yet, shielded from view from the room by a massive stone pillar, it completely suited his needs. It was not difficult for him to get it. No one except him wanted it.

He slowly raised his head and continued to transliterate the 14th century flagellant manuscript of Paul Sclavonius from Bribir: Oracio pulcra et devota ad beatam virginem Mariam. He was in no hurry, he could translate and write the text incomparably faster and more beautifully than all the monks, but he never got carried away and let them find out. He had worked out his strategy well: don’t stand out in any way. This approach gave him precious time, free time that was simply not there in the monastery.

“Give a donkey just a second of freedom and he’s already up to mischief!” was a favorite saying of Brother Ignatius. He put it into practice with the burning passion and literalness of his consecrated being.

Even with his eyes closed, Dživo saw a whole page of Latin text before him. He dipped his pen in ink and very slowly continued to write in the angular Glagolitic script. His lips silently formed the words: “O blessed, O enlightened, O beloved, O pure virgin Mary, mother of the Son of God! O Empress of Heaven, O exalted Queen!”

There was a working atmosphere in the library. One could only hear the gliding of pens on the silky surface of parchment. Now and then one of the young men would cough restrainedly or wipe his nose on the sleeve of his clothes, only to set to writing even more vigorously. They were placed between high shelves, crammed to the brim with old manuscripts.

Brother Ignatius was sitting at the teacher`s desk, which was oddly placed at the back of the spacious hall. It was his invention. He would suddenly stand up and silently walk between the rows of pews. He wanted to approach potential victims from behind, unnoticed. He liked to surprise them, to create in them a sense of exposure and insecurity.

Dživo didn’t have to turn around to feel Ignat’s presence behind him. The letters were beautiful and neat, the translation correct, the speed of work satisfactory.

“He must be disappointed,” thought Dživo. “He’s really got his eye on me. He’s targeting me. It’s like he suspects something. I’ll have to be more careful!”

There were no complaints. He felt relieved. No one was breathing down his neck anymore.

“Tripun… come with me to the sacristy,” the “fiery monk“ ordered and rushed out of the room. The young friar obediently packed his writing utensils…

Dživo now set to work with all his might. In a short time he was nearing the end of his daily task: “… Holy Mary, you are the hope of all of us faithful, sinful Christians.”

He put his pen down on the table. Now he could devote at least half an hour to himself. A sense of fulfillment overwhelmed him. Everything around him regained its solid outlines. People and things emerged from the haze and took on their former sharp shape. He slowly immersed himself in the contents of yesterday’s dreams. He would have to plan everything, absolutely everything, down to the smallest detail, and then carefully and systematically implement it. He absolutely could not allow himself  to make a mistake. It was a matter of life… or death.

The state of general mobilization was in his favor. In such conditions, the order forms that would be sent from the Monastery to the addresses of the city’s artisan workshops in the coming days would be more acceptable to everyone; order forms that would be difficult to explain under normal circumstances. From under his robe, he pulled out a special parchment with the seal of the monastery treasury and a container with scarlet ink. Imitating the handwriting of Brother Cyprian, he wrote: “… cylindrical glass vessels – (tenths of a cubit in diameter) – 30 pieces; glass vessels – (tenth times a twentieth of a cubit) – 60 pieces; ground lenses – convex on both sides – (tenths of a cubit in diameter) – 3 pieces; lenses – concave on one side – (twentieth of a cubit in diameter) – 2 pieces; mirrors…”

When he had finished the order form for the glass workshop, he sprinkled it with powder and folded it carefully. He unrolled the next sheet and began writing a letter to the blacksmith. Next in line was the Little Brothers` Pharmacy, tannery… then the Rupe Granary … cooperage…

***

“Dživo, finally straightening up, shouted something like: So, there it is! And he collapsed back onto the bed. Then I… I guess I fell asleep… and…”

“That’s what you say, Tripo… he counted the letters: p, h and t ! What nonsense is this!? What could it be!? Go away now and, for God’s sake, don’t fall asleep again!” Ignat sent the young man out of the sacristy with a slap, thought intensely for a while longer, and then waved his hand: “Aaaahh… unbridled youth!”

 

7.

 

“Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son…”

Two men were sitting in the semi-darkness of the confessional. The long, meaningful silence was permeated with an atmosphere of closeness, but also with tension.

“I could still understand your desire to wander the villages under a vow of chastity and poverty and serve the peasants in the Konavle Valley. Although it is dangerous to even stick your nose outside the city walls these days. But I cannot understand what makes you carry bags on your back through the monastery cellars!?” Brother Benedict protested anxiously.

Looking at the outlines of the beloved figure through the dense stone lattice, softened by paternal care, Dživo showered the old man with a rapturous tirade characteristic of youth:

“It is nice to warm your ass on a silk pillow in the lounge and listen to the harpsichord! I did not put on a monk’s robe for this. Ordinary people there live like cattle. They know neither the word of God nor of man. That is the field of my sowing. May God have mercy on them so that this will be their harvest! Please, my dear teacher, grant my ardent wish! If nothing else, I will be able to breathe fresh air and enjoy the beauties of our homeland. And as for the warehouse, it is time for me to stand up for the welfare of the community.“

“Your sacrifice is commendable, but it worries me. Do you remember what I promised your mother on her deathbed. God have mercy on her soul,” the now disarmed old man muttered to himself. “I absolve you of your sins… in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit… Amen.”

***

In the dead of night, shrouded in darkness, a mysterious stranger crept up the steep semicircular staircase at the southern portal of the monastery church. Saint Dominic, framed by the vines of tightly twisted stone leaves, watched him with a reproachful look from his lunette. Holding on to the cold wall, the intruder followed a series of “blind” relief arcades with his body. He did not want to expose himself to the porticoes of the monastery, which were clear even in the darkness of the night. Along the apse he crept up to the Chapel House. He paused for a moment, then reached under his coarse cloth cloak and pulled out a massive key. He looked around carefully and disappeared into the darkness of the doorway. The yellow flame of a candle spread across the blackness of the window. The giant shadow flew hurriedly here and there, and then everything sank into darkness again.

A few moments later he emerged from the shadows of the gate that led to the monastery garden, east back. He stopped beside the lonely house of the state executioner. Through the open windows he could hear the sound of thunderous snoring. Behind his deeply drawn hood a broad smile spread across his lips.

The moon whitened the edge of the clouds and darkness arose. When the silver rain poured down again, it illuminated only the blue monastery stone.

8.

“Since the fall of Imperial Constantinople – Stamboul , as these people call it,” „good citizen“ he squeezed out the hateful word through clenched teeth with disgust as an insult, as a curse, “… for ten years now we have been going from bad to worse!” Leonard Bogosalić was a representative of a thin layer of the richest Dubrovnik merchants, equal in wealth to the ruling nobility, but without a share in the governance of the Republic. “The traffic of salt cargoes has become rare. I don’t even remember the last deliveries of silver and lead from the Bosnian mines. And finally, you bring me such bad news,” the distressed man almost cried. “You ask me to destroy my wool dyeing manufacture units in the Ombla river valley. Oh my… what will we live on, us and that miserable people!? I know that it is not your decision, honorable Brother! Forgive the ruined man for his anger, but…”, the host fell silent in great discomfort.

“That is the decision of the Senate,” Dživo resonated with pity. “So that it does not fall into the hands of the enemies of the Republic. Since late spring, when he set out from Edirne, the accursed Mehmed Fatih Al Sultani has conquered a hundred fortresses in Bosnia and in Herceg’s country … Patarin Radak has surrendered the royal city of Bobovac to the non-Christians. Treason on all sides. Stjepan Tomašević died, deceived, in Ključ and Herceg barely saved his life, boarding a Venetian galley. Even the kind Queen Catherine of Dubrovnik took refuge in Rome!

“But rumors are reaching us that the Turks have been withdrawing from Bosnia since July. Sickness… what!?” lamented the “good citizen”.

They were sitting in the sumptuous guest room of Bogosalić’s villa in the former ancient Epidaurum, civitas vetus in the city of Cavtat, now a property of the Dubrovnik Republic. The dining table, full of unimaginable delicacies, was too abundant for just the three of them.

“And how come they only call you… Dživo, not Bartholomew for example… or whatever the real Dominican brothers are called?” the slender young woman asked, fixing the friar with her big green eyes.

“Cvijeta!” her father looked at her reproachfully.

“What’s the matter, father?” The daughter pretended not to understand his warning. Then she briskly continued: “Besides, you’re not bald at all!” She furrowed her smooth forehead and, as if offended, stuck out her full lower lip. Dživo burst out laughing.

“Cvijeta, please?!” the father shouted, blushing with shame.

“You are absolutely right, miss, I am indeed not yet a true Dominican brother, as you so beautifully put it. Every candidate for the Order must undergo a period of preparation before being admitted to the novitiate…”

Dživo had already lost Cvijeta’s attention at the first sentence. She looked around the room, bored, directing the servants where to place the plates of oysters, where the bowls of rosette pudding , and where the trays of roasted blackbirds. Then she leaned her elbows on the table and began to wind a lock of her long red hair with her index finger. Twisted into a thick braid, it was modeled into a luxurious golden crown on top of her head, revealing a long slender neck.

Dživo saw all this, but he couldn’t help himself. He continued to lecture ex cathedra in a monotonous voice, like some boring old man:

“The novitiate begins with the donning of the monastic habit and lasts for one year. During this time that the novices, under the guidance of their teachers, become more familiar with the “fraternal” vocation and the way of life in the Dominican Order. At the end of that year, after the vote of the monastery assembly and council and the consent of the provincial, the novice takes simple vows for three years. My novitiate is coming to an end, so I will soon become a truly Dominican brother!” he loudly concluded.

“Bravo!” she clapped her hands, not because she was interested in any of it, but because the boring story was over. “And what about the gala balls in Dubrovnik. It’s so boring here. Nothing happens. It’s like everyone died… all because of some Turks!”

“Come on, Cvijeta… play us that wonderful suite on the lute,” her proud father begged her… a widower who has been taking care of his most precious and beloved treasure alone for sixteen years.

***

Dživo was startled by the soft rustling of the silk curtains. Inflated like sails on masts, they floated high in the air. In the deep blue of the window square, surrounded by the whitish aura of the window, the dark outline of a slender female figure was clearly outlined. As if weightless, she floated on angelic wings in a flowing transparent nightgown. Only when a strand of silken hair tickled his bare chest did he realize that this wonderful phenomenon was not entirely incorporeal.

Late that night he was awakened by a sigh, a loud sob. He leaned back against the pillows and saw Cvijeta trying to breathe with a painful effort. An unstoppable fit of frantic coughing followed. She was gasping and sobbing, trying to get at least a breath of air. Her entire pale face turned into huge bulging eyes that were asking for help. She reached out to him with her thin white hand. Dživo jumped. Horrified, he moved away from her.

“Sorry, Cvijeta… sorry!”

In a frantic hurry he gathered his clothes and shoes and immediately, still completely naked, rushed out of the room. The multiplied echoes of his footsteps were heard deafeningly through the spacious corridors and staircases of the half-empty summer villa. He untied the donkey and disappeared into the darkness.

***

Wherever he went, he was warmly welcomed and generously hosted. He spent the second night of his “pilgrimage” in the Franciscan Monastery in Pridvorje, on the slopes of the mighty mountain Sniježnica. He prayed with the Franciscan Friars Minor for a happy outcome to his journey in the magnificent Church of St. Blaise. He also visited the Rector’s Palace, carrying messages and gifts from his superior.

On the road leading from the village of Zvekovica to upper Konavle county, he turned deeper into the hills, towards the village of Brotnice. He sat for hours meditating on the dry stone of the St. Thomas`s Cemetery beneath the overgrown peak of the gentle Osojnik hill. He carefully observed the narrow “house” of the tombstone. The locals called it a stećak. The hunting scenes in the upper third, as well as the ideograms on both sides, were understandable, but he could not fathom the meaning of the replicated figures of the lower parts. He would have to discuss this with his teacher Benedict.

Dživo never forgot what had prompted him to embark on this uncertain journey in the first place. He diligently collected soil samples: here from a threshing floor, there from a field… humus from a dense oak forest… and then again a lump from a pen, a vineyard… an olive grove…

The donkey beneath him panted happily as he made his way through the mountain canyons on gentle climbs. After passing the village of Mihanići, he headed towards the town of Dunave, in the south of the Republic. Suddenly he stopped, enchanted by the mystical power of the mighty walls. The proud Sokol Tower appeared before him, dug into the living rock of the mountain pass. The bustle of the military garrison indicated the area of the imminent threat. The villagers who passed him, descending the steep macadam road, bowed to him lowly, crossing themselves and greeting him loudly. Their dark red toka caps and uniforms interwoven with gold embroidery, shimmered in the afternoon sun like fish scales. Thick yellow woolen balls bounced on the white shirts of plump women’s breasts like soundless golden bells.

“Be blessed!” he replied readily, leaning from his donkey… now this way, now that way.

He slept within the safety of the walls, surrounded by a crowd of women, children, and old men. Long into the night he tried in vain to comfort and encourage them.

“Take away the peasant’s daily care of the fields and cattle, take away the rough rustle of his bed… you’ve taken everything away from him,” he thought, moved by their fatalistic apathy.

At dawn he was already packing his luggage for the journey. He placed his sacks made of coarse hemp, filled with the collected soil samples, in a remote area of the powder magazine basement. He would pick them up on his way back. The commander of the guard vehemently dissuaded him from continuing his journey east, but the self-confident young man would not hear of it. A platoon of halberdiers escorted him to the village of Zastolje, then returned to the fortress. From there he will have to go on alone. Dživo slowly made his way to the road that leads from the town of Grude towards Boka Kotorska Bay.

It took him two long days of strenuous climbing and crossing steep slopes along the edges of deep ravines to finally reach the sea. It was worth it. The view was unique. On the right, thrust into the blue sky, stretched the peak of Cape Oštro; on the left … tame fishing villages immersed in an eternal fog of salt and sea foam.

“Not a step further!” a rough male voice snapped him out of his thoughts. He looked around in a flash. It took him only a moment to realize that he was surrounded by a group of shabby, vicious-looking savages. The wide barrels of their flintlocks were not shabby. They shone in the sun like polished silver.

“… Lest you fall into the abyss!” the same voice finished his thought, provoking volleys of unbridled laughter from his companions.

“So, where are we going… Your Excellency?” a tall man with a sun-tanned chest and a long, twisted mustache mocked the young friar, to the delight of  the dissolute brotherhood.

” Boka … I wanted to… see,” stammered the confused, mortally frightened Dživo.

“There you are… and what do we do now!?” continued the tall guy, obviously the leader of the group.

„Well, nothing now… I’m going… a little… back!“

„That won’t work,“ the bandit snapped briskly. “We’re not that inhospitable… aren`t we, guys!?”

After the spoken words a hoarse gurgling sound was heard from throats soaked in brandy.

“But… what are you hiding in those huge saddlebags, Your Highness!?” Ilija continued. That was the name his comrades addressed him by.

“The sacred soil of my native land!” replied the now composed Dživo resolutely.

“Come on, Petar… bring us some holy dust. Let the monk bless me,” Ilija said threateningly through gritted teeth. Then he calmly added, looking the young friar straight in the eyes:

“Just so you know, my black brother… if those sacks of yours really contain only the sacred soil of your native land, as you claim, I will let you go along with that donkey, and go wherever you wish. I swear to you by my heroic lineage! But if you lied, then you have written your own doom,” he concluded ominously. The leader glanced briefly at one of the outlaws who immediately drew his saber, approached the animal and began to cut the cloth on the donkey’s croup one by one. Clumps of moist, oily soil scattered from the sacks onto the rocky ground. When he saw this, Ilija raised his hand and disappeared into the thicket of burnt vegetation.

Left alone Dživo remained quiet for a while. Then – without even considering the wonders of the Gulf evening – he picked up the scattered humus and resolutely set off home.

9.

In September deliveries of ordered goods began to arrive at the monastery. In the secluded cellars of the southern backyards Dživo has bent his secret nest. The soil samples he had brought from his “pilgrimage” were swelling in small wooden tubs, covered with impermeable wax cloth. Soaked in a thick molasses of flour, oil, glycerol, yeast and citric acid, they formed the biomass necessary for the synthesis of the desired antibiotic.

He sat, by candlelight, in the semi-darkness of a deep catacomb. A small window was recessed into the the thick stone of the monastery wall somewhere up there, under the very ceiling of a high room, like in a casemate. On the outside, the window was at ground level, half buried in the weedy soil of the backyard. Almost completely inconspicuous, it was hidden by bushes and protected by a massive rusty grate. From the small stove, a sooty chimney pipe stretched the entire height of the wall towards the window. The fire in the stove was blazing merrily.

With his eyes closed Dživo spread out the sketch of the microscope stored in his memory: “… eyepiece lens; adjustment lever; mirror; tripod; diaphragm…” He took the pieces from the table, one by one, and assembled them with precise instruments into a functional whole. When he was finished, he placed the device on the table and opened the glass door of the sideboard. He reached for the first in a row of cylindrical jars, neatly arranged on the shelves. In them were sprouting samples of his own sputum, spread on a thin layer of starchy nutrient medium. He dipped the tip of the finest silk cloth into the pink foam at the bottom of the jar and coated the slide with it. He covered the slide with a similar piece of thin, completely transparent glass and placed it in the center of the microscope stand. He poured a small pile of magnesium powder onto the metal plate at the base, then took a piece of wood shavings and lit it on the stove. He sat down, took a deep breath and pressed his eyes to the lenses of the eyepiece. He slowly brought the flame closer…

In a few moments of sparkling whitish light, a wondrous, never-before-seen world flashed before his eyes. It pulsed and twisted in its regular geometric shapes like the translucent stained glass of a church rose window. If only briefly, he caught a glimpse of them, his mortal enemies. They looked exactly like the images from his dreams. Only… they were smaller; much , much smaller, absolutely tiny. Still, they were big enough to be noticed. And that was more important than anything.

He went to the wall and untied the string from the lid of the first huge wooden container, collected a few drops of the liquid with a glass pipette, then recapped the container. He dropped the mold sample into a jar with smeared saliva and placed it neatly on the shelf. He labeled the wooden container and the jar with the same number. He patiently repeated this process until he had used up all the containers. Then he filled the stove with wood to the brim and left the room. He locked the heavy wooden door from the outside, then leaned the dusty, cobweb-covered shelf against it. He stepped out into the dead of night.

He did not head for the dormitories, but turned directly toward the City Harbor. The thick, black hulls of the cargo galleys rested peacefully on the gently rippling surface of the brown oily sea, protected by a thick chain stretched between the towers Mulo and “St. Luka”. Undetected by the guards, he entered the city walls through the Fish Market Tower. He immediately went out to the Luža construction site in front of the Sponza palace. In the shadow of the Grand Council, he passed by the Žudio fountain, and then took communion with the fresh water of Little Onofrio fountain. With a theatrical bow he greeted the ever-vigilant Orlando Furioso who was benevolently watching him with his stupid gaze from his pillar. Dživo continued past the corner castrum of the Palace, badly damaged by a gunpowder explosion, to the Cathedral Church. He crossed himself in front of the magnificent Romanesque basilica, only to disappear into the darkness of the labyrinth of western streets.

The wide field hummed with the cacophony of nightlife. Drunken yelling and swearing from the slum tavern Della Miseria mingled with the sounds of the minuet from the nearby restaurant for a wealthy clientele Della Grasseca. Dživo headed towards the Sciochezza tavern, where the unruly youth of Dubrovnik were having an orgy at this late hour of the night. On the way, a thought crossed his mind that – otherwise very stiff – the monastery administration benevolently turns a blind eye for the missionary visits of its novices to the notorious places of obscure city gatherings.

“It’s always been that way. Well, I guess… it always will be,” he concluded indifferently.

“… Une femme, oui, oui, oui…” and then: “… une femme, non, non, non,” the cheerful Francesaria song Chevaliers de la Table ronde echoed from the tavern. Even from a distance Pjerin’s powerful baritone could be heard. Dživo`s entry caused a loud murmur of drunken pleasure. They were singing the line: “Une femme sur les genoux,” verbally and literally: With a woman in my lap.

10.

Dživo constantly went to the cellars, day and night, to take care of the medicinal mildew. He had to keep a constant temperature of about thirty degrees Celsius and occasionally stir and aerate the contents of the containers. He also added citric acid and sea salt as needed. He regularly checked the alkalinity of the mass with litmus and used fat to prevent excessive foaming. Exactly one hundred and four hours had passed since the fermentation process began.

He couldn’t be entirely sure whether his behavior had caught anyone’s attention… aroused anyone’s suspicion. He turned a blind eye to the world and did what had to be done. And he was close to the end… very, very close.

With great impatience, with desperate hope for salvation, he pressed his eyes to the microscope lenses. In the coming moments his fate will be sealed. Another either/or in a row. How many more will he have to endure until the end. Until the end of what… illness or life? Every vessel has its final bottom. The vessel of man’s hope also has one.

A flash of blinding light illuminated the circle of a mysterious miniature universe. And… nothing! Nothing changed. Shadowy geometric figures floated like spots on the retina towards the edge of the field of vision. Some of them would suddenly writhe convulsively with their thin, elongated bodies.

He reached for the next jar. The light flashed again. And again nothing… nothing… nothing… and nothing! With the number of samples checked, his hope dwindled. Sigh after sigh, cry after cry… he sank deeper and deeper under the weight of despondency.

“A circle!” he screamed. “In a circle is… a circle,” he repeated quietly as if to silence himself.

Like alopecia in a beard, like a drop of oil on the surface of water, an island of salvation stood out from the circle. Yet something was wrong. He lit a new pile of magnesium. The sticks continued to flicker merrily in the middle of the half-empty surface of the circle. What was missing were … grains. He understood immediately. Down in the jar was medicinal mold … Penicillium chrysogenum. He found a cure. A cure for others, not for himself. With difficulty he lifted his tired, disease-ridden body and listlessly reached for the glass door of the cupboard. Another disappointment followed … and again. Only five jars remained on the shelf.

And then, triumph. “Victory, success… celebration!” he shouted jubilantly in frenzied joy. Three out of the five remaining samples contained streptomycin. The most potent effect was produced by the mold in a lump of soil he dug up from a sinkhole in a slum near the town of Cavtat. Hardworking peasants gethered precious soil with their palms and brought it to a wide hole where they would enclose it with a wall and guard it like the apple of their eye.

“So fair,” he thought, looking up high above the dirty smoky ceiling towards the stars… and beyond.

Immediately after the synthesis was complete, the complex process of extracting the pure antibiotic from the biomass began. Shrouded in a cloud of sterilization steam, surrounded by a mass of tubes and giant, strange-looking glass vessels, he resembled some mad sorcerer from an ancient exotic tale. It took hours.

There was no time to waste. Despite all the precautions he has taken, he can still be caught at any moment and prevented from completing his work. Exhausted, he sat at the table, crushing with a ceramic pestle the last lump of brittle, porous stone. He poured the grayish powder into a filled small jar and immediately sealed it with paraffin. He assembled the previously prepared parts of the syringe and placed them in a white linen bag. He filled the spaces between them with sawdust and tied it with a rope. Then he carefully – as if it were a reliquary containing the finger of Saint Dominic – placed it under the table. He knelt by the stove and began to clean it.

Alerted by the almost inaudible sound of rustling cloth, Dživo turned. The room was filled with white robes. They stood there, motionless like plaster saints on the main altar, and coldly watched him. Who knows how long did they stand there. Suddenly a piece on the huge chessboard moved. The white king was slowly approaching the glass installation. He looked at Dživo with contempt and ice coldly concluded:

“So, that`s it. Our holy brother practices alchemy. Deep within our breasts we breed a serpent that has made an alliance with… the unholy!”

Having shouted the last word with unusual ferocity, Brother Ignatius swung his long staff. Pieces of thin, transparent glass flew all over the basement room. Droplets of liquid of various colours formed miraculously beautiful patterns on the snowy whiteness of the monks’ robes. In religious ecstasy the angry monk swung and struck, destroying the imaginary nest of indescribable, threatening evil. Standing petrified, completely motionless, Dživo spread his arms, instinctively trying to protect his treasure, his only salvation. He just managed to step out uncontrollably. At the same moment a fierce attack of irritating coughing seized him. He staggered from friar to friar, begging for mercy. No one accepted him. No one helped him. They averted their gazes from him in disgust. He gargled incomprehensibly and spat blood, choking on an uncontrollable cough: “Under the table… the bag… I have to…”

That’s how he reached Pijerko. He hugged him tightly. For a while he clung convulsively to his strong shoulders, looking his friend deep in the eyes. Then he slowly slipped and lay lifeless on the floor at Pijerko`s feet.

“Džono… Trifun, throw out that garbage and burn the stench in the backyard! The rest of you take Beelzebub to the executioner’s house. Let him be chained. The snake just hid!” roared the frantic Ignatius, trampling everything he came across.

“Stop!” echoed the elderly voice of prior Innocent. “Nobody is going anywhere! What we are to do, the Assembly of the monastery will decide,” he concluded unquestionably, and then added: “Take the poor boy to the cell and guard him well. Remember, until the final announcement of the Council’s decision we are all bound by a vow of silence!”

„Cyprian“, the monk then addressed the head of the monastery treasury.

“This room will be sealed until the investigation is complete. No one in… no one out!”

11.

That same night the monastery Assembly was in session. Frightened and confused, the community members gathered in the church nave. After the prayer addressed to the Dominican patron saint, which this time lasted much longer than usual, the prior called the monastery prosecutor’s representative.

In his merciless speech, worthy of the status this diabolus rotae has assigned to himself, Brother Ignatius showed not a shred of compassion for the young offender. Waving uncontrollably with his index finger, warning and threatening, he thundered from the pulpit:

“He has crept among us to poison our souls, to disgrace us. And not only our holy Dominican Order, but also all of Christianity. Therefore I call upon you, venerable brothers! For our good – for his good – for the salvation of his possessed soul, send him to trial; to the only court that has jurisdiction over such a crime … to the court of the Holy Inquisition!”

After the angry words were spoken, an eerie silence fell over the church. The defendant’s defense attorney, Brother Benedict, walked heavily to the pulpit. He looked around at the petrified faces of the astonished monks, and then began in a low, despondent voice:

“In many ways I support the thoughts of the venerable Brother Ignatius. This is a great disgrace to the Order of Preachers. If those words gets out beyond these walls, it will leave an indelible stain on all the inhabitants of the Dominican monastery. Generations will look upon us with suspicion.”

At that moment the speaker made a long pause, then continued louder:

“The guilt of accused unfortunate  is beyond doubt, the acts committed are grave and unforgivable. As his confessor, I will personally take my share of responsibility. Yet we must ask ourselves, venerable brothers, whether this unspeakable crime is part of some diabolical plan or is it just a consequence of a serious illness. You have seen for yourself, it is tuberculosis with extensive pulmonary hemorrhage. It is possible that the patient will not even live to see the next morning after such a severe trauma. In the terminal phase, this disease has been proven to be contagious for anyone who has been in prolonged contact with the dying… We also know that the venerable Benedictine brothers are nurturing a large colony of “white plague” on the island of Lokrum by providing them with palliative care. In light of the above facts I suggest that we take our sick brother to the quarantine Danče tonight and tomorrow morning to a lazaretto on the Lokrum island. This is how we will take care of the unfortunate soul, a need that my predecessor also spoke about. At the same time we will protect the holy Order of Preachers from any public disgrace,” the advocatus Dei” contritely concluded his unusually intoned defense.

12.

He ran frantically through the noisy expanse of darkness. Driven by panic, he looked back, trying to see his pursuer… a large blue dog with pointed short ears. Yes, there it was, behind him. He could feel its hot, hoarse breath on his neck. The torch in its foaming mouth sparkled with hundreds of demonic eyes; the eyes of black birds that touched his naked body with the damask of invisible wings. Somewhere ahead in the space sat a child. A great silver star shone on its forehead. The child saw him. It stretched out its small, chubby hand towards him. A deep guttural roar broke from the child’s tiny tender mouth: “Apage… satanas!” The thunderous echo drummed painfully in his head.

The first thing Dživo saw were two large green eyes. A feeling of shame overwhelmed him. He closed his eyes tightly, trying to push away the unpleasant memories. He looked again. The pair of  green eyes were now connected to a row of pearly teeth surrounded by two pink lips that smiled gently.

“Cvijeta!” he shouted, trying to get up.

“Be still,” she soothed him gently, wiping his hot wet forehead with a silk handkerchief.

He looked carefully around the room. The simplest log cabin made of roughly hewn wood. However, it was clean warm and comfortable. The sun tickled his cheek.

„Where are we… Cvijeta?“

“On Lokrum, Dživo.”

Never had his own name sounded sweeter to him… never more precious.

“Are you angry with me?” he asked her worriedly.

“No… I’m not anymore. I understand now,” she replied quietly. “Hey… your friend greeted you,” she continued brightly. “One of the ones who brought you here. He left me a bag for you!”

“Pijerko!” Dživo jumped as if scalded.

“… A bag of ducats, until you get your bearings,” she continued cheerfully.

He relaxed lifelessly on the rough bed. The crickets, barely hidden on the cypress trunk, scraped fiercely over his painfully sensitive nerves.

“Oh, yes! He also left for you some kind of canvas bag, I almost forgot. It’s down there… somewhere under the bed. Your friend thinks, he said, that bag means a lot to you.”