Jean Claude of the Dead
On May 29, 2023
Mountain boots: check.
Computer: check.
Shotgun for the WER’s activities: check.
Autopush script for git stats grinding: check.
5pm, the car is about to start. I glance one last time at my Arduino board. In 100 hours, all of this will be over. One way, or another.
I try to forget the pickle I’m in. 6 weeks, I’ve been looking for him for 6 weeks, yet he remains untraceable. I roamed Telecom’s hallways, ran a marathon in the BDS’ campaign clip, lost the campaign… I doxxed his phone number but he must have been out of grid when I called him. I’ll have to do without him. It doesn’t matter, I want to enjoy the week end while it lasts.
Last night, I dreamt of PAN4. I watched the program bug, the prototype explode at launch, and all of Telecom crying in my rearview mirror…
This morning it’s speleology. I put on my wetsuit, and dive with the guide and my buddies into the bowels of the Earth. What am I looking for, crawling through these narrow conduits, getting my trainers wet, tearing my elbows out on the rock? The headlamps go out and I catch a glimpse of light at the bottom of the tunnel, like the explorer lost in the Sahara who discovers an oasis in the distance, torn between hope and fear of falling victim to a mirage.
And that’s when I saw him. Jean-Claude Dufourd, naked, dancing around a fire amid dozens of hooded black figures. I pinch myself, I must be hallucinating. But then he spots me, and I go for it: dream or not, this is probably my last chance to talk to him. But I don’t have time to say the word PACT before he cuts me off: he tells me he doesn’t want to talk about the “Project” anymore. He says he’s seen the error of his ways, that he understands. That’s why he’s decided to retire to the depths of the Balme cave, in the midst of his failures. He wishes me good luck for Tuesday, and says see you then. I open my mouth, close it, open it again… too confused to utter a word, I turn around and decide to return to the surface, the civilization.
Just as I’m about to leave, I bump into one of the figures, and his hood slips off, revealing his face: horrified, I recognize Quentin, my late partner from PACT, missing since December. Then I understand JCD’s words: these cultists are the damned souls of all the lost telecomians, and his dance is no doubt some kind of ritual to lead them to appeasement. I return to the surface to the sound of the mournful incantations that follow me: “Quoi Cou BEH, Quoi Cou BEH, Quoi Cou BEH…“.
Tomorrow is PAN4. In 15 hours, all this will be over, one way or another. I take one last look at my Arduino board, and open the SNCF app on my phone. I hope there’s still a train to Chamonix…