The Weight of Souls

Gravity generators under the city enabled architectonic impossibilities. The buildings' load was carefully balanced for complete stability. However, microgravity adjustments were the catalyst for vertigo between the residents.

They called 'The Vomit's City.'

The Côte d’Ivoireś Post Office has had an intriguing package since 1947 with specific instructions to be followed. The tiddly bounded box has to be delivered to a young woman dressed mysteriously at Abidjan’s Bushman Café at 13:15, on Saturday, Dec. 5, 2037. 

The news was out there. Agents of the Eastern Alliance were found in our Universities, teaching lies about our mighty Empire, twisting our people's ideology. A simple mimicry of what our freedom agents have been doing in their schools.

War has been declared.

The Secret Police is known for its brute force approach for solving hard problems. Our man inside told us about a mutant squid they have trained to decode encrypted messages, and his interpreter, a mutant kid with psychic abilities. We got a photograph of them.

“Oh, the engineers programmed the shuttle for automatic reentry… if I could only remember which button I must push to load and run the program.”

“Oh, come on honey, this could be the last chance we have to do it, you know what I mean…”

“Ha, is that dangerous that warp drive, he?”

“It's a prototype.”

“I'll shave my legs for your return. We'll do it then.”

“Oh, don't jinx it.”

Inside the saucer was this world you and I know, ugly and imperfect. Outside exists this paradise. I had a red mustang and money in the bank. It might be a simulation, but who cares? I'll take it! What's important is what is better for us. That's the only reality.

“A woman of arete, the perfect wife, an incredible intellect, but a bit of a narcissist I must admit.” 

“What happened?” 

“I traded for a 'mindscope' to a slave dealer, an obscure character.”

“Why?” 

“The lady was a tramp.” 

The book was a draft; a sketch, not intended for the public, and yet, it was a complex techno-thriller involving conspirators, politicians, national security, and alien crafts. The public bought the story and asked the wrong questions. That was the plan.

The true origins of the story came to me as a prophetic revelation, an onslaught of ideas connecting discarded clues. The messengers were not many but one; he told a myth among the Mediterranean tribes about a messiah that would come back from death.

A figure with indistinguishable features woke me up from my tedious slumber. The thing spoke in melodic sounds; I guessed a forgotten language. After a minute or so, the entity began to dissolve. The last thing it said was clear, “You'll become me.”

“I have something to confess,” he said while cutting the contour of another picture, “I've never met her. She appeared in dreams, though. This collage is my attempt to capture her beauty. Am I making sense?”

He was insane, so I lied, “Absolutely.”