Василиса Чмелева
The Universal Passenger. Book 1. Someone Else
The Prologue
A sigh. We are hardly distinguishable from humans when examining our bodies. Yet, we are far more efficient and resilient. We can think of everything at once, making confident and swift decisions. Our productivity is much higher, and our nervous system is more resistant to stress. We are successful.
The ability to understand human emotions, but not to feel them – this is the gift of the Community.
I am Sophia, an Ephor who has dedicated my entire life to serving others. We share the values of humans, but we adjust their memories of past lives, keeping them an unknown scientific fact. For hundreds of years, we have appeared in the Higher World and descended to Earth to evaluate the work of other beings, intervening when necessary.
We cannot be misled or made to doubt the nature of the Community.
At least, that’s what we believed.
Chapter 1
What is a brush for an artist? It resembles a syringe, and the paints serve as medicine. You approach the blank canvas, preparing to make a life-saving injection. With a light stroke of your hand, you begin to paint. Vital warmth spreads through your arteries and veins. Painting becomes a form of anesthetic. To convey the essence of the piece, you must engage every fiber of perception. The sense of reality becomes like an electric charge. Each spark must be preserved on the canvas, depicting the tasks set by the creator.
Constantin smiled at the sudden seriousness of his thoughts and glanced at his completed work.
On the canvas was a boy sitting on a bridge at the water’s edge, examining a pearl held tightly in his small hand, illuminated by the light. The delicate cracks and muted hues gave the piece the effect of an aged painting. The boy’s dark brown overalls and rubber boots reminded viewers of the fleeting nature of modern life, which would someday become an "outdated model."
Setting down his brush, Constantin felt a quiet satisfaction with his work and habitually made his way to the mini-bar, hoping to find something appealing.
Pouring himself the remaining Scotch, Constantin glanced at the clock. It was early morning. Dawn was breaking.
He approached the window in his bedroom and looked out at the empty street in the early hours. Taking a sip of his drink, he paused to gaze at the spinning fan mounted on the exterior wall. The hum from it began to swell in his mind, intensifying his heartbeat.
Blinking rapidly, Constantin tried to look away from the fan. The noise gradually subsided, but an unseen force compelled him to glance back.
The fan blades sliced through the air in a synchronized march, and Constantin instinctively grimaced, trying to suppress the unpleasant, familiar symptoms as he distracted himself from the nagging hum outside. He took a step back, intending to retreat deeper into the room, when suddenly, in the window frame – like a scene from a painting – the silhouette of a girl appeared, reflected back at him. A fleeting thought crossed his mind: the reflected figure was painted in the same colors as his recently completed canvas.
"I need to change my daily routine." Constantin smirked and took a sip.
He stepped away from the window, glancing back one last time. The silhouette had vanished, and a cheerful ray of morning sunlight blinded his eyes, inviting him into a new day.
Hurriedly, Constantin rushed to the shower, shedding his clothes along the way, unaware that he was stirring his second self – or what is referred to in the Higher World as a "Guide" – who was lounging comfortably on the bed, having observed the scene outside just moments before.
Due to the limitations of earthly life, Constantin could neither see nor know his faithful companion. The thoughts and insights she whispered in his ear, having spent hours performing her role as a Guide, he perceived as his own ego, occasionally amusing him with fairly decent works he crafted from memory.
The droplets of water, like a life-giving balm, flowed over his body as Constantin relaxed and closed his eyes. In that moment, his subconscious whirled with thoughts, dragging him under the surface of an unfamiliar lake. Suddenly opening his eyes, Constantin felt a sharp pang of breathlessness.
“You’ve successfully mastered your skills.”
Constantin stared in astonishment at the familiar dark-haired girl, who was jotting something down in her notebook. He wanted to ask who she was, but no words came out.
“It’s a pity your time was so short. But now you can choose another version. What do you prefer?” The girl snapped her notebook shut and looked at him. Her gaze pierced into Constantin, rendering him immobile.
As if rewinding a film, Constantin found himself again by the river. He sat at the edge of the wooden bridge, searching for something in the water. An object sparkled enticingly, and as he plunged his hand into the water, he grasped an unknown item between his fingers. It was a string of pearl beads. The thread holding the alluring beads snapped suddenly, and nearly all of them scattered back into the water with a characteristic splash. He managed to keep the last pearl in his hand. Constantin began to examine it in the sunlight, admiring its beauty.
The water turned suddenly cold, and he frantically searched for a switch. But it was nowhere to be found. Panic spread through his body, and once again, he felt the suffocating grip of airlessness.
He abruptly looked up to see the water closing above him, as if two doors were slamming shut. Only a faint sliver of sunlight filtered through. He was drowning. No matter how hard he flailed his arms and legs, he couldn’t push himself to the surface. Constantin didn’t know how to swim.
Slowly, he turned his head and opened his clenched fist. The pearl glimmered in the water, catching the light and falling to the bottom alongside him.
"How beautiful she is," he thought again, the words lingering in his mind.
Cursing under his breath, Constantin struggled to climb out of the bathtub. Water, mixed with remnants of bubbles, trickled down his body. He hurried down the stairs to his studio and approached the painting he had recently completed. The boy was looking back at him – the very same boy who was destined to drown. Or had he already drowned?
His vision blurred, and a familiar pulse throbbed in his temples. His blood pressure began to drop.
"A panic attack," he realized, moving toward the first-aid kit to take his medication.
Each time Constantin thought he had learned to control the process, panic returned with renewed intensity. He tried to calm himself and breathe deeply.
It wasn’t helping. Waves of panic enveloped his mind, and through the fog of consciousness, the boy and the painfully familiar girl kept appearing. Frequently closing his eyes in futile attempts to block out the "film" racing before him, Constantin suddenly realized it was all in his head.
With a trembling hand, he began to rummage through the nightstand for the medication he had promised himself not to take – or at least to take as infrequently as possible. But now, enduring the finale was unbearable. He could almost feel the damp clothing clinging to his skin and the heaviness of the rubber boots.
Finally, he found the pills. He swallowed one without wasting time looking for water to wash it down.
He sat on the floor of the studio, cradling his head in his hands. How heavy it felt. Then he curled up in a fetal position, placing his right hand over his heart while his left hand gripped some object tightly. He could feel chaotic thumps in his palm, as if an inexperienced person were hammering a nail for the first time.
The Guide, looking grimly at her charge, quietly left the building and headed toward the Guide accompanying Constantin’s friend. She needed him to drop by and find Constantin on the studio floor, displaying those all-too-familiar symptoms.
* * *
Constantin awoke in a hospital room, shining with cleanliness. His mind felt empty. Just then, the door opened, and a young nurse entered with a tray of syringes.
“Don’t worry, you’re in the best clinic in the city, and you’ll be back on your feet in no time,” the girl smiled warmly.
“What happened to me?” Constantin asked, bewildered. “I don’t remember anything—”
“No wonder,” the Guide muttered from behind the headboard.
“It’s nothing serious. Just ordinary exhaustion,” the girl said. “You need rest and peace.”
She gave him an injection and, as she left, placed a shiny bead on the bedside table, casting a sly glance over the back of his bed.
“You were holding this when the ambulance brought you in.”
Constantin recognized the pearl, painted earlier on his canvas, and grimaced. He didn’t have the strength to think clearly. All he wanted was to sleep.
The Guide rolled her eyes, clearly displeased, and waved dismissively at the Ephor nurse as she closed the door behind her.
The medication wasn’t helping much. For a week, he received various IV drips and was assured that he was experiencing some form of autopsychic depersonalization. The doctor had ruled out selective amnesia, confirming that there was no dark-haired girl in his memory.
His friends supported him as best they could. Some recited their go-to phrases, while others genuinely tried to understand. A few simply called and stayed silent, and in that silence lay a profound meaning. But the truth was that no words would help. It was obvious to both Constantin and those speaking. Yet all the formalities were observed. A checkbox was ticked.
Days passed, but the burden didn’t go away. It was heavy, and Constantin’s weight was rapidly dropping – not because of a newfound fitness routine or diet, but because he carried that burden with him every day.
He rose each morning with it, dragged it to the dining hall, then rolled it with him to his treatments. He could feel every muscle in his body working, straining to carry the invisible load.
Time stretched monotonously. Waking to the sound of the alarm, he would slightly open his eyes and cautiously look ahead. Against the backdrop of lemon-colored walls, the burden stood out starkly. It was still there. The wheel of Sansara spun furiously, trapping him like a hamster running endlessly in its cage.
Days passed. Constantin grew stronger. His muscles hardened, and the burden no longer felt as heavy. It was as if his entire being had accepted it, making it more compact – like a backpack. He could even stand in line for medication without succumbing to panic, a feat that had once felt impossible. Before, he had to wait until he was certain he would be the last in line.
Days continued to move forward, and so did Constantin. The burden hadn’t disappeared, but he had made peace with it. He had befriended it.
Three weeks had passed. It sounded easier than it felt. For the doctors and his friends, it had been "only" three weeks, but for Constantin, it was "already" three weeks. And therein lay the crux of his catharsis. During this time, he had met many interesting people. He never would have imagined how many talents had fallen victim to their own inspiration. There were artists like him, writers, and musicians. Rumor even had it that some psychologists, at some point, couldn’t cope with the pain they were treating in their patients.
Constantin was informed that one of the best doctors in the clinic, who had agreed to take on his case, was expected to return. So he patiently awaited their introduction.
Chapter 2
Through her dark sunglasses, Sophia gazed at the midday sun. The ultraviolet rays couldn’t harm her vision, but they could attract the attention of those who were more vulnerable. Holding a blackcurrant leaf in her hand, she absentmindedly rolled it between her fingers.
The sharp beep of her wristwatch pulled her from this aimless activity. There was no doubt that on the touchscreen, the Ephor would see the coordinates and the name of her new charge.
Feeling for the wooden ladder beneath her feet, Sophia took one last glance at the hills.
"What a beautiful view from the roof of that one-story house!"
Once, a familiar person had told her that, and adhering to that sentiment, the Ephor sometimes found solace sitting on the roof. This isolation also helped her avoid meaningless conversations.
Jumping down to solid ground, she headed toward her car.
“Leaving already?” her neighbor called out cheerfully, leaning over the low fence.
"Speaking of meaningless conversations," Sophia thought to herself.
“Unfortunately, yes,” Sophia nodded.
“S-Sophia, talk to Esther. She really doesn’t take care of herself. And, by the way, she just turned 60! What is she doing? Still planting s-strawberries—”
Sophia tried not to stare openly at the creature leaning against the slightly crooked fence next to her neighbor. In the sunlight, it resembled a snake basking in the warm rays.
Its bright yellow eyes bore into Esther, while its long tongue flicked out, splitting at the tip and significantly longer than a human's.
“That’s not my business,” Sophia whispered softly, glancing at the dirty wheels. The roads here were far from ideal, and the mud always puzzled her. An insatiable urge to scrub it away would wash over her.
“Come by my place! I’ll show you my new flowerbed. It’s simply lovely!” the neighbor said, removing her gardening gloves and waving her hand in invitation.
“Maybe next time, ma’am. I really am in a hurry.”
“No, don’t leave!” the creature insisted, undeterred. “It’s s-so boring here. Why can’t we jus-st go somewhere in Holland? There are tons of tulips there!”
Sophia lifted her head and noted that if you stripped away its unusual coloring, the creature resembled a young woman with African features.
Nothing new. When your guide is Nomadum, life becomes a journey. Nomads, who have no permanent "nests," find like-minded people (if they’re lucky) and travel often. They are sociable, have a sense of humor, and know how to dream. But they aren’t suited for family life and quickly begin to feel bored. Stuck in the same relationships, the same job, the same place. They are in a constant search for comfortable stability, yet can’t stand it. It’s a paradox. Even if you’re sixty, the thirst for adventure will drive you – at least to the dacha, and at most, to the airport.
Jumping into the car, Sophia turned on her playlist and cranked up the volume.
"I want to be confident in the future," sounded encouraging from the speakers.
Throwing a leaf from a plant out the window, Ephor rolled up the windows and drove on.
At this stage, it's important to bring clarity to what’s happening.
The soul voluntarily chooses a new life path and returns to Earth until it becomes multifaceted and purified. Only after completing all the preparations can the soul remain and no longer need to go back to Earth. Celebration!
Human beings' temporary needs have always overshadowed their true ones. They carefully distracted their consciousness from the only real cause of their unhappiness: the lack of independent choice. This was a nearly perfected Masonic conspiracy. But the Masons were merely a handful of guides – beings who believed themselves to be the Messiah. And while one writer warned that "Annushka has already spilled the oil," the Guides used that oil as if it were olive oil. The semantic equivalent astounded the minds of the Higher Realm, let alone those of the human world.
Each Guide represented a set of specific emotions and desires – a subtle, higher force, a lifelong companion. A kind of energy cluster containing a certain program.
Formally, a person had a choice. They could take an alternative path and would even encounter alternative acquaintances and obstacles along the way. But in the end, the final constant remained unchanged. A constant value, known as fate among people and as protocol among the guides.
So, the coordinates on her watch indicated that the new patient was already at the "Sleeping Dolphin" clinic. It wasn’t a short drive, but Sophia’s stash of rock music kept her entertained. She always turned the volume up, popping chocolate after chocolate into her mouth. In the human world, they would have called her a sweet tooth, but in reality, Ephor had long studied their harmful habits, including the craving for food.
Stopping at a gas station, she noticed a boy about seven years old. He was staring at the vending machine filled with sweets, uncertainly tracing his finger across the glass from one candy bar to another.
“Need some change?” Sophia asked, approaching the boy.
“No, thank you—” he mumbled. “Mom gave me some money, but I can't choose. All the candy bars look so good.”
“Banana with chocolate seems pretty good,” she said, pointing to the middle of the shelf. “It's just sweet enough and has the right amount of syrup.”
"That’s what the advertisement claimed," she thought to herself.
“I like it too!” the boy exclaimed. “I think I'll choose that one.”
Two unhappy figures appeared near the vending machine.
“If you think about the essence of choice, our perceptions shape our desires. Every day, we have to analyze countless little things. And perhaps, in this very moment, we are drastically different from who we were just a minute ago. It feels like the day is packed with denial.” The twin girls, the same age as the boy, in light lace hooded capes, stared at Sophia with their red eyes.
Flavuses saw better in the dark and tried to hide from the light.
One of the girls pulled back her hood, revealing a face resembling a bat, with a snout instead of a nose, and shook her blonde hair, tied in braids, with hostility.
“What's your name?” Sophia asked the boy, trying to ignore his unfriendly companions.
“Lucas,” he mumbled, yawning.
“You know, Lucas, you don't have to spend so long choosing just one chocolate bar. You can grab the first one you see. Next time, you can try the one next to it. That way, you'll always have a variety of flavors,” the girl tried to encourage him.
“I don’t know, what if I don’t like it—”
“You'll end up like a product of the apricot after a worm gets into it – There's a fine line between "I want" and "I was convinced to want this,"” the blonde girl muttered.
“The road ahead isn't short, and all that will remain is your own reflection in the glass and reflection,” the second girl countered.
“Son, there you are,” an adult woman approached them. “Sorry, he’s already started gathering a line here. What are you stalling for, Lucas?”
“Oh, it’s fine, I’m not in a hurry,” Sophia replied.
“Mom, I don’t know which chocolate bar to choose. Help me.”
“You always have the same problems,” a middle-aged man in a perfectly pressed, starched white shirt rolled his dark blue eyes.
"Great. Just what I needed – Lombask here," Sophia thought, studying his chiseled Asian features.
He looked like a Japanese man with a tall, athletic build, broad shoulders, and muscular legs. But at a certain angle, his appearance was distorted, and the man with hair as black as oil resembled a crow.
“Son, I’m not rushing you, but we still have a long way to go. We need to make it before dark. You know how your dad dislikes driving at night.”
“Then help me out, Mom.”
“Why waste so much time?” Lombask said irritably, brushing his fingers through his hair and slicing through it with his sharp, long nails. “This boy can never make a quick, well-considered decision.”
“Alright, Lucas. How about we try this one this time?”
The woman pressed the button on the machine, and it spat out a candy bar in a plain wrapper with a crunch.
“Nougat – Even the waves wash up more selective treasures from the sea floor,” one of the girls wrinkled her nose.
“They spit out what isn't tasty,” the second girl sighed.
The twin girls turned toward the boy, pulling up their hoods.
“They at least know what they don't like,” Lombask scoffed, his patience wearing thin. His black hair fluffed up as if he were preparing for an attack.
“Goodbye, Lucas,” Sophia waved to him.
“Goodbye,” the boy replied shyly, awkwardly waving back as he unwrapped the unwanted candy bar and shuffled after his mother.
The boy's Guides walked behind him, holding hands, trying to avoid the direct sunlight streaming into the store through the dusty windows. Their gait was weary and slightly awkward, as if they hadn't slept for hundreds of years.
In contrast, Lombask strode confidently with his shoulders back, slightly ahead of his charge, glancing back only once toward the boy.
"What is that look – contempt?" Sophia thought.
After the gas station, she didn’t stop anywhere. Meeting the Flavuses always left an inexplicable residue. Timid, albino children who rarely engaged in conflict. Anyone assigned such a guide would be very unfortunate, as positive thinking would be out of the question. However, a melancholic mood was guaranteed, for that was like medicine to the Flavuses.
Lucas was a very nice and clever boy, though extremely shy, but it couldn’t be any other way with such Guides.
Lowering her left hand into the pocket of her denim jacket, the girl retrieved a banana chocolate bar without letting go of the steering wheel with her right hand.
“Well, it really is tasty,” she mumbled, taking a bite.