I caught the smell of meat sizzling on the grill before we even reached the veranda. A moment later, a delicate mushroom aroma joined it. Quite a few people were already seated at the heavy wooden tables—tourists and locals alike—and it took us a while to find a free spot. Eventually, though, we noticed a small table tucked away in the far corner.
Some of the patrons were laughing loudly, others were arguing animatedly, while a few simply sat in silence, gazing at the sunset sky with a massive beer mug clasped in one hand. The atmosphere was disarmingly simple and warm, as if everyone here had decided, at least for a short while, to forget about work, worries, and obligations.
When we sat down, I glanced at Art and noticed his mask and clip. The mask had subtly changed shape, a dark frame now visible around it. The clip had turned fully skin-toned, flatter, and seemed almost smaller. The mask now looked indistinguishable from ordinary glasses, and the clip was nearly impossible to notice. When I took off my own mask and clip to inspect them, I saw that the same transformation had happened to mine.
“That’s to avoid drawing attention,” Art explained. “In its standard form, the mask still looks a bit unusual in most Variants. The clip even more so. And anything unusual becomes a distinguishing feature. We try to avoid those.”
He hesitated, then added, almost reluctantly, “Please put them back on. Threat mode—remember.”
I hurriedly put the mask and clip back on and gave him an apologetic smile.
“Do people wear glasses in all Variants?” I asked.
“Unfortunately, no,” Art sighed. “In places where glasses aren’t a thing, we have to wear the mask as contact lenses. Which is noticeably uncomfortable. But that’s the job.”
“And what—no one ever notices the lenses or the clip, even like this?”
“It happens,” Art admitted with a helpless, ironic shrug. “That’s what the resonator and forgetting mode are for.”
I nodded.
A waitress approached our table—a cheerful, pleasant-looking young woman. She was clearly local, but her English was nearly fluent. We ordered two large bowls of mushroom soup, homemade bread, a shared grill platter, and two mugs of tea.
“We also have fresh draft beer—we brew it ourselves,” she offered, but without a word we both politely declined.
When she left, I asked, “You’re at least indifferent to alcohol, right? That’s the impression I get.”
“At least,” Art smiled. “And I can even tell you why. First, I like to stay fully in control of myself at all times. I don’t enjoy anything interfering with that. And second…” He paused deliberately. “Once you become a strider, you learn to take care of your Essence. Not to waste it.”
“And alcohol…” I began, then immediately understood.
Art nodded, confirming my realization, and decided to elaborate anyway.
“All drugs work the same way. They let quinta leak out of a person’s contour, causing euphoria. But unlike sliding, chemical substances—including alcohol—don’t involve an initial boost, no prior pumping of quinta. So your Essence level drops below baseline. It takes time to recover. That’s where that unpleasant post-drinking state comes from.”
I remembered our mountain picnic, Fang’s flask, and imagined the “corona” flaring around my own contour. And that Zara might have seen it… though no, she had taken off her mask and clip then. Still, I felt a flush of embarrassment.
As if reading my thoughts, Art tried to reassure me.
“Don’t worry. We’re not that strict about alcohol. That’s just me. Laar, for example, enjoys a beer or two, and Ellen is a great connoisseur of fine wines. Speaking of Ellen—here. Read this.”
An envelope icon appeared in the corner of my mask. As soon as I focused on it, a text window unfolded.
From: Ellen
To: Team Ellen
Subject: Additional boxes
Hi, striders,
You’ve done great work over the past couple of days—congratulations. As the analysts predicted, the release associated with the emergence of the new Gates turned out to be exceptionally rich. All of our boxes are already more than half full, so to avoid wasting time on pumping tomorrow, AIO will deliver additional boxes in the morning.
Your contacts will reach out to each of you individually to arrange the details. They’ll also accompany you for the remainder of this picking operation—as you can imagine, with this much quinta on hand, extra security won’t hurt.
Stay in touch,
Ellen
I looked at Art.
“I’ve already contacted Kirsten—she’s our liaison from AIO,” he said. “She’ll come by your place at eight tomorrow morning. We’ll be working together all day.”
I nodded.
The waitress returned with a tray, set the plates and mugs on the table, and, flashing a coquettish smile at Art, walked away. We started eating.
Both the mushroom soup and the grill were outstanding. When we finished our meals, the girl came back once more. Art asked her to bring the check and call a taxi.
“We always have a few cars on standby,” she rattled off, gathering the plates and, for some reason, looking only at Art. “To the left of the entrance, in the parking lot—you’ll see them.”
After we paid—Art covered the bill, and judging by the waitress’s reaction, tipped generously—we stepped outside and indeed saw three well-worn cars parked nearby, each with a local taxi logo on the roof.
I gave our address to one of the drivers—a stern-looking guy with thick black eyebrows and neatly groomed mustaches. He nodded and smiled professionally, just with his lips; his eyes remained serious.
We got in. Art took the front seat beside the driver, and I settled into the back, leaning comfortably against the seatback and watching the road through the window. The car pulled out of the parking lot and turned right onto the mountain road climbing along the slope. To my relief, the driver didn’t speed—the road was winding, with sharp turns coming one after another.
It happened when we were rounding yet another bend.
Everything that followed unfolded incredibly fast, yet for me time seemed to slow, stretch, allowing me to notice and remember an astonishing number of details. The car slowed slightly, entered the turn, skirting the rock face—and at that exact moment, the clip shrieked:
“Beeeep-beeeeep-beeeeep!”
An orange icon with the number 1 flared on my mask.
Why orange right away?—a panicked thought flashed. There should have been yellow first…
Art ducked sharply, folding down and to the side as much as the space between the seat and the dashboard allowed. At the same time, his hand shot forward, and the resonator stuck to the dashboard as if magnetized. The lens at its top darted back and forth, searching for a target.
Five seconds, I remembered. It takes five seconds for the impulse to form.
I jerked my head to the right. At the very edge of the sheer rock wall, a tiny orange speck glowed.
A resonator.
The next instant, a thin, needle-like blue beam shot out of it, and the clip emitted a nasty:
“Vzzzzzt!”
The sound carried something of high-voltage wires humming, metal scraping against glass, and toothache all at once.
The beam struck our driver in the temple—and vanished. The man went limp, his hands sliding uselessly off the steering wheel.
I turned my head right again. The resonator’s speck was still there. Still orange.
Now it needs another five seconds to recharge… right? I thought desperately. The next shot—at Art. And me… what can I do?
I felt like a spectator, watching a scene unfold onstage from a theater seat. And for some reason, it didn’t even occur to me that I was one of the actors.
And then the speck outside suddenly flared red. It was as if something began to pulse directly inside my skull:
“Beep-beep-beep-beep-beep!”
Without thinking, purely on instinct, I lunged sideways, twisting my head and dropping toward the seat. Or rather—just beginning to drop.
The air was sliced again by the vile:
“Vzzzzzt!”
This time I didn’t see the blue beam—I had already turned my head away.
And then everything vanished.