“Do they have little figurines of the bride and groom dancing on top?” Kirsten laughed.
We moved closer to the cliff, still studying it. There was something ominous in the nugget’s heavy, densely emerald glow.
“My Net Aide says this is the largest officially recorded nugget in the entire history of observations,” Art said in a low voice.
We stood there, spellbound, staring at the treasure. Kirsten looked at the cliff as well for a while, even though she couldn’t see the nugget itself. When she finally turned back to us, her expression was unexpectedly serious and focused. She was looking at Art. I followed her gaze.
Art nodded—as if answering a question she hadn’t voiced.
It felt like the two of them were thinking about the same thing. Kirsten narrowed her eyes, clearly analyzing the situation and making decisions.
“All right,” she said tensely. “Art, start extracting the nugget. Mac, stay close and keep watch—especially on the tunnel exit. If you notice anything unusual or suspicious, tell us immediately. I’ll look around as well.”
I understood what they were thinking.
At this moment, we were carrying values worth an obscenely large sum. Which meant we were extremely attractive prey—to anyone who could see those values and grasp their scale. And we were practically in a trap: sheer cliffs on three sides, the sea on the fourth. As far as I could tell, there was only one way out—back along the trail with its tunnels.
Perfect terrain for an ambush.
Realizing this, I felt my heart start pounding hard and fast. I scanned the surrounding cliffs with frantic intensity. The canyon was empty. Twilight had almost fully given way to night—clear, star-filled. Above the sea hung a bright, southern moon, large and sharp-edged.
My companions, meanwhile, were calm and businesslike.
Art stepped closer to the cliff, turned his backpack toward it, and—something I sensed rather than saw—activated the tacle.
Kirsten was “looking around”, though clearly not here, not directly around us, but through the cameras of the mini-drones. She stood motionless, staring ahead, her eyes flicking rapidly. Her face remained composed and focused.
Then she flinched—just slightly.
“Well,” she said tightly, “this was to be expected.”
A screen popped up in my mask, streaming footage from one of the drones. It showed a large rock on the ground with a flat top. Standing upright on it—as if suctioned to the surface—was a familiar object.
A resonator.
And in the corner of the drone feed, a circle with the number “1” glowed with a menacing amber light.
The drone slowly pulled back, panning left as it did. Now I could see the trail we had come along—the very path we’d have to use to leave—and the entrance to the first tunnel on that side.
The lens of the active resonator was aimed straight at it.
My heart was hammering somewhere up in my throat. I darted a hunted, cornered look from Kirsten to Art.
Neither of them looked even remotely frightened or confused.
Kirsten’s face carried the thrill of a hunter—the look of a lioness watching a nearby herd of antelope. Art’s expression said something closer to: Now this is getting interesting.
Their calm confidence was contagious.
Kirsten looked at Art.
“How long do you need to handle this beauty?”
“Half an hour. No less,” Art replied evenly.
“Good. One more question. Battery levels—how long can you drift?”
Art nodded, understanding immediately.
“Just under half. About twenty minutes at cruising speed. With double load—less.”
“That’s what I thought,” Kirsten said, nodding. “I’m nearly fully charged. So—Mac rides with me.”
Art spread his hands in an apologetic, slightly ironic gesture.
I looked from one of them to the other, completely lost.
It must have looked pretty funny, because when they glanced at me, both of them laughed.
“Explain it to Mac for now,” Kirsten said. “I’ll take care of the next transport step.”
She turned and walked a couple of steps away.
I looked at Art questioningly. He smiled—half apologetic, half encouraging.
“Sorry, Mac,” he said gently. “There’s just too much to explain and show all at once. You understand—this is all still very new for you.”
“Yeah. It’s fine. I get it,” I said, feeling just as awkward.
Kirsten suddenly said, “Hello,” and we both turned toward her.
She switched to the local language. I realized she was talking on the phone through her clip. In the few months I’d lived in this country, I’d picked up a handful of words, so I could catch fragments of what she was saying:
“Hello… yes, I’d like to rent a car… for one day… we’ll be there in about two hours… yes, I understand, the double rate is fine… of course… yes, cash deposit… thank you.”
She ended the call and turned back to us.
“There’s a fairly large resort city about an hour from here,” she said briskly. “They have a 24-hour rental service. I’ve booked a car for us. Now we just need to get to that place.” She gestured away from the sea. “There’s a road on the other side of the mountain. Somewhere nearby there’s a well-known tourist spot—something like a trailhead. It’s over there, about five hundred meters from here.”
I looked in the direction she was pointing: a steep slope covered in pines.
“I’ll call a taxi there… Hello…” She was already back on the phone.
I studied the mountain, trying to spot at least some kind of path. There was none. And the slope was clearly far too steep—pine trees clung to it as if gripping the rapidly rising rock with their roots. I shot a confused look at Art.
“And… how exactly are we supposed to get up there?” I asked.
“On drifters,” he explained readily. “Remember I told you there’s a portable drifter built into my pack?”
I nodded.
“Kirsten’s pack has the same one. They’re very low-power, of course. Essentially, a drifter is just a compressor—it compresses air and releases it under pressure in a controlled direction, creating thrust. By the way, the heat generated during compression is used to warm the agrav, which makes the whole system more efficient.” He tapped the tacle behind his back. “Can’t demonstrate it right now, but you’ll see soon enough. We’ll use the drifters to reach the road.”
Kirsten finished her call and came over.
“All set. The taxi will be waiting for us in forty minutes.” She glanced at Art. “Did you explain the drifters?”
Art nodded.
“Great. Then I’ll show you.” She turned to me. “Watch closely, Mac. It’s very simple.”
She turned her back to me. Four openings appeared near the corners of her backpack. The pack itself subtly changed shape, flattening slightly and fitting more snugly against her back. Then—without me quite seeing how—the agrav kicked in, and Kirsten rose smoothly off the ground.
A quiet hissing, whistling sound followed, like a vacuum cleaner running at a distance. She tilted forward slightly in midair and began gliding above the ground, tracing a slow circle. As she did, she waved her hands, comically flapping them like wings.
Completing the circle, Kirsten stopped in front of me, rose a little higher to a vertical position, and gently settled back onto the ground. Then she finished with an exaggerated, theatrical bow.
I genuinely felt like applauding. Because it looked—put mildly—impressive.
“And how exactly am I supposed to use this… drifter?” I asked uneasily. “I don’t have one of your magical backpacks.”
Kirsten looked at Art. He was grinning broadly.
“You’ll see,” she said lightly, waving it off.
The next half hour passed in tense waiting. At least for me. My companions, on the other hand, seemed to find nothing unusual or worrying about our situation. Kirsten immersed herself in the virtual Layers again. Art continued collecting the nugget, calmly scanning the surroundings with the relaxed air of a tourist at a scenic overlook.
I paced back and forth, repeatedly casting anxious glances toward the tunnel entrance, the sheer mountain slope, and the dark sea. And then, as my eyes swept the shoreline once more, something caught my attention—something that felt… wrong.
It took a few seconds to understand what it was.
Along the waterline lay clumps of seaweed, thrown ashore and dried by the sun. But one of those clumps was… different. Slightly darker, and it didn’t look dry or dead like the rest.
The moment my gaze fixed on it, the thing moved.
“Tumbleweed,” the Creature introduced itself.
Its shape began to shift smoothly, becoming more rounded. A moment later, the Creature rolled away from its spot and started moving across the beach toward the tunnel entrance, now truly resembling a dry bush blown across an open field by the wind.
I spun back toward my companions. They had noticed the Creature too—or heard its introduction—and were now following it with attentive gazes. Kirsten narrowed her eyes with interest, her head tilted slightly to one side. Art, faintly smiling, nodded to himself a couple of times, as if confirming something internally. I noticed that he had already stepped away from the rock—the harvesting was apparently finished. Kirsten noticed it too.
“Done?” she asked briskly. “Excellent. Then it’s time to get out of here. Art, you’re in front—you set the course. I’ll put the drifter on autopilot, locked to your trajectory, so I don’t have to split my attention. And one more thing—” She paused briefly, as if weighing the decision. “Activate your resonator and prepare two impulses. We need to be ready for surprises.”
Art nodded silently, pulling the resonator from his belt. I saw his pack begin to reconfigure, clearly switching into flight mode.
Kirsten stepped up to me.
“Mac, may I ask you to put your backpack on in front?” she said, unusually polite. It felt like she was trying to hide a hint of embarrassment.
I did as she asked, already beginning to guess what would happen next. Kirsten gave a small shrug, as if to say don’t take it the wrong way, walked around me, and took position behind me. Then she gently pressed herself against my back and wrapped her arms around me.
Even though I had more or less expected this, I couldn’t avoid a flush of embarrassment—and a moment of confusion. Nor could I avoid sensations of a very different, and very pleasant, kind. But Kirsten—or rather, her backpack—quickly brought my thoughts back to something more practical.
I felt the straps slide around my sides and close beneath my front-mounted pack, softly but firmly securing me in place. Then I felt my feet leave the ground.
“Don’t worry,” Kirsten said quietly, right by my ear. “You don’t have to do anything. Just relax and enjoy the ride.”
I couldn’t help noticing the playful note in her voice.
Art was already ahead of us. I heard the hiss of compressed air and saw him lift off as well, tilt forward slightly, and surge ahead, smoothly gaining speed. Our shared “rig” with Kirsten leaned forward too, and we followed Art, keeping about five meters behind him.
The speed was perfect—not fast enough to be frightening, but more than enough to enjoy the sensation of swift motion. Art navigated expertly around rocks and trees, and we mirrored his maneuvers precisely. As we approached the mountain slope, we slowed and started to climb steeply upward, keeping just a couple of meters above the treetops of the pines growing along the incline.
Soon we heard the sound of cars passing on a road. Then, as we crested the ridge, the road itself came into view. Art turned to follow it, dropping almost to ground level and continuing forward among the trees. We stayed exactly on his course.
A few minutes later we spotted a small parking lot on the opposite side of the road, bordered by a low fence made of stones bonded with cement. There was a gap in the fence marking the start of a narrow road leading into the forest. I noticed a post with several arrow-shaped signs pointing that way.
This, I realized, was the beginning of several hiking trails.
There was only one car in the parking lot, marked with the logo of the local taxi service.
Art picked a level patch of ground near the edge of the road, shielded by trees, and eased himself down. We touched down beside him. The straps holding me loosened and released at once, and Kirsten stepped back. I felt a strange mix of relief and regret—though relief, in the end, won out.
We crossed the road and approached the car. Kirsten leaned toward the driver’s window, flashed a disarming smile, and exchanged a few phrases with him. I caught the words “got a little lost.”
After that, we loaded into the car without incident. Kirsten took the front seat beside the driver; Art and I settled in the back. I noticed that Art was still holding his resonator in his hand.
We set off in the direction opposite to the resort town we had just left—the one where, apparently, a warm welcome had been waiting for us. About forty minutes later we entered another town I recognized, one I’d visited a couple of times before. We reached the rental office without trouble, paid, and let the taxi go.
Kirsten went inside the office and soon returned with an elderly man whose deeply lined face was adorned with a full gray beard. He was clearly in high spirits—no doubt thanks to the double advance payment.
Kirsten chose a compact SUV that, judging by its looks, was built for extreme off-road conditions. After signing the paperwork and taking the keys, she tossed her backpack onto the back seat rather than the trunk and confidently took the driver’s seat. I threw my pack into the trunk and climbed into the back; there was barely any room, my knees pressed against the seat in front of me. Art sat beside Kirsten, also keeping his backpack with him instead of stowing it away.
We pulled away—but after just a couple of blocks, Kirsten turned onto an empty roadside shoulder and stopped the car.
As if expecting this, Art didn’t say a word. He began pulling—or rather, peeling—small clumps of formin from his backpack and pressing them onto each of the windows. The material stuck instantly and spread across the glass, forming a semi-transparent film—or more accurately, a membrane. Visibility through it was worse than through the darkest tinting. Within a couple of minutes, all the windows were covered, and we found ourselves in near-total darkness. Only a faint glow from the headlights seeped through the windshield.
When he was finished, Kirsten shifted into gear and pulled back onto the road, accelerating smoothly. I realized she wasn’t watching the road through the windows or mirrors at all, but through the feeds from her drones.
“Now we’ve got one hundred percent protection from a resonator impulse,” Art said, answering the question I hadn’t voiced.
I nodded.
“When we get there, we should probably check my place too,” I ventured, trying to show off what I imagined were my budding tactical instincts. “Make sure nothing’s been planted.”
Kirsten turned her head slightly. In the near darkness, I thought I saw an ironic smile flicker across her face.
“Haven’t you figured it out yet, Mac?” Art said calmly, without turning around.
“We’re not going to your place. We’re going straight to the Gate.”