I woke, opened my eyes, and found myself in complete darkness. It lasted only a second. Then the wall to the left of the bed transformed into a window, letting in soft streams of morning light.
Before me stretched a neat lawn of lush, vibrant green, still faintly shimmering with dew. A little farther on rose a gentle hill dotted with flowering shrubs and solitary blossoms—bright, full, so varied in shape and color that my gaze kept catching on each new shade.
I got out of bed and walked to the window.
Yes. I should have expected that, I told myself.
To the left of the lawn, on the pad in front of the cottage entrance, Big Tom sat nestled in place. Which meant Art had already returned and was waiting for me to wake.
I turned and headed toward the wall separating the bedroom from the living room. As I approached, it obligingly slid aside.
But Art wasn’t alone.
He was lounging comfortably in an armchair, feet propped on the low table, and at the sight of me he simply smiled and gave a casual wave.
From another chair rose a young woman I had never seen before.
One glance at her, and the cliché “looks like a million dollars” came immediately to mind. Tall, slender—almost strikingly so—a blonde whose hair fell over her shoulders in what looked like effortless disarray, though the effort behind it was clearly meticulous. A face radiant with freshness, touched only by the faintest makeup, just enough to accentuate her natural beauty. Calm, intelligent light-blue eyes. A subtle, friendly half-smile. A perfectly tailored dark business suit that emphasized her figure, paired with a crisp white blouse whose collar was opened just enough to seem unstudied.
Everything about her—every feature, every movement—radiated refined grace and impeccable elegance.
“Mac, I’m glad we finally meet. Mona,” she said, stepping closer and extending her hand with fluid poise.
I took her slender, smooth hand. Mona inclined her head slightly toward her shoulder in a graceful, welcoming gesture and smiled.
“Art and I… well… we’re seeing each other,” she added, glancing toward him.
I looked at Art as well. He raised his eyebrows in exaggerated astonishment.
“You used to avoid phrasing it like that. Mac, you’re clearly having a positive influence on Mona. Please, do keep it up.”
I felt a flicker of awkwardness—but it was instantly dispelled by the arrival of a familiar figure.
Estri.
He must have been in the room all along; I simply hadn’t noticed him at first. The mech drifted toward Mona, offering her a cup and saucer.
“Just the way you like it. Strong, no cream, a touch of caramel syrup,” he said warmly. Then, in a different tone, added, “And no, in this case the sweetness won’t hurt your figure.”
“Estri… as always, you know me better than I know myself,” Mona sighed, accepting the cup.
“Mac, coffee?” Estri turned toward me. “Your breakfast will be ready fifteen seconds before you exit the bathroom.”
“Thanks, Estri,” I smiled. “Message received.”
And I headed for the bathroom.
I quickly figured out everything in there—the setup strongly resembled the sanitizer on board Big Tom. I went through my morning routine as efficiently as possible, trying not to keep Mona and Art waiting.
When I returned, however, they did not look like people who had spent the time in patient anticipation.
If anything, they looked conspiratorial—and faintly embarrassed. Art, in particular, was radiating unmistakably excellent spirits.
Before I could dwell on that, Estri intercepted my attention again.
“Mac, since you haven’t yet settled on a preferred food class, I deemed it appropriate to begin today with an organic breakfast. Mona and Art assured me they had no objections.”
“Thank you,” I said—whether to Estri or to the two of them, I wasn’t entirely sure—and turned my gaze toward the round table by the broad transparent wall overlooking the pad where Big Tom was parked.
The table was set for three. That much was clear from the number of soft, inviting chairs and the neatly arranged place settings before them. In the center stood a lower rotating round tray loaded with dishes, polished covered serving bowls, coffee pots, and pitchers. Above it all, drifting lightly in the air, Estri busied himself adding yet more plates.
“Mac, Art says you drink coffee in the mornings. Or would you prefer tea?” Estri asked, gliding toward the kitchen area.
“Coffee, please. Black. One spoon of sugar,” I replied absently, still trying to orient myself and decide how exactly I was supposed to behave.
“Mac,” Art said with a smile, approaching the table alongside Mona, “I think it’ll be easier for you at first if Estri stays with you for a while. Estri, will you help Mac feel at home?”
He waited for Mona to sit, then took his own seat.
“Of course. I’ll be delighted,” Estri responded enthusiastically from somewhere in the kitchen.
“And what about you?” I asked Art, taking my seat as well.
Mona answered for him.
“We’ve decided Art will be staying with me for now. My Tuvi and I will try not to let him regress into a primitive state.”
Art’s mood suddenly made perfect sense.
“Tuvi, by the way, has absolutely no idea how to brew a proper herbal tea,” Estri remarked grumpily as he drifted toward the table and placed a steaming cup of coffee in front of me.
“That’s not true, and you know it,” Mona replied calmly and with quiet confidence. “Just because everyone—including me—admires your tea doesn’t mean no one else can make it.”
As she spoke, she nudged the edge of the upper rotating tier of the table. It began to turn smoothly. When a bowl of lush green salad drifted within reach, she lifted several leaves onto her plate with a pair of serving tongs.
Glancing at Art, I saw an appetizing omelet on his plate, which he had apparently retrieved from one of the covered dishes.
Taking their example as encouragement, I quickly assembled my own breakfast: fried eggs, bacon, fresh vegetables, buttered toast, orange juice, and coffee.
Maybe even as good as Lemar’s, I thought as I began to eat.
“Mac,” Mona said, turning to me, “Art told me you were asking what it would take for your home Variant to move from closed to open.”
It occurred to me that they must have spent quite a bit of time together already if she knew even that detail.
“Yes, that’s right,” I replied, immediately attentive. “As you can imagine, that question matters not only to me, but to several billion people living there—in my Variant.”
Mona nodded.
“I understand. Believe me, I do,” she said with an enthusiasm that surprised me.
I met her gaze. There was a spark there—genuine, alive, unmistakably engaged.
“I want to tell you how things stand at the moment. At ICDA we call this process Variant integration. Personally, I believe it’s the central purpose of our work. In my view, all our efforts should be directed toward—yes, gradual, yes, careful—but ultimately inevitable integration of all Variants. I believe that is not only the mission of our Agency, but of everyone in our Variant.”
She fell silent, as if slightly embarrassed by her own intensity.
“There’s… another opinion?” I asked cautiously, glancing from Mona to Art.
They both seemed faintly uncomfortable.
“Yes,” Art said darkly. “There’s another approach. Segregation. Many people in the Forum—and not only there—believe integration in the foreseeable future is unrealistic. Worse, they fear possible aggression from one of the Variants. So in their view, we should prepare defensively. Including stockpiling non-lethal weapons and other protective measures.”
“And what’s the result?” I asked. “Which position prevailed? Which direction are you… I mean, are we moving in?”
“As usual, something in between,” Mona said with a restrained smile. “We develop contingency plans so we’re prepared for negative scenarios, while at the same time taking steps toward integration. The good news is that for each closed Variant, ICDA has developed a long-term strategy where integration remains the ultimate objective. But… of course, we understand that in each case we’re at a different distance from that goal.”
That reminded me of a question that had been lingering in my mind.
“How many Variants are open right now?” I asked carefully. “And… how are things going with them?”
They smiled at the same time.
“There are two open Variants at present—the Fifth and the Sixth,” Art said. “And fortunately, relations with both are stable and good.”
“Why those two?” I asked. “What makes them different?”
“Excellent question,” Mona said approvingly. “And the answer is quite simple. In both of those Variants, knowledge of Quintessence existed long before the Gates appeared.”
She continued:
“In the Fifth Variant, what they once called ‘magic’ has been cultivated for centuries. The word magic itself is considered outdated there. Instead, they speak of the Art of the Subtle Field or Fieldcraft. They refer to Quintessence as Field Energy and treat it as the foundational basis of all Field practices—both theoretical and applied.”
She paused briefly before going on.
“In the Sixth Variant, humanity took a different path—biotechnology. They even look somewhat different from us—you’ll see for yourself. Their long-standing reverence for living systems led them, centuries ago, to recognize Quintessence as well. They call it the Great Mother. For them, it is less a tool than an object of sacred devotion. So their practices connected to Quintessence could also be described as ‘magic,’ in a sense—but it is primarily embedded within religious traditions rather than systematic engineering.”
Mona fell silent for a moment, thinking, then added:
“Incidentally, something resembling magic does exist in the Second Variant as well. There it’s simply called witchcraft, and those who practice it are known as witches and warlocks. They even have their own distinct community—the Order. But their craft is essentially pure art. They refine it through practice without attempting to understand its underlying nature, progressing entirely through experience. So they haven’t yet arrived at an awareness of what Essence truly is. Though personally, I suspect they’re closer than they realize.”
“And that’s why,” Art continued, “when the Gates appeared, only the Fifth and Sixth Variants had at least some framework for understanding what they were dealing with. They already knew why ordinary people couldn’t pass through the Gates—I mean, truly pass through them. So when striders emerged… in a sense, they were already expected.”
“And how do they feel about us now?” I asked. “I assume they’re not thrilled about letting us collect their Essence and keep it.”
Both Mona and Art darkened slightly. I felt at once that my question, though legitimate, had landed awkwardly.
Mona answered.
“It’s an uncomfortable question, Mac—but a necessary one. It touches on something broader and deeply ethical. Do we, as outsiders, have the right to appropriate the key resource of another world?”
She paused.
“A special commission was formed under the World Forum to examine that very issue. It included not only human representatives, but also NA. The commission concluded the following: in the form in which we collect and use Quintessence, it is an unstable, dissipating resource. The people of other Variants would not be able to use it effectively—unless we shared our technologies with them. But doing so would require revealing everything else as well, and for other reasons that is considered unacceptable.”
She continued evenly:
“Therefore, we are permitted to collect and use Quintessence in other Variants—but only until such time as their people learn to work with it themselves. Which, incidentally, is a powerful argument in favor of integration. Ethically speaking, we are obliged at least to attempt to help them learn to use so fundamental a resource for the benefit of their own humanity.”
They fell silent, allowing me to process what had been said and ask possible questions.
The question I asked, however, I asked silently and only to myself.
If we were the ones in their position—if our world were being approached this way—would we choose integration?
I considered it carefully. And in the end, I decided that yes—we probably would. And that the choice, in principle, was the right one.
Perhaps that conclusion showed on my face. Mona, watching me, seemed—unless I imagined it—quietly relieved. Art smiled as well and continued:
“To return to your earlier question—how things stand with the open Variants. Fortunately, in both cases we’ve reached mutually acceptable arrangements regarding Essence.”
“With the Fifth Variant,” he said, “we essentially trade. More precisely, we don’t trade Essence itself, but services related to its collection. We gather quinta for them, transfer it to their authorities, and retain an agreed share. That share isn’t fixed—it depends on multiple fluctuating factors. Overall, the arrangement satisfies both our Forum and their Council of Guardians, so our relationship remains pragmatic and stable.”
“Something similar applies to the Sixth Variant. They permit us to collect—for them, and only for them—a strictly defined quantity of Essence. The amount is determined by the priests of the Church of the Great Foremother. It is believed to be exactly what humanity truly requires—no more. And thus, the Great Foremother may grant that portion of herself. We deliver the collected Essence to them, and in exchange they share resources and technologies with us. In practice, the cooperation has proven highly effective.”
“And most importantly,” Mona interjected, almost cutting him off, “both examples demonstrate that integration—in one form or another—is possible. And ultimately, it fosters the development of both Variants—and therefore of humanity as a whole.”
“And that,” Art said with a smile, “means we’re not only doing something interesting—we’re doing something useful. And we can continue doing it right now, since the afterparty starts in twenty minutes.”
Only then did I realize that the remnants of my breakfast—and my coffee—had gone completely cold. I drained the cup in one swallow and stood.
“No rush, Mac,” Art reassured me. “Trillium is only a couple of minutes away.”
He rose as well.
“This afterparty will be an expanded one. In addition to Ellen and Manish—our chief analyst—Norton will attend. He’s the director of ARC. Mona will be there too, representing ICDA.”
I looked at Mona. She smiled with disarming charm.
“If you don’t mind, of course,” she said lightly.
“Of course not,” I replied. “You’re very welcome.”
“Then let’s get to work,” Art concluded.
We stood and headed toward the exit.
Halfway there, I glanced back and caught an unexpectedly captivating sight. Estri hovered above the table, and three articulated manipulators extended from his underside. With effortless precision, they gripped the edges of the rotating upper tier. Estri lifted it smoothly—dishes, pitchers, coffee pots and all—without the slightest visible strain.
Businesslike, like a bee returning to its hive, he carried the entire assembly toward the kitchen.