We boarded Big Tom. The cabin had reverted to two seats again, both facing forward. The moment we settled in and the soft safety vests closed around us, Tom lifted smoothly off the platform and began gaining speed and altitude.
I hadn’t yet visited these mountains—I mean, back there, in my world. So now, taking them in, I couldn’t help but admire their majestic,—lavish, I would say—beauty. I found myself thinking that the First Ones—or whoever it was that had created the Gates—had not chosen these mountains by chance for the very first one.
Below us, the folds of the slopes drifted past, cloud shadows sliding across them. Thin lines of trails, barely visible from this height, formed intricate patterns. Off to one side, a river shimmered, splitting into sunlit branches. On the other, bands of forest climbed the slopes, and above them rose monumental, primordial cliffs.
The flight was swift yet soothingly smooth, without any noticeable maneuvers or shifts in speed. Tom wasn’t flying so much as gliding, as if deliberately presenting the passing scenery on a vast panoramic screen that surrounded us on all sides.
In the distance, the ghostlike arch of the Gate emerged and began drawing closer with steady inevitability. Studying it, I thought that the Gate did not quite harmonize with the surrounding landscape—yet neither did it clash with it. It was like an avant-garde element introduced into a classical painting. And the painting still remained a masterpiece.
As we approached, Tom descended and settled gently onto a level stretch of ground nearby.
We stepped outside.
The air was cool and astonishingly clear. A light breeze carried the scent of grass and flowers not yet scorched by the sun, with a faint undertone of damp stone. I took a deep breath and realized that I was breathing differently here—slower, deeper, calmer.
The mountains surrounded us on all sides, yet they did not press in. On the contrary, they created a sense of space and stability, as if here, of all places, everything stood exactly where it belonged.
I glanced at Art.
“Well then,” he said, “let’s see how the Ninth Variant reacts to us—or rather, to you.”
I nodded silently and stepped forward.
A designation appeared against the surface of the Gate, indicating the Variant beyond it. For now—V3.
I registered it automatically, the way one notes the number on a door one has no intention of opening. Art and I exchanged a look and began moving forward slowly, unhurriedly.
The image within the Gate was blurred, slightly out of focus. At one point it seemed to tremble—not sharply, but the way a vast bowl of water might quiver if lightly disturbed. Then the image grew murkier, and finally it seemed to drift, flowing into something else. Similar—and yet not the same.
The designation shifted.
V9.
In the same instant, it felt as though something shoved me in the face. Not struck—shoved. Abruptly and without warning. I stumbled back a step, and Art did the same. Almost immediately a wave rolled over us—dense, viscous, profoundly hostile.
It wasn’t pain in the usual sense. It was something even worse.
I suddenly remembered with startling clarity the time I had once been gravely ill: high fever, mental fog, the sense that even existing required effort. Back then, I had thought it couldn’t possibly get worse.
It could. Far worse. By an order of magnitude. Immeasurably worse.
With every second spent near the Gate, the sensation intensified—pressing from within, twisting thought, stripping away any sense of footing. The only thing that brought even the slightest relief was stepping back. One step away from the Gate, and the pressure eased. Another—and it became marginally more bearable.
We retreated almost at a run, as if fleeing an invisible wave crashing toward us. Or escaping a zone where space itself had turned against us. I barely understood where I was anymore; I simply followed the instinct to move—back, away, farther.
We practically stumbled into Big Tom. The hatch sealed, the vests closed—and at Art’s silent command, Tom launched.
The pressure began to recede at once, even before we had gained altitude. After a few seconds it was merely awful. A few more—tolerable. And then there remained only heavy breathing and the sticky, lingering sense that we had approached something we had no business approaching.
Tom carried us rapidly away from the Gate.
And I was profoundly grateful to him for it.
He flew fast and steady, as though he too were eager to increase the distance between us and the Gate. Within minutes, to my astonishment, there was no trace left of that horror. No weakness, no clouded mind, no echo of the pressure—as if nothing had happened at all. Only the memory of it, far too vivid to dismiss as imagination.
I drew several slow breaths.
Everything seemed to be back in order.
Art turned toward me in his seat, studied me carefully, and nodded—more to himself than to me.
“Well,” he said calmly, “that was to be expected. Judging by the reaction, the Ninth Variant affects you exactly the same way it affects everyone else. No worse. No better.”
And in that moment I felt an unexpected sense of relief. Strange. Almost embarrassing. As if something inside me, clenched in anticipation, had finally let go.
I must have been afraid, I realized. Afraid that at some time I would find myself alone with the Ninth Variant. That it would turn out to be my problem—and mine alone. But that hadn’t happened. The Ninth Variant remained a shared frontier, not a personal trial.
“I sent Manish a brief report,” Art went on. “No details, just the essentials. That should be enough for him.”
He fell silent for a couple of seconds, then gave a faint smile.
“That means we can consider this item closed. And therefore…” He looked at me. “We can finally take care of your arrangements.”
I nodded.
“And to begin with,” Art continued with slightly theatrical enthusiasm, “you need to pay Thomas a visit. He’s our chief authority on all matters domestic.”
Big Tom was already descending toward the Trillium parking platform.
When we stopped in front of a door that read:
Thomas
Head of Personnel Affairs
and below, in smaller print:
“It’s always better to walk in than stand outside wondering.”
—Thomas
Art paused and gave me a conspiratorial look.
“Listen, Mac, you don’t need me for this meeting,” he said. “Go in on your own. I’ll be around. Let me know when you’re done.”
I was a little surprised, but I didn’t ask questions. I nodded and stepped inside.
Behind a curved standing desk, focused on a monitor, stood a man about my age. He was extremely tall—well over two meters—and broad and thickset, yet the build suited his open, friendly face perfectly. He looked up at me, and his expression instantly lit up with unrestrained delight, accompanied by a radiant smile.
“Mac!” he exclaimed. “Finally! I’ve been waiting and waiting. I thought you weren’t coming today!”
Instinctively, I glanced over my shoulder, half expecting to see another Mac—an old and dear friend of Thomas’s—standing behind me. But there was no one there.
By then Thomas was already striding toward me, extending his hand and simultaneously gesturing with the other.
“Come on in, don’t just stand there.”
He shook my hand firmly, clapped me on the shoulder, and steered me back toward the desk.
“Where’s Art?” he suddenly asked. “I thought he’d come in with you. You know he pulled a disgraceful stunt—started calling his glider ‘Big Tom.’ Imagine that. Tom is me, just so we’re clear. And he tells everyone. I hope he didn’t tell you?”
I averted my eyes and gave a noncommittal shrug.
“Aha,” Thomas muttered to himself, “so he’s persisting in this outrageous behavior. Then it’s his good fortune he didn’t come in. Because I would’ve thrown…” He scanned the desk. “…this clip at him. No—this terminal. You tell him that.”
I looked into his eyes and saw the playful spark there. He was grinning broadly.
I understood the local conversational etiquette.
“That’s exactly why he didn’t come in,” I said. “He’s terrified of being hit in the forehead with a terminal. He’s hiding out in the corridor right now. Behind a palm tree.”
We both laughed.
We remained standing at the curved desk—more side by side than opposite each other—and Thomas, still smiling but noticeably more focused now, said:
“All right. Jokes aside, let’s get to business. First—formalities. However you look at it, you’re an arrival from another Variant, so naturalization is unavoidable.”
He glanced over my shoulder.
“It’s simple and quick. Don’t worry.”
I turned.
A matte-gray mech was approaching us. Its appearance contrasted sharply with the relaxed atmosphere of Thomas’s office: severe lines, no decorative elements, movements precise and economical. On its front panel was an intricate emblem encircled by the inscription:
Continental Forum of Alpida
“Official representative of the Forum,” Thomas explained. “You just need to answer three formal questions.”
The mech stopped in front of me.
“The naturalization procedure is commencing,” it said in an even, impersonal voice. “Please answer three questions. The answers must be unequivocal.”
I nodded.
“Do you have the desire, intention, and interest to become a full legal resident of the Continent of Alpida?”
“Yes,” I answered without hesitation.
“Is there anything that, in your opinion, prevents you from becoming a full legal resident of the Continent of Alpida?”
“No.”
“Do you undertake to respect the rights and lawful interests of the residents of the Continent of Alpida—collectively and individually?”
“Yes.”
The mech paused briefly.
“DNA scan in progress.”
A thin blue holographic ring appeared in the air above me. It began to descend slowly, passing through my body as if carefully and unhurriedly examining me from every angle. I felt nothing—aside from a faint, almost ticklish awareness of its presence, which was probably nothing more than suggestion.
The ring reached the floor, stayed there for a second—and vanished.
“DNA scan complete,” the mech announced. “From this moment forward, you are a full legal resident of the Continent of Alpida. Congratulations.”
It turned and moved toward the exit just as silently as it had arrived.
“Well then, that takes care of the Forum,” Thomas said, watching it go. “Now one more formality.”
A document appeared in my mask, headed:
Agency for the Regulation of Quintessence
Employee Code
I read it carefully. I won’t recount its contents—they’re confidential—but I noted to myself that the Code struck me as logical and, in a way, reassuring. There were no grandiose declarations, no attempts to shift responsibility onto abstract phrasing. Everything was clear, precise, and to the point.
I signed it mentally. The document disappeared at once.
Thomas rubbed his hands together with visible enthusiasm.
“Excellent,” he said. “All formalities complete. Now we can move on to the pleasant part.”
His eyes darted behind the lenses of his mask as he worked with an interface invisible to me.
“All right. A bank account has been opened for you,” he said in a casual tone, as if discussing something entirely routine. “I’ve transferred what we call the employee initial package: a setup allocation plus your first month’s salary. Altogether—roughly the equivalent of six months’ standard pay.”
He looked at me questioningly, then waved a hand.
“It may not sound like much, but honestly, you’re unlikely to need even that anytime soon. Housing, transportation, communications, everyday expenses—they’re all included in the strider package and automatically covered. So you’ll be more than fine.” He gave me a wry smile. “Unless, of course, you’re planning to buy a flying yacht.”
“Not at the moment,” I said, unable to suppress a smile.
“Good,” he nodded—then, suddenly contradicting himself, added, “Though honestly, they’re not as outrageously expensive as you’d think. I just bought a decent, reasonably priced model myself—installments, admittedly, but I’ll have it paid off soon. If you ever decide to get a hover, consult me first. I’ll help you choose something worthwhile. There are all sorts of nuances. Climate control, for example. I know people who flew theirs down to Antarctica on vacation and ended up sleeping in their clothes because some of the cabins were cold there. Can you imagine?”
I shook my head solemnly.
“Yes, yes,” Thomas confirmed enthusiastically—then cut himself off. “But we’re getting sidetracked.”
He ran me through the remaining elements of the strider package: insurance—“for absolutely everything,” as he put it—medical support, legal protection, and several other provisions. As he spoke, I felt a growing sense that the world around me had suddenly become far more stable, reliable, predictable. Not richer. Not more luxurious. Just… safer.
“Oh—and one more thing,” Thomas remembered. “You’ve already been assigned a net ID. So if anyone needs to reach you, there won’t be any issues.”
I nodded—and immediately caught myself thinking of Zara.
“You’ll have no trouble with the terminal,” Thomas continued. “After the first download, you’ll know and understand everything.”
He lowered his gaze thoughtfully and fell silent for a moment, as if mentally reviewing whether he had forgotten anything. Then he looked up at me again, broke into a wide smile, and spread his hands.
“That should be everything. If you don’t mind, I’ll hand you over to the team handling your first download.”
“Of course,” I said. “I’m ready.”
Thomas smiled, stepped out from behind the desk, and gestured invitingly toward the door.