When Thomas and I stepped into the corridor, a notification immediately appeared in my mask: two new messages.
The first was from Art.
From: Art
To: Mac
Subject: This evening
Mac, I figured you’ll be wiped after the download tonight, so I won’t bug you.
Message me in the morning when you wake up—I’ll swing by. It’s a seven-minute flight to your place.
And if anything changes, call.
Have a good download.
Say hi to Ian and his crew for me.
Below the text, along with an empty reply field, were three preset options:
Thanks, Confirmed, and simply OK.
I chose the last one. The message vanished.
The second opened immediately—this one from Manish.
From: Manish
To: Mac
Subject: Episodes for scanning
Hi Mac,
Just to clarify the episodes for the scan.
First—the appearance of the Gate. It technically began at 5:47, but let’s start from the moment you woke up. From there, proceed as you see fit.
Second—the encounter with the Reds. Everything you can recall.
Third—anything connected to the Black Jellyfish.
Fourth—from the moment you felt the urge to head toward the location of the nugget until the moment you saw it.
According to protocol, the neurocoders must not know the content of the information they are scanning. At this stage, they only know there will be four episodes and will refer to them by number only.
Many thanks in advance.
And good luck with your first download.
I closed the message and only then realized that Thomas had been talking the entire time.
“Sorry,” I said. “Got distracted by messages. Art and Manish.”
I gave him a quick summary.
“Ah, no problem,” Thomas waved it off. “Honestly, I wasn’t saying anything important. And yes”—he grinned—“after the download, you probably won’t feel like talking to anyone. So Art planned that correctly.”
We were walking down the main corridor of the Trillium. It was as spacious and bright as ever: fountains murmured softly between islands of greenery, and along the walls enormous three-dimensional landscapes shifted one into another—mountains, forests, coastlines—like fragments of reality carefully inserted into the architecture.
Soon we turned into a side corridor. Above the entrance, a soft holographic sign glowed:
Neurocoding Center
We passed several doors labeled simply:
Section 1, Section 2,
and entered the one marked:
Section 3
Inside, the room was empty. It looked more like a research laboratory than a medical facility: subdued lighting, matte surfaces, equipment. The equipment, in particular, was impressive.
“The team will be here in a minute,” Thomas said. “Their schedule runs down to the minute.”
He turned to me and extended his hand.
“Good session, Mac. Don’t rush. Just follow their instructions. And…” He paused briefly. “Trust the process.”
I nodded.
Thomas left. The door closed softly behind him, and I found myself alone.
I looked around.
Near the far wall, almost at the center, stood a large, soft reclining chair surrounded by a ring of neurocoding equipment. It reminded me of MRI or CT machines back in my world—but this one looked far more… integrated. No sharp edges, no aggressive geometry—only smooth arcs and streamlined modules, as if the entire structure had been conceived not as a machine but as an extension of the human body. Matte metal blended with translucent elements through which layered internal structures could be glimpsed—but not individual components. The whole apparatus conveyed complexity, expense, and—unexpectedly—a sense of care.
Facing the main chair was a lighter, wheeled seat clearly intended for an operator.
Closer to the center of the room, embedded directly in the floor, were two circular platforms of frosted glass, each about two meters in diameter. For some reason they reminded me of small club stages—though here, instead of microphones, several holographic monitors hovered in the air near each circle, currently displaying abstract idle visuals.
Closer to the entrance, along the walls, stood three small desks with light chairs behind them, while nearer the center there was a round table with three compact seats. I modestly pulled one back and sat down, trying not to look like someone who had no idea where to put himself.
At that moment the door opened, and three people entered.
The first stepped in briskly—a middle-aged man who looked unusually young, or perhaps a young man who seemed older because of the assuredness of his movements. His bright orange hair, cut in a short bristle style, reinforced that deliberate youthfulness.
Behind him came a petite, pleasant-looking young woman with short hair, a graceful figure, and facial features hinting at East Asian heritage.
Bringing up the rear was a dark-skinned young man with short, dense black hair and an attentive, slightly thoughtful gaze.
All three were dressed in identical light-blue, medical-style suits. On the left side of each chest was what appeared to be an ID badge, though I didn’t have time to make out the details.
“Ah, Mac—you’re already here! Hi!” exclaimed the orange-haired guy. “I’m Ian. And this”—he gestured lightly—“is Polina and Kofi.”
He gave me a quick glance, then looked at the chair I was sitting in and smirked.
“You picked the wrong seat. Yours is that one.”
He pointed to the large chair surrounded by equipment.
We exchanged handshakes and smiles. Polina and Kofi, without unnecessary words, immediately took their places by the holographic monitors—Polina at one of the circular platforms, Kofi at the other.
Above the frosted glass circles, identical three-dimensional startup screens flared to life, bearing what was evidently the manufacturer’s logo. The monitors suspended around each circle awakened as well—lines of numbers, indices, and brief strings of text began streaming across them. Polina and Kofi scrolled through them with practiced gestures, flicking data aside, collapsing windows into icons, expanding others.
I managed to catch only fragments—and occasionally the word “Testing…” appearing among the scrolling lines, followed almost immediately by a brief “OK.”
Sections of the equipment around the main chair began glowing softly—blue, silver, pale green. The light moved from module to module as if the system were checking itself along a familiar route. Everything looked calm, calibrated, and reassuringly competent.
I crossed the room hesitantly and sat in the “main” chair. It proved unexpectedly comfortable—soft enough to support the body, but not so soft as to let it fully relax.
Ian rolled up in the light wheeled operator’s chair and settled in front of me. Almost immediately, a light-blue mech in matching “uniform” colors appeared at his side, holding a small tray in one manipulator. On the tray stood a fairly large glass filled with something that looked like coffee with milk.
“To start with, please drink this,” Ian said. “It’s a recovery formula—an optimized nutrient blend designed for maximum absorption and focused on restoring brain tissue and the nervous system. Any e2n intervention puts serious strain on all that, and you’ll need energy and nutrients to recover.”
As he spoke about nutrients, I suddenly realized how hungry I’d become. I took the glass from the tray and tasted the drink. It was thick and pleasantly vanilla-flavored. I finished it and returned the empty glass to the mech, which withdrew at once. Watching it leave, I was surprised to feel my hunger evaporate almost instantly. I would even say it vanished—like someone had flipped a switch inside me.
Ian, who had been observing me closely, nodded with satisfaction. Then his face shifted into exaggerated melancholy.
“Well then,” he said sadly, “on to the formalities. The official introduction.”
Above the “stage” monitor to my right, a three-dimensional image of Ian flared into existence. He was seated in a chair, leaning elegantly on the armrest and smiling. He looked as though he were posing for an official portrait—just slightly overdoing it.
Above the second monitor, another display appeared. At the top was a complex emblem—I recognized the contours of the symbol I had seen on the drone in Thomas’s office, but here it had been softened with rounded elements and additional symbols clearly associated with healthcare. The logo managed to look both official and reassuring.
Below it appeared text:
Continental Forum of Alpida
Department of Health
Licensed Specialist Profile
Field: Neurocoding
Name: Ian
License Number: 697-439-125
License Status: Active
Neurocoding Clearances:
n2e — up to Level 12 inclusive
e2n — up to Level 12 inclusive
Years of Practice: 14
Current Workplace: Neurocoding Center, Agency for the Regulation of Quintessence
Sessions Conducted: 3,632
Of which:
— without remarks: 3,629
— with remarks: 3, of which critical: 0
I scanned the lines and looked back at Ian. He wore a caricatured expression of guilt.
“Mac, you mustn’t pay attention to the number ‘three,’” he said with theatrical resignation. “In the first case, for example, I got distracted and accidentally transmitted the entire World Forum library to a client. He became a genius.”
“Mac, that’s his standard joke. Don’t mind him,” Polina commented calmly without looking up from her monitor.
Ian shot her a mock-wary glance, turned back to me, and lowered his voice conspiratorially.
“In the second case, the client was a very attractive woman, and I accidentally—emphasis on accidentally—transmitted my net ID to her.”
“I believe I’ve heard that one before as well,” Polina murmured to herself, still working.
Ian leaned closer to me and continued in the same conspiratorial tone.
“And in the third case—quite the opposite. I… got slightly distracted by my own memories and transmitted information about a former girlfriend. Specifically… about her preferred positions.”
“Now that’s a new one,” Polina said, raising an eyebrow slightly—without taking her eyes off the screen.
“Right,” Ian concluded, straightening up and casting Polina one last quick glance, “that’s enough about me. Now—about them.”
Above the two other monitors, images of Polina and Kofi appeared, accompanied by their professional credentials. I noted that Polina had eight years of experience, Kofi seven. Like Ian, neither of them had a single session with critical remarks.
They gave me some time to review the profiles. Then the display changed.
A new line of text appeared:
Do you consent to undergoing a neurocoding session conducted by this team?
Yes No
Without hesitation, I selected “Yes.”
“Thank you for your trust, Mac,” Ian said with a smile. “We won’t let you down.”
Polina smiled and nodded at me. Even Kofi briefly surfaced from behind his monitors, gave a friendly wave, and immediately returned to work.
“Stage one—baseline scan,” Ian continued, now in a businesslike tone. “We need to determine the individual characteristics of your brain and nervous system—susceptibility, reactivity, and a few other nuances. Please, remove your mask and clip—they’ll interfere. You can place them here on the stand. Then just lean back and relax.”
I did exactly that.
The equipment around me seemed to come alive. Several glowing rings of different hues passed over my body—from head to toe and back again—followed by a constellation of thin, precise beams. They moved quickly and methodically, lingering around my head as if examining it in detail.
Suddenly, two images appeared on the volumetric displays before me. On the right—myself, nearly life-sized, with a delicate lattice of silver threads visible within me: my nervous system. On the left—a magnified, almost unsettlingly large image of a brain, which I understood to be my own. Different regions lit up in shifting colors, the illumination constantly changing as if reflecting various scan parameters and modes.
Polina and Kofi immediately focused. They touched specific areas of the images, pulling them closer; sections enlarged, revealing deeper layers of detail. They examined the projections carefully, occasionally annotating side monitors with swift gestures. Meanwhile, Ian leaned back slightly in his chair, observing their work. I realized they were conducting an intense discussion—wordlessly, through their interfaces.
As if overhearing my thoughts, Ian turned toward me with an apologetic smile.
“Sorry, Mac. I know you’re probably bored out of your mind, but we need just another couple of minutes to run through the pre-session checklist.”
I hurried to assure him that I wasn’t bored at all and that they should take whatever time they needed.
Ian gave me a thumbs-up and turned back to his team.
True to his word, only a few minutes passed before he nodded to Polina and Kofi and rotated his chair toward me.
“Overall, everything looks good. There are a few interesting individual traits, but nothing that should interfere with coding or cause complications. So—we’re moving on to the main phase. We’ll start with n2e. Manish asked us to scan your memories of four episodes. Don’t be alarmed—we’re going to fit you with a sort of ‘cap.’ It keeps the active modules as close to the brain as possible and optimizes the neural exchange.”
I felt soft panels extend from the headrest of the chair. They slid forward and gently enclosed my head, much like the safety vest in Big Tom’s cabin—except this material pressed snugly into place, holding my head completely still.
Ian examined the fit from several angles and nodded, satisfied.
“Scanning episode one. Ready?”
I “nodded” with my eyes.
“Excellent. Begin.”
I focused on recalling, in as much detail as possible, the morning I witnessed the appearance of the new Gate. The memories surfaced easily and vividly. I even noticed, in passing, that alongside the scan my brain seemed to be undergoing some kind of subtle, toning stimulation.
I carried the memory through to the moment I returned home, collapsed onto the bed, and fell asleep.
“Done,” I said.
“Good,” Ian replied encouragingly. “Readings look excellent. We’re moving at a great pace. Episode two. Ready?”
I “nodded” again.
“Begin.”
One by one, we moved through all four episodes Manish had specified. When the last one was complete, Ian said:
“That concludes the n2e phase. We’re transitioning to e2n coding. To prevent discomfort, we’ll place you under sleep. The entire session will take approximately an hour to an hour and a half. Any questions or objections?”
“No, all good. Let’s begin,” I said.
“Good,” Ian said. “Beginning.”
A wave of drowsiness swept over me almost instantly, and I dropped into sleep.
I woke, it seemed, only seconds later.
The chair in front of me was empty. Ian was standing beside Polina, working with her intently on the image of my brain. Kofi was studying the neural map, occasionally touching specific sections and lingering there, as if verifying something critical. Both the brain and the nervous system now looked almost alive: their fragments shimmered through shifting bands of color, flowing smoothly from one shade to another.
Almost as soon as I opened my eyes, Ian noticed. He returned to the chair in front of me. As if on cue, the “cap” around my head gently released and retracted back into the headrest.
“How are you feeling, Mac?”
I tried to answer—and couldn’t.
The attempt to form even a single coherent thought collapsed before it began. My head felt utterly relaxed, hollow, drained. It was like nausea—but in thought. Or like trying to stretch a rubber band that had long since lost its elasticity and sagged uselessly. Concentration felt nearly impossible.
Still, I forced myself, with immense effort, to produce:
“All… good…”
The words came out clearly. My tongue wasn’t thick. My body felt neither weak nor numb. Only my thoughts were fragile.
Ian nodded knowingly.
“Kofi will take you home now. I expect you’ll be able to get out of the chair and lie down once you’re there. After that, he’ll put you back to sleep. A medical mech will monitor you overnight. And tomorrow—trust me—you’ll feel fresh as a cucumber.”
I couldn’t gather enough focus to respond.
Ian smiled at me, then glanced toward Kofi. Kofi stepped away from the monitor and approached.
The chair beneath me rose smoothly into the air, unfolding at the same time into something resembling a recliner. It drifted toward the door as it opened and glided out into the corridor. Kofi walked slightly ahead and to the side, occasionally glancing back at me with a sharp, professional eye.
In this manner we exited the Trillium building and emerged onto the parking platform. A small glider with a wide side door already slid open approached us. The chair floated inside and settled gently onto the cabin floor.
Only then did I notice that the light-blue mech—the same one that had served me the recovery formula—had followed us. A Department of Health insignia was visible on its side. The mech glided into the cabin after my chair and lowered itself beside me. Kofi took the pilot’s seat, facing me. The door closed, and the glider slipped smoothly forward.
Within minutes we landed outside my cottage, and the same quiet procession carried us into the bedroom. My condition was indeed improving gradually, though concentrating was still difficult.
I stood from the reclining chair and lay down on the bed—surprisingly soft, yet resilient.
The mech hovered beside it, as if taking up its watch.
“Thank you,” I said to Kofi.
It came out clearly enough.
He smiled.
“You’re welcome, Mac. Congratulations on your first download. Get some rest.”
They were the first words I had heard him speak.
Kofi took a small device from the pocket of his medical jacket and briefly touched it to my forehead. Drowsiness rolled over me once more—
and I was asleep.