I opened my eyes, and the first thing I saw was the light-blue mech hovering directly above the bed.
It reacted instantly. A familiar holographic ring appeared in the air—this time milky white. The ring descended slowly from my head to my feet, as if carefully and unhurriedly assessing my condition. When the scan was complete, the mech, without saying a word, turned with professional efficiency and headed toward the door.
I “automatically” issued a mental command to open it.
The door opened, the mech glided out, and the door closed behind it.
Only then did I realize.
Wait.
I wasn’t wearing the clip.
Which meant I couldn’t possibly have opened the door with a mental command.
But… I had issued the command, hadn’t I? Yes, the command was there. It simply hadn’t executed—the mech had opened the door. Still, I had definitely formed the command.
I froze, sitting on the edge of the bed.
So… I can already do this?
And then I fully woke up.
Of course. Operating the mask, the clip, and all n2e interfaces—that was part of yesterday’s download.
I jumped to my feet and scanned the room for the mask and clip. They were lying neatly on the bedside table—of course Kofi had made sure I would see them immediately. I put them on.
For a brief moment, it felt as though they weren’t mine, but some other devices entirely. But no—they were the same mask and clip.
They hadn’t changed.
The world had.
The space around me seemed to come alive. The room filled with objects, sounds, variations of light, scents—and even… the emotions those scents and sounds evoked.
The room was no longer bright simply because daylight streamed through the transparent wall-window. It was just bright—like full day. The bedroom felt less like an enclosed space and more like a natural extension of the lawn outside.
Along the walls and in the corners appeared flowering shrubs—similar to those growing outdoors, yet subtly different. The blossoms were more numerous, larger, more lush, flawless, with shapes and shades that in nature might occur by chance—but never all at once.
The air filled with a delicate, remarkably pleasant fragrance. Not merely floral—it was a layered blend of blossoms, fresh leaves, a faint trace of cut grass, and something else, elusive. Overall, it felt like standing in a luxurious tropical garden or in a meadow at early spring dawn.
Soft, brisk morning music accompanied it perfectly. I’m no expert in classical music, but it sounded like a performance by some unmistakably renowned string quartet.
To confirm my theory, I removed the mask and clip.
The space immediately reverted to its ordinary state: the neatly made bed, the transparent wall-window, the lawn outside—exactly as they had been yesterday.
I put the mask and clip back on—and the new world returned. It felt as though I had awakened again, shifted to a higher level of wakefulness.
And with it came not a constructed explanation, but precise understanding. Not a chain of reasoning, but knowledge already present, simply activating at the appropriate moment. I instantly recognized the onset of the false memory that had been downloaded into me.
Art—or perhaps Kofi—had used the open remote access to my mask and clip to activate the transparent net Layer of the cottage.
Almost automatically, I switched my device permissions to “closed,” then quickly reviewed the available Layers. The cottage offered an entire suite of virtual interior augmentations—from minimalist to unapologetically decorative. I decided to return to that later, when I had time and inclination to experiment.
Holographic infographics and lines of text appeared before the wall-window: current weather, temperature, wind speed, and below, the day’s forecast. Above the headboard floated a report on my sleep. I noted the duration automatically—eleven hours and twenty-three minutes. All other metrics were in the green zone, comfortably above ninety percent.
Without quite realizing what I was doing, I swung open the bedroom window. Cool mountain air rushed in, this time carrying the unmistakably real scent of grass.
I opened the door to the living room and headed there, issuing commands almost reflexively: pour a glass of orange juice, brew a cup of black coffee, fill the bath, warm a towel. I had no appetite at all—Ian’s recovery formula was evidently still at work—or I might easily have ordered or prepared breakfast as well.
By the time I reached the kitchen, a chilled, condensation-beaded glass of juice was waiting in a niche of the refrigerator, and a rich aroma of freshly brewing coffee drifted from the machine. At the same time, the kitchen lighting softened, adjusting to morning mode, and a nearly invisible prompt appeared on the inner surface of the window, noting increased solar activity—the system recommended leaving the glass in filtration mode.
I noticed Estri “hiding” between the kitchen stove and the refrigerator.
Almost instantly I realized that I could now control the mech easily and silently. But I also noticed something else: Estri was behaving differently. He wasn’t taking initiative, wasn’t offering drinks or assistance. He was simply in standby mode.
I opened the mech control panel and saw the sliders labeled Initiative and Extraversion—both set almost to zero.
Looks like Art thought of that too, I reflected. So Estri wouldn’t overwhelm me with enthusiasm while I’m still adjusting.
For now, I decided to leave the settings as they were and try handling everyday matters myself.
As I finished my juice, savored my coffee, and went through my morning routine in the bathroom, I became fully convinced: managing everything around me felt easy, intuitive, and natural.
It wasn’t just information. My mind now carried memories of another life—a life lived here, in Variant 1. So nothing around me felt foreign or newly acquired. It felt familiar. Logical. As though I were returning rather than arriving.
I made myself a second cup of coffee and stepped outside with it.
Enjoying the view of the real—not virtual—lawns, flowerbeds, and shrubs, feeling the same fresh mountain breeze scented with wild grass, and slowly savoring my coffee, I decided to check my messages.
As expected, the terminal was in silent mode: incoming requests were disabled, and notifications suppressed. I enabled both and immediately saw the list.
Three messages—Ellen, Ian, and Art.
All were personal. No formal “From,” “To,” or “Subject.” Just small icons with photos and names.
Ellen wrote:
Hi, Mac!
Congratulations on your first download!
I already spoke with Ian—I know everything went well. He’ll give you the details himself, but overall he’s very pleased with the results. In his assessment, you’ll handle two false memories per evening without difficulty, which means we can complete the full download cycle in about three days. In that same timeframe, it’s realistic to complete at least one honing session per skill—except picking, of course. That one can only be honed in real fieldwork.
On the training grounds, it’s better if Art is with you at least the first time. I imagine he’ll suggest it himself. Just keep in mind: he only has today available for that. Our team is next in the picking rotation—most likely we deploy either tonight or tomorrow.
Don’t forget to register for the official course required to obtain your resonator license. It’s an external training program, and it’s best to book it at least a day in advance.
So yes, you’re sitting this picking out, of course—but we can already start planning the next one. Your internship will follow a special scenario, so I need confirmation that you’re ready at least a day before launch.
Art will help you with everything, but if you need me—message anytime.
I’m around.
Ian’s message read:
Hi, Mac.
Overall, everything went excellently—I’ve already confirmed that to Ellen. We can proceed with the standard accelerated schedule: two false memories per evening. I’d suggest holding sessions daily at 18:00. If that works for you, we’ll lock it in.
Today, please come in about half an hour earlier. I’d like to discuss something with you. Let me reassure you immediately: you’re perfectly fine. There’s just something interesting I noticed yesterday, and I decided not to overload you before your first download. Today we can talk about it calmly.
So I’ll see you at 17:30.
And of course, if anything at all feels off after yesterday’s session—come straight to me. Anytime. If I’m occupied, just ask for me; I’ll step out as soon as I can.
Art’s message:
Good morning, Mac.
I imagine you’re still getting used to everything. No rush—none of it’s going anywhere. When you feel more or less settled, call me. I’m around.
And one more thing. You’ve got your terminal and net ID now, so I’m fulfilling my promise. Zara’s ID: L8U6-B832-09YS-78W9
You can try calling her, of course, but I already did—she’s currently offline. Looks like she isn’t in our Variant right now.
Art’s message both pleased and unsettled me.
Pleased—because I was, in fact, only one step away from Zara.
Unsettled—because I couldn’t take that step. Not yet.
As I thought about it, a faint anxiety crept in. Where was she now? Manish, I seemed to recall, had said that Zara spent most of her time in this Variant… no, that wasn’t quite right. He had only mentioned that when she was here, she wasn’t concerned about trouble from either the Forum or ARC. And what Zara had told Art was merely that she was rarely in her own, Fourth Variant. That didn’t mean she was permanently in the First.
She could have business in other Variants. I didn’t even know what she did professionally.
True, we had met her in the company of two Reds—one of whom, at the very least, raised questions. And she had been picking Essence alongside them.
But, I told myself, that didn’t prove anything.
I had no desire to entertain unpleasant assumptions—especially not now, in my current buoyant mood.
I entered Zara’s net ID into my terminal—and Art’s as well.
In my previously empty contacts list, Art appeared at the very beginning, and Zara at the very end—the first and last letters of the alphabet.
The most important people in my world, I thought. As if they marked its boundaries.
For a while I considered whether to call her. If I did, the attempt would appear in her terminal—and I had no idea when she might call back. What if I were busy? Or in a download session? What if she thought I was simply choosing not to answer?
Maybe a message instead?
But what would I write?
After running through the same loop several times and failing to find a version that felt right, I decided—for now—not to do anything at all.
Then I called Art.
“Hey!” he answered immediately. “So? How does it feel?”
“Hey. I’m not even sure how to describe it…” I paused. “Maybe like switching from black-and-white to color. And three-dimensional. And in motion.”
In message mode I couldn’t see his reaction, but I was almost certain he laughed.
“Keep in mind,” he said, “this is just the beginning.”
“I hope so.”
“Mac, back to business. I’ll most likely be out on picking tomorrow, so while we’ve got time, let’s get to the interesting part.”
“The training grounds,” I said, demonstrating my remarkable level of preparedness.
“Exactly. Which one do we start with?”
“The closed one.”
“Okay. I’ll be at your place in about five minutes. Come outside.”
“Deal.”