After lunch we stepped outside and settled properly into the seats of Big Tom—piloting honing was next.
Big Tom immediately set a course for the nearby open ground, a vast training area designed for mastering various types of floaters and refining the associated skills.
This enormous range, high in the mountains, was not under the exclusive control of the three Agencies. It was used by local police units, pilots from other services, and even civilians who wanted to practice manual piloting—or simply enjoy themselves that way.
The boundaries of the ground were not marked in the physical world. They appeared only in the net Map Layer as a designated special-use zone. Access required authorization from the local Forum. We had it.
As we crossed the virtual boundary, Big Tom slowed smoothly and came to a stop, hovering about ten meters above the ground. Before us stretched raw mountain rock, carved by canyons and streaked in places with glaciers. Floaters streaked overhead at intervals—some climbing sharply, others diving into narrow gaps between the cliffs.
Art turned to me and made a broad, inviting gesture.
“Go ahead. For now, just fly. Get used to the controls.”
The cockpit space in front of me transformed instantly. Holographic scales and symbols appeared, displaying speed, altitude, orientation, and other parameters. Ahead of us, beyond the canopy, a cursor materialized—a stylized green arrow indicating direction of travel. I knew that as speed increased, the virtual cursor would drift farther ahead, marking the point we were about to occupy.
I “recalled” without effort the purpose of every other holographic element filling the cabin. Basic operation of non-commercial ground and aerial vehicles had been included in my first download. As I later confirmed in my profile, the Forum had automatically issued the corresponding piloting license afterward. As with everyone else, obtaining it required only the basic skill package and knowledge of the rules—and in any case, the NA would never allow a violation or the creation of real danger.
A message appeared above the instruments:
Manual Mode.
For some reason, my heart began to beat faster.
Carefully, I imagined us shifting forward, moving slowly ahead.
Big Tom responded with perfect obedience, gliding through the air. The cursor drifted forward almost imperceptibly.
After covering a few meters, I stopped the glider. Then I exhaled slowly and glanced at Art. Smiling, he gave me a thumbs-up. I looked forward again.
More confidently now, I accelerated. I gained a little speed and tried maneuvering: left, right, then a smooth drop, a rise, back to level flight. Big Tom executed every mental command with flawless precision—instantaneous, without the slightest lag.
It felt as if the machine around me were simply an extension of my body. I even had the impression that X-shaped wings had unfolded behind my back. This new, augmented version of me could fly. I was gliding, soaring, drifting through the air—unbound.
The sensation of free flight was dizzying, intoxicating, overwhelming. For reasons I couldn’t quite explain, it reminded me of spring—the sweetness of fresh air and a sunlit world quietly rejoicing in its own existence.
I leaned forward and, gaining speed, plunged toward the cliffs and the ice clinging to them. The cursor pulled far ahead of the cabin; the ground began rushing toward us at an alarming rate. I caught myself, reduced speed, leveled out. Then slowed further, came to a stop, and breathed.
I turned to Art, eyes wide with exhilaration.
“This is… incredible…” I exhaled.
Art nodded, watching me with a faint smile—and, I thought, a trace of envy. For him—someone who had been able to fly like this since childhood, even since birth—flight without wheels, pedals, or joysticks, guided by thought alone, had always been ordinary. The dizzying freedom, the boundless joy of it, must have long ago become routine.
Which made it all the more precious to me now—feeling it for the first time.
I surged forward again, keeping low over the terrain, tracing the contours of the land, weaving between smaller rock formations and diving into narrow gorges.
The arrow-cursor ahead not only indicated direction and speed; it also served as a risk indicator. If my chosen trajectory and velocity began to create danger of collision with ground or stone, the cursor shifted color—smoothly but rapidly—from green to yellow, then, as risk increased, through orange to red.
At the same time, the NA would quietly but decisively intervene, nudging control just enough to steer us out of the danger zone, selecting a trajectory as close as possible to my intended path while keeping it safe and within tolerable G-forces.
A couple of times I failed to correct in time and sent us straight toward a cliff. The arrow flared red instantly, and the glider snapped into a sharp turn, rolling almost belly-forward before veering hard aside. We were pressed unpleasantly into our seats.
For a while I simply couldn’t tear myself away from piloting. I couldn’t think about anything else.
It felt like finally drinking clean, cold water after a long, painfully long thirst—gulping it down greedily, almost choking on it, unable to get enough.
Art maintained a tactful silence the entire time and didn’t interfere.
Gradually, I began to come back to myself and realize it was time to move on to actual honing. At last, making a deliberate effort, I brought the glider to a stop, nodded to Art, and said:
“All right. Let’s begin.”
He nodded as if nothing unusual had happened.
“Excellent. We’ll go through the training routes in order. In my experience, they’re designed very well—the difficulty ramps up exactly as it should.”
He tilted his head slightly toward the windshield. Text flickered beneath it:
Layer connected: Maps
Filters: ARC / open ground / training / route #1
Among the rocks, several virtual objects lit up in golden light—concentric circles crossed by perpendicular lines, like three-dimensional targets. They formed an uneven, jagged line through the terrain.
“Simple enough,” Art said. “Your task is to clear all checkpoints in the shortest time possible. Start when you’re ready.”
I immediately directed the glider toward the nearest checkpoint. I built up decent speed, though cautiously, making sure to pass precisely through the center of each circle. I flew cleanly through the first “target,” then the next, and the next. There were twelve in total.
At once, my mask displayed:
Training Route 1
Time: 1 minute 18 seconds
Accuracy: 100%
Performance rating: 37%
I opened my skill scale. Piloting now read 2 (+2).
I automatically sent the report to Art. As usual, he nodded with quiet approval.
“Not bad. We can move on.”
“Wait,” I said, confused. “Why so low? Why only thirty-seven percent? And just two points?”
But I was already beginning to guess. Art simply confirmed it.
“Speed, of course. In theory, that route can be flown much faster in this craft.”
“Almost three times faster?” I ventured.
“No,” Art shook his head. “Much faster. On Big Tom? Probably… ten seconds. With extreme G-forces, of course.”
He paused, then added:
“The rating is calculated from a combination of accuracy and speed. The weight of each factor shifts depending on the route’s configuration and complexity. You got full marks for accuracy. For speed… considerably less.”
I felt a brief flicker of embarrassment. It transformed almost instantly—and quite naturally—into competitive irritation.
“Fine,” I said. “Let’s try again.”
The second route earned me even less—twenty-four percent. I had accelerated, what felt like to the limit, but failed to center myself perfectly in eleven of the sixteen checkpoints.
The art of piloting turned out to be far more demanding than it had seemed at first.
We flew route after route. Their configurations grew more complex. The number and density of checkpoints increased. They appeared at varying altitudes, closer to the ground, and rocks began to intrude into the path more frequently. Navigating them became steadily more difficult.
After the twelfth route—for which I received eighteen percent—Art asked me to stop.
“We don’t have to keep increasing difficulty,” he said. “We could repeat some earlier routes.”
“No,” I replied stubbornly. “Let’s continue. Thirteen.”
Art smiled.
“All right. But I want to suggest a technique. I use it myself. And I’m not the only one.”
I looked at him intently.
“When you’re maneuvering around obstacles, try to keep the cursor in the red zone. Trust the NA—it will guide you along a far more optimal trajectory than you can select manually. But be prepared for the G-forces.”
I nodded eagerly.
“Thanks, Art.”
I tried to follow his advice.
In practice, it wasn’t so simple.
I would aim the glider straight at a rock—but only up to a certain point. When it began rushing toward me at a catastrophically increasing speed and the cursor shifted to orange, my survival instinct seized me by the collar and yanked me back. Without consciously deciding to, I would cut speed and bank away, clearing the obstacle the safe way.
The cursor would immediately return to green.
Still, I completed Route Thirteen with a fairly decent result—forty-two percent.
I flew several more routes. The results hovered around the same level—roughly forty percent. I found myself growing increasingly irritated. I forced myself not to veer away from dangerous lines, to ignore the cursor turning red. But I couldn’t do it. My survival instinct kept overriding me—and that only made me angrier.
Sensing my state, after the eighteenth route Art turned to me and said gently:
“Mac, I think you’re pushing too hard right now. In my experience, it’s better to conserve your nervous system. You’ll need it on real pickings.”
For the first couple of seconds, I wanted to argue. But after thinking about what he’d said, I exhaled slowly and let myself ease back.
“Yeah…” I admitted. “I think you’re right.”
“Besides,” Art continued, “I’d say you’ve already made solid progress. I’d put your piloting at around ten points by now.”
“Nine,” I replied after checking my profile. My mood lifted noticeably. “But I think I can round it up today.”
Art nodded encouragingly.
I drew a deep breath, trying to gather myself for the next route.
And at that exact moment, an alarm buzzer cut through the cockpit.
Red letters flashed before us:
Attention!
Call to picking.
Participants: team Ellen.
Starting point: Gate No. 2, Variant No. 7.
Storm began: 17… 18… 19… seconds ago.
Almost simultaneously—without waiting for any command—Big Tom snapped into motion, banking sharply to the right and accelerating hard.
I looked at Art uneasily. He appeared calm, though a trace of confusion crossed his face.
“That’s strange,” he said thoughtfully. “According to the analysts, this Storm wasn’t expected before tonight. Looks like the appearance of the new Gate shifted the Storm frequency.”
He paused briefly, then seemed to cut himself off.
“Mac, as you know, we can’t lose time in situations like this. I won’t be able to take you home. I can drop you somewhere on the way.”
“Of course,” I said quickly. “I didn’t mean that. I meant your things. Your pack…”
“Already packed,” Art smiled. “It’s back there.”
He hooked a thumb over his shoulder.
I nodded with genuine respect.
Without altering course, Big Tom began descending rapidly. I saw our trajectory intersect a mountain highway.
“I’ll be back in three or four days,” Art said evenly. “We covered the essentials. You’ll manage from here. And, of course—good luck with the downloads.”
“And good luck with the picking,” I replied, rising from my seat.
Art raised his hand. I slapped it with mine.
Then, bracing against the deceleration of the glider, I moved toward the rear of the cabin. Big Tom touched down smoothly. The ramp lowered—and I ran out.
The glider lifted off again immediately, retracting the ramp mid-motion.
I was left alone by the side of the road. Cars streamed past.
I thought about calling a taxi and, after a brief consideration, chose a regular ground vehicle rather than a glider.
I didn’t want to dilute the magnificent memory of today’s piloting with a routine autopilot ride.