Three days passed.
On Saturday morning, the first thing I did after waking was send Ellen the message she had asked for: I had completed all downloads and moved every one of my professional skill scales off zero. The previous evening had been my fourth and final download, preceded by the “licensing” training for resonator use.
The training turned out to be largely procedural. The content itself was nothing new—a set of fairly obvious principles about using a resonator only when necessary, observing safety protocols, and so on. What mattered was the format. The instructor mech didn’t simply recite the rules; it asked questions, ran short tests, formally confirming that I hadn’t just heard the information but had understood it.
The session normally concluded with a training freeze, but that requirement was waived in my case. The NA confirmed that freeze had already occurred in my life experience.
Far more important—and far more interesting—were the downloads themselves. Besides the first one, there had been three more, each containing two false memories. Which meant that now I possessed a complete—as complete as my situation allowed—knowledge and understanding of all Delta Variants except the Ninth, of course. My own Eighth Variant, naturally, required no downloading.
As expected, the new “memories” left behind an entire constellation of questions and threads of thought. But there was one idea in particular—one that first occurred to me after the second download, the one covering the Second and Third Variants—that I kept returning to.
The idea was simple, and now seemed entirely obvious: much of what in my world is considered fantasy or creative imagination—including the substance of many literary works—may in fact be knowledge of other Variants that somehow surfaced.
Take, for example, dragons or unicorns from Variant Two. Now that I “remember” them as part of my own lived experience, there is nothing mythical about them. They are simply animals—domesticated, familiar, working creatures. No more fantastic than horses or elephants are to us. They likely existed in other Variants as well, but for one reason or another did not survive or did not persist into our present.
Or consider—again from the same Variant—elves, dwarves, and orcs. They are not magical beings. They are peoples—ethnic groups—who preserved their distinct languages, cultures, and traditions, and with them certain differences in appearance, physique, and manner of speech from what I am accustomed to.
These examples—and many others—led me to what felt like an unavoidable conclusion: information somehow leaks from one Delta world into another.
And the moment I recognized that, I had a distinct intuition that Essence plays no small role in the process.
It was a subject worth discussing with Art. Worth thinking about more deeply in general.
Another notable event during those days was my conversation with Ian—on the very day Art left for picking.
Even though I arrived ahead of schedule, Ian was already waiting. This time he suggested I sit not in the monumental client chair but at a small round table. He positioned himself not directly opposite me, but slightly to the side—a placement that allowed him to avoid fixing me with a direct stare and instead glance at me occasionally, almost casually.
Looking at me in that way, Ian began:
“Mac, I need to tell you something. Yesterday wasn’t the first neurocoding session of your life.”
I widened my eyes, not yet understanding where he was heading. I assumed it was a turn of phrase, or perhaps the setup for one of his jokes.
It wasn’t.
“I won’t burden you with technical details,” Ian continued. “In short: any e2n intervention leaves characteristic traces in the corresponding regions of the brain. We can see them.”
He jerked his head toward the equipment looming behind him.
“And yesterday we saw such traces in your brain.” He paused. “Before our download.”
I understood almost immediately.
“Yes,” I nodded. “That’s right. I’ve been through a freeze. I was hit with a resonator.”
Ian waved that off with a slight shake of his head.
“Freeze and resonators have nothing to do with it. I wouldn’t even register those as noteworthy. In your case, it goes much… deeper. Your brain underwent a complex, large-scale intervention. Something fundamentally different from our procedures.”
He paused, searching for a comparison.
“If I had to use an analogy… it would be like comparing a simple photograph to an abstract painting. And not just any painting—a masterpiece. Changes were introduced into your brain—not in the regions responsible for event memory, but in far deeper layers. Layers connected to reflexes, subconscious responses, unarticulated sensations. I’ll be honest: modern neurocoding simply isn’t capable of operating at that level yet.”
As he spoke, my surprise rapidly deepened into something closer to shock.
“But… how is that even possible?” I blurted out.
And then something clicked in my mind. The thought was almost obvious.
“Tell me… can you determine when it happened?”
Ian glanced at me with an approving half-smile.
“Fortunately, yes. We’ve learned to determine the timing of e2n interventions. In your case, it occurred precisely during the period whose memories we scanned yesterday. Episode One.”
He gave an ironic little smile.
“You guys can encrypt and compartmentalize all you like, but it doesn’t take a genius to figure out which event we’re talking about.”
I sighed and gave a small shrug.
“I understand—secrecy, clearance levels, all that,” Ian continued. “But this isn’t only about your operational affairs. This may matter for the development of neurocoding as a whole. We might be standing on the threshold of a fundamentally new understanding of how to interact with the human brain. I’ll obviously discuss it with Norton and with respected colleagues in my field. So it’s entirely possible we’ll ask for your assistance again.”
“Of course,” I said quickly. “If you need anything, I’m at your disposal.”
Ian nodded, studying me with thoughtful focus. In that moment he bore no resemblance to the carefree, slightly reckless charmer I’d first taken him for. Sitting across from me—or, rather, beside me—was a scientist. A professional. One of the “respected colleagues” he had just mentioned.
As if reading my thoughts, Ian immediately restored his familiar, lightly mischievous expression.
“And yes, Mac… if you ever happen to meet whoever did this to you, please pass along my sincere and deepest professional respect to our colleague.”
Now, recalling that conversation, I found myself thinking again that it was something I ought to discuss with Art. I had begun to notice that talking through new developments, ideas, even stray thoughts with Art had become a habit—almost a need. Over the past few days, several such topics had accumulated. And today he was due back from picking.
Strangely enough, at that very moment an incoming call from Art appeared in my mask.
“Hey, Mac! How are things? I’m on approach. Can I drop by, or better later?”
“Oh—hi! I’m fine. You won’t believe it—I was just thinking about you. I think we need to talk about a few things. Of course, come over. Coffee?”
“Yes, please. Strong. I cleared the Gate around two-thirty in the morning, so I’ve barely slept. Go ahead and start it—I’ll be there in about two minutes.”
As I instructed the machine to prepare a double coffee, I decided that discussions about Essence and broader theoretical speculation could probably wait, given Art’s state. The conversation with Ian, on the other hand, was worth sharing.
Barely a minute later, through the open wall-door, I heard the familiar sound of Big Tom touching down.
When Art came in, we exchanged a firm handshake, and I asked immediately:
“So—how was the picking?”
“If I’m honest? Not great,” he replied, dropping into a chair out of habit and taking an appreciative first sip of coffee. “Not the picking itself—that went smoothly. No incidents. I mean what’s going on there in general. We were in the Seventh Variant. As you already know, most of their key technologies are built around nuclear energy. Which means the states—or rather, entire blocs—are locked in a brutal struggle for nuclear fuel. It’s reached the point where a global catastrophe nearly unfolded. The way it once did in the Fourth Variant.”
He paused, took another sip.
“Ellen says she’s planning a serious conversation with the ICDA people about it. We may have to intervene somehow.”
He fell silent for a moment, then seemed to shift back to me.
“But that’s later. What about you? Downloads, grounds, everything else?”
I gave him a concise summary of the past few days, including my conversation with Ian.
“And in my free time,” I concluded, “I’ve mostly been on the grounds. And dealing with various practical things.”
Art listened attentively. After a short pause, he said:
“Believe it or not, I suspected something like this,” he nodded, clearly referring to Ian’s findings. “And my intuition tells me this is far from the end. Quite the opposite—it’s just beginning. Or maybe it’s been developing for a long time already, and only now has it started affecting us—you, specifically.”
He paused briefly.
“In any case, it’s good you’ve completed your training and are ready for work. And speaking of that—I have news as well. I talked to Zara today. Called her right after I delivered the box to the vault.”
In response to my look—silent accusation and mild reproach combined—he only waved it off with a smile.
“I know, I know. I should have said it first. But there’s nothing urgent there. And if I’d started with that, we wouldn’t have been able to talk calmly about anything else.”
His tone—that friendly, understanding irony—dissolved the brief tension at once. I found myself smiling despite myself, acknowledging that he was right.
“We had a good conversation,” Art continued. “As it turns out, she only got back yesterday—to our Variant, I mean. Said she’d been away on work.”
I frowned involuntarily, but Art didn’t seem to notice.
“I asked where she lives. Turns out it’s on the coast—less than half an hour from here in Big Tom. I suggested we meet today, the same group as we planned. She reacted completely normally. In fact, I even had the impression she was expecting something like that. I suggested dinner all together, did a quick search for somewhere near her place, preferably by the sea, and found one of the Eco Gallery restaurants—big chain, eco-cuisine. She agreed. Here’s the address.”
He sent me the map with the restaurant marked.
“Seven p.m.”
As he spoke, I suddenly became acutely aware of my own pulse—fast, insistent. Realizing that, I grew genuinely irritated with myself. It was probably time to stop behaving like an adolescent and get a grip. Especially ahead of meeting Zara.
“Well, that’s about it,” Art concluded, rising from his chair and setting his cup down. “There’s still time before evening, and I’d like to devote it to some well-earned rest. We can meet there, or—if you prefer—we’ll pick you up.”
I made a deliberate effort not to react to that perfectly natural “we.”
“Yes, please swing by,” I replied evenly, walking him to the door. “And, by the way… thanks for Estri. I’ve settled in. You can take him back.”
“Excellent,” Art smiled. “I’ve missed him. Estri!”
He nodded toward the doorway. Estri, who had been discreetly stationed somewhere in the kitchen, immediately glided toward the exit.
“We’ll be here at six-thirty,” Art said, turning back once more.
I gave him a thumbs-up. He nodded and followed Estri toward Big Tom’s ramp.
…
Among the “practical things” I had casually mentioned to Art was, fortunately, the question of clothing.
As someone who genuinely dislikes shopping, I was relieved to discover that in this world such problems could be solved without endless store visits, fittings, hesitation, or the internal debate of “do I really need this?” One properly formulated task for the NA—and the issue simply dissolved.
A couple of days earlier, I had asked my NA—whom I had, for no particular reason, named Larry; the name had surfaced spontaneously and stuck—something along the lines of:
“Larry, please buy me several outfits suitable for all occasions.”
If anyone were to point out that this was not the most precise instruction ever given, I would probably agree. And yet Larry executed it flawlessly. Within hours, my wardrobe was filled with clothes and shoes that I tried on one by one—and approved without exception. Nothing needed returning to the net stores. Sizes, cuts, tailoring—everything fit perfectly and suited me. I didn’t even bother wondering how Larry had managed it.
I acquired a full set of grooming and fragrance products in much the same way.
So when, following Larry’s suggestion, I chose for the evening a pistachio-colored shirt, beige trousers, something halfway between a blazer and a light jacket in an indeterminate but extremely flattering shade, and sport-style shoes—astonishingly comfortable—I studied myself in the mirror and felt entirely satisfied.
The time remaining until six-thirty I spent at the open ground, simply flying a rented glider between the cliffs, carving smooth arcs and thinking about nothing at all. As I had already discovered, it was the best way for me to rest and clear my head.
I returned home early so as not to keep Mona and Art waiting.
They arrived precisely on time. When I stepped into the cabin—the seats once again arranged in a circle—they both rose to greet me.
I looked at Mona and noted that she remained faithful to her style of perfectly calibrated carelessness. Art’s outfit aligned more or less with mine, which pleased me—though I understood perfectly well that this was entirely Larry’s doing. I thanked him silently.
The flight to the restaurant took just over twenty minutes. We spoke little, each of us absorbed in our own thoughts.
For my part, I found myself reflecting on the fact that every meeting with Zara so far had, in one way or another, been connected with food.
I wasn’t sure whether that was a good sign or a bad one.
I never reached a conclusion—because we were already descending to land.