The restaurant wasn’t directly on the shore, but the moment I stepped out of the cabin, I could already smell the sea in the air. The water stretched not far away, reached by a gentle slope covered in dense coastal vegetation.
The interior was styled like an art gallery. The main hall was divided into private booths by holographic walls, every surface of which was covered with images of paintings in a wide range of styles. The artworks moved slowly—enlarging, shrinking, dissolving into one another. The effect was subtle, almost hypnotic, enhanced by low, lingering music that seemed to flow rather than play.
The mech who greeted us introduced himself as Cuel. We gave our names in return and followed him down a passage between booths, careful not to walk through the holographic walls so as not to disturb any guests who might be inside. Selecting one of the wall-paintings, Cuel drifted soundlessly through it, and we followed.
We entered a cozy space with a large round table at the center and four inviting semi-armchairs arranged around it. Above the table, suspended in the air before each seat, hovered a holographic menu.
We took our places and asked the waiter to return in five minutes. Art settled opposite me; Mona took the seat to my left. Almost unconsciously, I turned my head to the right and looked at the fourth chair—still empty.
At nearly the same moment, the abstract painting on the wall behind it seemed to part smoothly down the middle, letting Zara in.
Her appearance—as before—felt unexpected and faintly magical, as though she had materialized from thin air or stepped in from some neighboring reality.
No matter how much I had prepared myself, no matter how many times I had replayed this moment in my head, my breath caught, my pulse quickened, and for a second the room seemed to tilt.
It took several long moments of deliberate effort to steady myself. Art rescued me from an awkward pause by rising at once and extending his hand with an easy smile.
“Hi, Zara,” he said calmly, warmly. “Good to see you. I’m not sure whether I like the setting of this meeting more than the last one. The mountains weren’t bad either.”
Zara smiled and shook his hand.
“Hi, Art. Yes, I liked that meeting too. Though this seems perfectly decent as well.”
Collecting myself, I stood up too. She turned to me, extended her hand, and said:
“Hello, Mac.”
It was simple and natural—warm, open, without the slightest hint of flirtation or irony. And in that moment, with the warmth of her hand in mine, all my nervousness seemed to dissolve at once.
“Hello,” I replied quietly, meeting her eyes and no longer attempting to conceal how I felt.
“I’m not going to wait for one of you to remember to introduce me,” Mona’s voice came from behind me.
She walked around the table, offering her hand.
“Zara, hi. I’m Mona.”
They shook hands, holding each other’s gaze for a heartbeat longer than usual—and then suddenly laughed and embraced like old friends. It looked as if the same thought had occurred to both of them at once, and they had instantly recognized it in each other.
We took our seats again. As if sensing the moment, Cuel drifted silently back into our booth.
Not allowing the pause to stretch, Mona took the initiative.
“Cuel, could you please tell us, in general terms, about the concept behind your menu and what you might recommend tonight?”
“With pleasure, Mona,” the waiter replied in a well-modulated voice. “But first, may I offer beverages? A profile is sufficient, and I will select an optimal mix.”
“I’d like something mildly stimulating,” Mona said. “Ten to fifteen percent. A little alcohol is fine—around five degrees. No other effects. Not too sweet. Chilled, but no ice. And low-calorie, of course.”
Cuel gave what looked like an understanding nod and turned to Zara.
“I’ll have the same, but with no effects at all, please,” she said.
“Noted,” Cuel replied, shifting his gaze. “Art? Mac?”
“Something cool, unsweetened, and with no effects,” Art said.
“The same,” I added without much thought.
“Excellent,” the mech concluded. “Now, allow me to introduce our menu.”
He paused briefly, as if clearing his throat without sound, then continued:
“Eco Gallery is an official representative of the culinary houses Kagemori, Maison Cardo, and Casa Armelli. Naturally, their spring and summer menus are fully available. In addition, we offer a standing selection of classics and highlights from the past three seasons. And, of course, a number of our own creations, which have already earned a strong reputation.”
He stopped, clearly awaiting questions or comments.
I knew that eco-cuisine, being entirely synthetic and therefore almost unlimited in its ability to create flavors, aromas, forms, and textures, had long since developed its own branch of “haute” cuisine, where the culinary houses set the tone. But beyond that, I was admittedly out of my depth. Which, apparently, could not be said of Mona.
She drew out thoughtfully:
“Mmm… Then I’ll have something light from Kagemori. A salad… from the spring menu, perhaps.”
Several images appeared in a row on the holographic menu before her. They qualified as dishes only by virtue of resting on flat plates—in every other respect they resembled elaborate cakes, floral arrangements, or three-dimensional still lifes.
Mona began to “leaf” through the menu, sliding the images aside and occasionally touching one. Each selected dish expanded to fill the entire display and began rotating slowly.
At last she stopped.
“This one, please.”
“An excellent choice, Mona,” Cuel responded approvingly.
By that point, I noticed that Art and Zara were also studying their menus with focus. Somewhat uncertainly, I mentally pronounced one of the names Cuel had mentioned—Casa Armelli. Images immediately appeared before me, and I began scrolling through them.
Without looking up, Art murmured:
“I’m in the mood for something more substantial… From Maison Cardo’s mains… Yes. This one looks promising.”
He enlarged a dish that more closely resembled recognizable food—though still exotic in appearance. Its surface seemed to flicker with tongues of flame.
“Of course, Art,” Cuel confirmed. “Flambéing, incidentally, is one of the defining trends of this summer season—particularly at Maison Cardo.”
He turned to Zara, who had just completed her selection.
“This one for me, please.”
“Forgive me, Zara,” Cuel said with mild professional caution, clearly educated by past experience. “Do you have any caloric restrictions?”
“No, I’m fine. I enjoy eating well,” Zara replied with a smile.
I registered, with quiet satisfaction, that the question occupying my thoughts on the way here had just received a thoroughly positive answer.
Momentarily distracted by that realization, I faltered when Cuel turned to me. Acting on impulse, I said:
“I’ll have the same, please.”
And immediately felt a faint flush of self-consciousness.
Cuel, however, was a consummate professional. He smoothed over the moment at once by slightly raising his voice and redirecting attention.
“Excellent. The dishes will be ready in seven to thirteen minutes. If your beverages”—he turned toward another mech who was gliding into the booth with a flat serving platform bearing four tall, exotically shaped glasses—“need to be refreshed or replaced, I remain at your service.”
He waited while the mech arranged the glasses on the table, then departed soundlessly alongside it.
We raised our glasses.
“To the reunion, friends,” Art said in a tone faintly ironic, as if apologizing for the conventional toast.
We tasted the drinks. Mine was light, delicately balanced, and pleasantly refreshing. I took another sip with genuine pleasure.
“This,” Art said contentedly after several mouthfuls, eyeing his glass with approval, “is roughly what I was dreaming about yesterday on picking.”
“And where were you yesterday?” Zara asked calmly, naturally. From her tone I understood she meant which Variant.
“The Seventh,” Art replied just as calmly, taking another sip. “Drinks weren’t exactly on the agenda there.”
Zara nodded in understanding.
“You didn’t happen to be returning from there yesterday, by any chance?” Art inquired casually.
“No, I was in the Fourth,” Zara answered after the slightest pause—as though weighing how much to reveal.
“Hm.” Art nodded sympathetically. “Visiting home?”
Zara hesitated again, briefly.
“Mostly work,” she said at last. Then, catching his questioning look, she elaborated a little more readily. “I work in organic botany and naturopathy. Anything involving herbs and plant-based formulations. I have a small studio—just me and two mechs. We create tea blends, aromatic capsules, oils, creams. All organic, of course.”
I remembered the tea she had served us in the mountains and thought that she had clearly achieved a considerable level of mastery in her craft.
“Some herbs don’t exist in this Variant,” Zara continued. “Or rather, they do—but they’re… different. So from time to time I have to go through the Gates.”
“Where can your products be found?” Mona asked with genuine interest. “I mean, if I wanted to buy something.”
“At La Vie d’une Fleur and Organic Spot,” Zara replied evenly.
Mona’s eyebrows shot up.
“I have an open procurement request with them,” Zara added casually.
This time Mona’s eyes widened fully, her lips parting in surprise. She turned to Art.
“Organic Spot—and especially La Vie d’une Fleur—are the most prestigious organic marketplaces. And everything there is extremely expensive.”
“And an open request,” Zara continued, “means they’re prepared to purchase anything I offer without additional approval. I set the prices myself.”
The last words carried unmistakable pride.
Then she looked at Mona.
“Mona, don’t worry—I’ll curate something for you personally. We’ll discuss it later.”
Mona nodded enthusiastically.
“Thank you, darling!”
She smiled radiantly and blew Zara an air kiss.
A mech assistant drifted into the booth carrying Mona’s salad-still-life balanced on its manipulator like a pedestal display. It lowered the dish onto the table without a sound and withdrew just as quietly.
“The people you were with back then—Fang and Ion,” Art asked. “Have you known them long? They didn’t strike me as being in your professional sphere.”
Zara seemed to have expected the question.
“We’ve known each other for a few months,” she said with a slight shrug. “We collaborate. I help them locate nuggets, and they… shield me from trouble. In certain Variants, as you know, that’s not unnecessary.”
Art nodded.
“And in this… shielding-from-trouble capacity—are they professionals? Or enthusiastic amateurs?”
Zara considered for a moment.
“It wouldn’t be fair to speak of them the same way. Fang and Ion are very different.”
Art inclined his head with polite interest.
“They don’t like to talk about it,” Zara continued, “but I believe Fang is security. Or rather… Ion’s bodyguard. I think he’s responsible for both their safety. And when we’re, as they put it, ‘harvesting’ together—mine as well. Though Ion can certainly take care of himself.”
Art nodded in understanding. Mona added:
“And Ion treats Fang with respect. He doesn’t restrict him. For example…” She hesitated briefly, then went on decisively. “They both tried to court me.”
I couldn’t prevent the sudden pounding in my temples. I lowered my gaze to the table, careful not to let my face betray anything.
“And?” Art asked with a faint smile.
“I don’t enjoy flirting,” Zara replied calmly, confidently. “So I told each of them directly that such behavior was pointless.”
An overwhelming wave of relief washed through me.
“I’m only mentioning this,” Zara continued, “to clarify something. When—let’s say—Fang began showing interest in me, Ion reacted entirely calmly. By that point, he and I had already… discussed matters.”
Another assistant mech entered, this time carrying two dishes—mine and Zara’s. They looked extraordinarily appetizing.
“Repeat my drink, please,” Art said to the mech.
“Of course,” it replied, departing at once.
Zara examined her dish with visible approval and, without further commentary, began eating with evident appetite. I decided it would be wise to follow her example.
The dish placed before me—or rather, the experience of tasting it—was entirely new. It consisted of carefully composed elements of varying forms, textures, and consistencies. Each carried its own distinct flavor, pleasant in its own way, but what astonished me most was the harmony between them. Together they produced the curious sensation of something deeply familiar yet elusive—as if you were tasting something exquisite that you had once known well but could no longer quite name.
At one point I was almost certain I detected the flavor of my famous shepherd’s stew. But no—it was something else entirely. And that “something else” was extraordinarily, exquisitely good.
Mona, I now noticed, had been giving her salad slow, deliberate attention the entire time, selecting individual components with care and occasionally sipping her drink.
“Well,” Art said thoughtfully, leaning back in his chair, “this is interesting. Forgive the questions—if you’d like, I can explain why I’m asking. But just one more: when was the last time you saw them?”
“Yesterday,” Zara replied matter-of-factly, continuing to do justice to her meal.
The three of us froze for a fraction of a second.
The silence was broken by the mech returning with Art’s dish in one manipulator and his drink in the other. It placed them on the table, removed his empty glass, then held a manipulator briefly above the plate. The dish burst into elegant flame—red with fine blue veins. After the fire subsided, the mech slipped back through the holographic wall.
Zara lifted her eyes from the extinguished flames and, noticing our expressions, added lightly:
“We ran into each other yesterday morning. At a… place. Completely by chance, I think. We talked briefly, and then I left—headed straight to the Gate.”
Art turned his knife and fork thoughtfully in his hands, then nodded to some private conclusion and took a bite. After another approving nod, he looked back at Zara.
“May I ask what you were talking about?”
Zara took a sip from her glass.
“The main news. The one all the koyo are buzzing about. The contours.”
“Koyo?” I asked.
“Contours?” Art clarified at the same time.
Zara smiled and turned to me first.
“Koyo is what they call themselves—the ones you refer to as the Reds. It means something like ‘brothers and sisters.’”
I nodded. She shifted her gaze to Art.
“The news is that, apparently, among those who slide, contour levels decrease over time. Which means that sooner or later, most of them will likely lose the ability to pass through the Gates without boosting.”
“What—didn’t they know that before?” Art asked, genuinely surprised, pausing mid-bite.
“Maybe they didn’t want to know,” Zara shrugged. “But when the new Gates appeared with higher threshold, everyone suddenly started checking their contour levels again. And someone noticed that theirs were significantly lower than they used to be.”
She paused.
“So now everyone’s agitated. And there’s a rumor circulating that the Creatures are responsible for all of it. Which means many koyo have suddenly grown hostile toward them.”
Zara set her plate aside, took another sip, and placed the glass down carefully.
“And what do Fang and Ion think about that?” Art asked, lifting his eyes from his dish.
“Ion—nothing in particular,” Zara replied. “At least he doesn’t say anything. As usual, he makes ironic, noncommittal remarks. But Fang…”
She paused.
“Fang says that if he can no longer walk through the Gates, there will be no point in living.”
Zara exhaled softly, then looked at Art with steady focus.
“So why are you so interested in them?” she asked. “May I know?”
“Yes, of course,” Art replied, pushing his plate aside as well. “After we met that day—later the same day—someone ambushed us. Mac was hit with a freeze. I dodged. Probably just luck.”
Zara froze.
For several seconds she did not move at all. Then she slowly turned her gaze to me and looked directly into my eyes. There was unmistakable confusion in her expression. And something else—concern.
She shifted her attention back to Art and said slowly, thoughtfully:
“It couldn’t have been Fang and Ion. We were together the entire day. And the following one.”
“Is that so? Interesting…” Art answered evenly. “Then it seems I questioned you unnecessarily. My apologies. We’re simply trying to take precautions. Perhaps we’re worrying for nothing. Or perhaps we’re just being overly careful.”
Zara fell silent. A taut stillness settled over the table.
“No,” she said quietly at last. “I don’t think you’re worrying for nothing.”
She paused again, as if weighing each word.
“In my view, caution never hurts. And right now—especially.”
Suddenly she rose.
“You know, I have to go. Thank you for the interesting conversation—and the pleasant company.”
I was on my feet instantly. Art stood as well.
“Mona, we’ll talk later. Bye,” Zara said with a nod.
“Bye…” Mona replied, somewhat stunned.
“Please don’t walk me out,” Zara added as she moved away, and slipped through the holographic barrier.
I shot Art a panicked look, ready to follow her.
Art raised a hand in quiet warning.
“If she’s decided to leave, she’ll leave.”
I exhaled helplessly, acknowledging the truth of it, and sank back into my chair. Art sat down as well.
For a while, none of us spoke.
Then Art drew a deep breath and said:
“I understand that, strictly speaking, our friendly dinner could be considered over at this point. Still, I’d ask you both to stay a little longer and, so to speak, respond—while everything is still fresh—to two purely practical questions that have arisen.”
He looked at us. Mona and I remained silent. Art continued.
“I apologize in advance if my first practical question sounds cynical. Nevertheless—can we trust Zara?”
I snapped my gaze up at him, staring in stunned disbelief.
As if expecting that reaction, Art met my eyes calmly and gave a small, understanding nod.
“All right, Mac. You don’t have to answer. I think your reaction is answer enough. Mona?”
Contrary to my expectation, Mona did not respond immediately. She lowered her gaze to the nearly empty glass she still held lightly between her fingertips and remained silent for several moments.
Then, still seemingly thinking it through, she said:
“Your question is clearly driven by the fact that Zara is hiding something.”
She looked at Art. He returned her gaze with a slight nod and a satisfied half-smile. Mona nodded in return.
“Granted,” she went on. “But at the same time, she is very willing to engage. She answers your questions openly.”
“And more than that,” Art added, “I have the distinct impression that Zara is eager to tell us as much as possible. More than I’m actually asking.”
Mona nodded again.
“And you’re suggesting that this might be part of some double—or even triple—game?”
Art spread his hands slightly, as if to say, I don’t know what to think.
“No,” Mona said firmly. It felt as though she had just arrived at a conclusion after weighing everything carefully. “And not simply because such a scheme would be unnecessarily complicated. It would also be irrational.”
Art narrowed his eyes slightly and tilted his head, as if listening not only to her but to his own thoughts.
“A far more natural explanation,” Mona continued with steady confidence, “is this: yes, she has something to hide. But whatever it is, it’s not directly connected to Ion and Fang, the Reds, or the Tribe. Or perhaps it is connected—but indirectly, without implying that she herself is… culpable. In that case, it’s perfectly logical that she would try to dispel any suspicions we might already have—or might develop. To me, that is the simplest and most probable explanation of her behavior.”
At this point, Mona glanced at me and added:
“And yes, I liked her very much. So I would rather not discover that we’re—let’s put it this way—on opposite sides. But that preference has not influenced my analysis or my conclusions.”
The last words were directed at Art.
He looked at her with undisguised admiration.
Only then, I think, did I truly understand how he regarded her.
He shifted his gaze to me, smiled broadly, and let out a relieved breath.
“Then we may consider the first question resolved unanimously. And I’m glad we’ve resolved it. I have a feeling we may need to rely on that decision in the future. Now—on to the second question.”
Art took a sip from his glass. His mood seemed noticeably lighter.
“The second question,” Art continued, “is whether, in light of the new information we’ve received from Zara, we should make any adjustments to our plans. Specifically, to Mac’s upcoming picking internship. Ultimately, of course, it isn’t our decision—but I think our opinion carries weight.”
He looked at both of us.
“My view is no—we shouldn’t change anything. There’s a bit more uncertainty now, yes. But I don’t believe it significantly increases the risk level. And in the current situation, what Mac mentioned at the afterparty—information and initiative—becomes even more valuable. What do you think?”
He leaned back in his chair, deliberately not addressing anyone in particular.
I glanced at Mona, preferring that she speak first.
“I agree,” she said with a nod. “To me, it’s fairly clear. Frankly, the more pressing practical question is how the Reds’ shifting mood will affect developments around the Creatures and the Ninth Variant.”
Art turned to me.
“I agree as well,” I said briefly.
“Excellent,” Art concluded. “In that case, I think we can finally call it a night.”
Mona and I nodded at the same time.
We rose and headed toward the exit. Cuel appeared ahead of us almost immediately and, seemingly attuned to our mood, escorted us in silence to the door, offering a discreet wish for a pleasant evening only at the threshold. Hearing it, I couldn’t suppress a faintly grim smile.
When we entered Tom’s cabin, I noticed that the seats were no longer arranged in a circle but all faced forward. The third seat was set behind the other two, like a second row. I understood at once that Art, sensing my mood, had arranged for a measure of privacy. I thanked him silently and took the rear seat. Art and Mona settled in front.
We did not exchange a single word during the flight back.
Only as the glider began its descent did Art turn toward me.
“Mac, forgive me if this sounds intrusive, but I want to say one thing. I know what you’re thinking—and what you’re planning to do. If you want my opinion, then no—don’t call her right now. And this has nothing to do with pride, dignity, or any of that inflated nonsense. It’s simply that, from what I’ve learned about Zara, she’s the kind of person who decides for herself. Your call—or anything else—won’t influence her decisions.”
At that moment Tom touched down, and the edges of my safety vest slid apart. I stood and looked at Art.
There was no patronizing superiority in his eyes. Only quiet concern.
I smiled.
“Thanks, Art. I’ll think about it.”
He nodded.
“Good night.”
Mona turned toward me as well.
“Good night, Mac.”
I nodded to both of them, stepped down the ramp, and headed toward the house.
…
Half an hour later, I heard the sound of a glider approaching.
I looked out the window and saw a small two-seat cab descending onto the pad in front of my house.
I ran to the door and flung it open.
Zara stood on the threshold.
Holding my gaze steadily, she stepped forward.
Instinctively, I moved back, letting her in.
Zara turned and closed the door behind her.