“This is called the Delta,” Art was explaining. “The Delta of worlds—or, officially, Variants.
“You know how it works with a river: first there’s a single channel, then it splits into two, then into more and more branches. The same thing happened with the world. A very long time ago, it split in two—that was the first Rift. Later, in one of those worlds, a second Rift occurred. Then, in another one, a third.
“When exactly this happened, and how many Rifts there have been in total—we don’t know. Which means we also don’t know how many Variants exist overall. We only know about the ones connected by Gates. There used to be eight of them. Now there are nine. Officially, they’re called Variant One, Variant Two, and so on. But most people just call them worlds.”
He paused, then continued:
“The worlds are different, of course—but they also have a lot in common. For example, the languages people speak in different worlds are almost identical. No one knows exactly why. There is one explanation I personally agree with. I’ll tell you about it some other time.”
I was listening, hardly breathing. At first, it was shocking.
Then astonishing.
Then simply fascinating.
“So you’re from the first world?” I asked.
“Yes. From Variant One. It’s considered the first because we were the first to learn how to walk through the Gates. Or rather—to understand who could do it.”
“And who can?” I asked.
“We can. Striders.”
“Who?”
“Striders. That’s what we’re called. We can walk through the Gates because our Essence level is higher than that of ordinary people. Roughly twice as high. And that’s exactly the threshold every Gate has.”
“Wait. Hold on. Essence?” I said. “What is that?”
Art’s expression grew serious. I understood immediately: what he was about to say mattered.
“Officially, it’s called Quintessence. But most people just say Essence. Or even shorter—quinta. Quintessence is both energy and substance at the same time. It’s the essence of the world itself, of all living beings. The essence of existence. It’s present in every person, in all living things. And it’s also present in everything else—in the surrounding world.”
“Wait,” I interrupted. I felt like something crucial had just slipped past me. “So this… Essence—is it only in living beings? Only where there’s life? Or is it everywhere?”
He smiled slightly and nodded, clearly pleased.
“Good question. Essence is everywhere. But every living being—unlike inanimate matter—has a contour. A boundary that holds its own Essence inside. It’s like a small, personal world contained within the larger one. Living beings can take in Essence or give it away, raising or lowering their internal level, and that level is maintained within the contour—within the living body. At the moment of death, that contour disappears. In inanimate objects, or in certain places, Essence levels can also be higher or lower—but those fluctuations have no boundary. Essence gradually diffuses, merging back into the surrounding baseline level.”
“And what is the baseline level?” I asked.
He nodded again, still looking at me with the same focused seriousness.
“One hundred quints. Essence level—or, as it’s sometimes called, Essence tension—is measured in quints. One quint is one hundredth of the level all Essence in the universe naturally tends toward. In a vacuum, for example, Essence is exactly at one hundred quints. The quantity of Essence is measured in amphoras. One amphora is ten liters of Essence at baseline level. In everyday speech, people often call one-tenth of an amphora simply a liter.”
He fell silent, giving me time to absorb all of it.
We sat quietly for a while. Then I said:
“I think I’ve stopped being surprised. I’ve probably reached the upper limit of what’s possible.”
He chuckled softly.
“And that’s the right approach.”
I tried to formulate my next question. There were so many of them that I couldn’t decide where to begin. And then I realized there was one question that mattered more than all the others.
“Art,” I said. “Tell me… am I also a Strider?”
Smiling, he leaned back in his chair, tilted his head slightly to the side, narrowed his eyes—and said:
“About time you figured it out. Yes, Mac. You’re a Strider too. You can walk through the Gates into other worlds.”
Even though, deep down, I’d been expecting that answer, it still shook me. Or rather, what shook me was the feeling that came with it. A realization that I was now living in a different world—a new one. A world far larger than before. Not nine times larger, but infinitely so. Immeasurably larger.
I listened to myself—and suddenly understood that I felt no fear. No discomfort. On the contrary, I felt dizzy with something impossibly pleasant. And I recognized it at once.
I felt free.
It took me a few minutes to fully come back to myself. All that time, Art sat there, leaning back, watching me attentively and sipping his coffee. When he saw that I was finally “okay,” he smiled and raised his mug in a lightly ironic salute.
“Welcome, Mac.”
I lifted my mug and finished the nearly cold coffee. Art turned toward Lemar, pointed at our empty cups, and gave him a disarmingly polite, almost apologetic smile. Lemar nodded in understanding. Art inclined his head in a small bow of thanks. We waited until Lemar brought us two fresh mugs of coffee, and once he’d gone, I asked:
“Why can I pass through the Gates? And why can you? Why are we striders, and others aren’t?”
“I was near a forming Nugget during a Storm,” Art said. “That’s how it happened. That’s the main—almost the only—way people become striders. Your case is a very rare exception. You were nearby when the new Gate appeared.”
I didn’t fully understand everything yet, but I nodded anyway.
“Tell me about the striders,” I said. “What do you actually do? Do you just wander from world to world like these tourists?”
I nodded toward the people at the neighboring tables.
Sipping his steaming coffee with obvious pleasure, Art explained.
During Storms, Essence accumulates in certain places—mostly in stone, rock, and other solid matter. Large concentrations of Essence are called Nuggets. The main occupation of striders is Essence picking—also known as quint-picking, or simply picking: finding Nuggets and extracting Essence from them. That’s why striders are also called pickers, though the two terms aren’t the same. Strider refers to an ability; picker is an occupation, a profession.
Pickers, Art continued, come in two kinds: Greens and Reds.
Greens—Art included—are government employees, agents of the Agency for the Regulation of Quintessence, or ARC. They turn in the Essence they collect to ARC storage facilities, from where it’s distributed and used where it’s needed most. Mostly in medicine—primarily to save lives in cases where nothing else can. When Essence reserves exceed medical needs, the surplus is allocated to scientific and even creative institutions, where it’s used by people with exceptional scientific or artistic talent. It helps them make breakthroughs, create masterpieces.
Red pickers, on the other hand, keep the Essence they collect for themselves. They sell it on the black market or consume it personally. They exploit one of Essence’s fundamental properties: when it’s released from a person’s internal contour into the surrounding world, that person experiences powerful, euphoric sensations. In that sense, Essence—quinta—is a perfect drug.
After listening and thinking it all through, I asked what seemed to me the obvious question:
“And me? Can I become a picker?”
He looked at me very closely.
“A Green or a Red?”
The question genuinely surprised me.
“A Green, of course. Like you.”
He let out a restrained breath—relief, it seemed to me.
“I think so. Yes. I’d like you to be with us.”
We sat in silence for a while, each lost in our own thoughts. Then he drained his coffee in one swallow, glanced at the empty mug with mild regret, and said:
“A new Gate means a massive Essence release. There should be plenty of good Nuggets around here. Want to take a walk and look for some?”
I grinned and finished my coffee as well.
“Is that even a question?”