After the other striders left, Art and I were alone in the room again. The space seemed to grow quieter and more open.
Art studied the holographic map still hovering in his mask display.
“Listen,” he said. “I’ve done a preliminary look at our sector. It’s a large area, lots of rock formations—which means the nugget density should be decent. Given that not everything is accessible on foot, it looks like at least three days of work. Three for sure. Possibly even four.”
He paused, still looking at the map, as if running calculations in his head.
“I want to go over the routes in more detail now—mark tracks, rest points. But I can already tell: it’ll be better if we stay overnight in the mountains today. And probably at least one more night after that. We’ll save a lot of time by not having to go back home and return to the trail every day.”
He looked at me with a faint smile.
“You’ll be able to bring everything you need for an overnight stay?”
I nodded immediately, feeling a pleasant excitement at the thought of the hike.
“Of course. I’ve got a backpack with full gear. I used to head out into the canyons for a day or two all the time. Haven’t done that much lately, but I’ve still got everything—tent, sleeping bag, cooking pot.”
Art gave a thumbs-up.
“Perfect. The pot is up to you, but you won’t need the tent or the sleeping bag.” He nodded toward his own backpack.
I looked at it skeptically.
“Will that really be… enough?”
Art nodded without hesitation.
“Yes. Formin can create large membrane structures. Air inside the membranes, so even a relatively small amount of formin can become something fairly big. It just takes more time. You won’t be sleeping on bare ground.”
I suddenly remembered my job at the zipline.
“Oh, right. I need to quit my job,” I said. “Completely forgot about that.”
Art looked at me thoughtfully.
“With this many tourists around, your leaving might cause some trouble.”
“No,” I said with a grin. “I wasn’t really an instructor anyway. That requires a license. I mostly brought in customers—talked to people, convinced them to try it. And now they’ll manage without me just fine. With this kind of crowd, people are lining up on their own.”
Art nodded approvingly.
Another question popped into my head.
“What about food? Any preferences?” I asked.
“Nope. I’m not picky. I eat whatever’s available.”
“Great. I’ll grab some freeze-dried food from the outdoor shop, just in case. But I’ll also bring the pot and real ingredients.” I smiled. “I’ll cook you my famous shepherd’s stew.”
He looked at me with genuine admiration.
“So this is going to be a real hike. Real camping. Cooking over a fire. Perfect.”
I quickly assembled a mental checklist.
“Alright. I’ll take care of everything and be back in an hour or so.”
“Sounds good,” Art said. “I’ll finish refining the routes and take a look at your Clip settings.”
I stepped outside feeling light, cheerful—not because I was quitting my job, but because a hike lay ahead. New places. And, more importantly, company that genuinely interested me.
Quitting didn’t take long.
My coworker Peter was, as usual, bustling around the zipline platform, fastening gear on the next customer. As expected, a solid line of people had formed in front of the entrance. When I approached, Peter glanced at me, seemed to understand everything at once, and said—more as a statement than a question:
“You’re leaving.”
I nodded, feeling a twinge of guilt. Peter, apparently reading my thoughts, waved it off.
“Don’t worry. We’ll manage. Good luck to you. And thanks for the work.”
He shook my hand and immediately turned back to the next customer. I smiled—it had been easier than I expected.
I stopped by the outdoor store, picked up freeze-dried meals, mosquito repellent, a few sturdy trash bags, and a spare rain poncho—just to be safe. Then I went to a small grocery shop and bought everything needed for shepherd’s stew: a chunk of the freshest beef, carefully wrapped, bacon, onions, garlic, carrots, potatoes, spices. I added bread, some fruit, and also crackers, nuts, and chocolate—for long stretches on the trail.
When I got back home, Art was already finishing the route markings.
“All set,” he said. “I’ve mapped the routes. In this sector beyond the Gate, we’ll need to cover three tracks. Tonight we stay in the mountains. Tomorrow’s and the day after tomorrow’s routes end near the road—we can head home and then take a taxi to the start of the next segment.”
“Perfect,” I said, and started laying out the supplies, dividing them into two piles.
Together we distributed water, food, and gear. I noticed how Art’s backpack seemed to subtly expand, adjusting to the volume being packed inside. The fabric—formin—felt almost alive: elastic, resilient, responsive. It was clear he barely noticed it anymore. For him, it was simply normal.
“I’ve done a bit of work on your mask and clip,” Art said as we were finishing packing. “For now, I’ve only enabled the basic functions: comms, maps, terminal. The controls are simple—you’ll be comfortable with them. I’ll explain things as we go.”
“Alright,” I nodded, tightening the straps on my backpack.
We grabbed a quick bite from whatever was left in my fridge. Then we double-checked everything, put on our packs, locked the front door, and set off.
We walked along the shoulder of the road, skirting the Gate on the right. A map hovered in my mask, the route clearly marked: first a few kilometers downhill toward the sea, to the point where a narrow trail branched off into the canyons. That’s where our real route would begin.
The weather was perfect—soft morning sun, a fresh breeze. The mountains ahead looked almost translucent, their slopes dissolving into a light haze. Pines lined the road, their branches twisted and muscular. Below, in the bends of the canyon, the river flashed now and then, winding between the rocks.
We walked at an easy pace, talking.
“When we’re picking in pairs, it usually works like this,” Art explained. “We don’t walk side by side. We move in parallel, some distance apart. That way we cover more ground. If each of us follows our own track, the chances of finding nuggets go up.”
“And how do we communicate then?” I asked. “Shout?”
“Why shout?” Art smiled. “That’s what message mode is for. Some people also call it dispatch mode—or depeche mode.”
He explained: in theory, the mask and clip allow for direct, real-time thought sharing—but that mode is almost never used.
“Why?” I asked. “Wouldn’t that be more convenient?”
“It would be horrible,” Art said calmly. “Almost everyone runs an internal monologue constantly. Talking to themselves, thinking things through, remembering, fantasizing. Now imagine someone hearing all of that. Every random, spontaneous thought. Every unfiltered image. It would be the most brutal violation of personal boundaries imaginable.”
He paused, then added:
“That’s why n2e protocols are hard-coded: no mind-reading. Ever. Only deliberately formed messages. That rule is sacred.”
“Got it. So how do messages work?”
“There are two options. Voice messages—which you hear in the clip as my voice. Or text messages, which you see in the mask. To create one, you clearly think ‘Voice’ or ‘Text,’ then immediately think the message itself. When you’re done, you say ‘Send.’ Or you just pause—at least five seconds. That’s enough for the Net Aide to recognize the message is complete and send it.
“The pause duration is adjustable, but people rarely set it below five seconds—to avoid accidental sends. If you change your mind, just think ‘Cancel’ during the pause.”
“And how does n2e know what’s a command and what’s part of the message?” I asked. “What if I start a message with the word ‘text’ as part of the sentence?”
Art smiled.
“That’s where the Net Aide comes in. It almost never makes mistakes. It reads intent. Not just words—but how you think them. With what focus, what purpose. It understands context, tone, the structure of the thought itself. At first it feels strange, but you get used to it. It really does understand you.”
We walked in silence for a while as I processed that.
“Want to practice?” Art asked. “Switch to message mode. Think: ‘Message mode, Art.’”
I focused and clearly thought:
Message mode, Art.
A small green icon appeared in the corner of my display—mode active.
“Now try sending me a text,” Art said aloud.
I thought:
Text: Can you hear me?
A moment later, text floated into view:
“Loud and clear. Now try voice.”
I thought:
Voice: Is everything working?
A second later, Art’s calm voice sounded in my Clip, as if he were speaking right beside me:
“Yes, everything’s working. Convenient, right?”
I nodded.
Text: Very. Almost like being there—but without interference. Send.
Art’s voice replied:
“Yes. And most importantly—it’s extremely reliable. Even if the connection is bad, messages still get through.”
We kept walking, continuing the exercise. I found myself liking it more and more. It was simple, fast, and genuinely comfortable.
Art, text: “What would you like to talk about?”
Me, text: “The Reds. Send.”
Art’s voice: “They probably deserve the attention.”
Me, text: “Is being a Red a crime?”
Art, voice: “Not really. In our world, people are free. No one is obligated to hand over Essence to the Agency. No one has the right to force you to collect nuggets for the Forum.”
Me, voice: “For who?”
Art, text: “For the Forum. That’s what we call what you’d think of as ‘the state’ or ‘the authorities.’ You’ll learn all of that during the upload.”
Me, text: “Alright. Let’s get back to the Reds.”
Art, voice: “Being Red in itself isn’t a crime. But there are at least three kinds of violations Reds tend toward… by definition. First, drug trafficking.”
Me, voice: “Drugs?”
Art, voice: “Yes. As I told you before, when Essence leaves a person’s inner contour and spills into the surrounding world, the person experiences intense euphoria. Because of that, Essence is officially classified as a narcotic. Reds mostly use it exactly this way—either for themselves or for sale. By the way, in that context it’s more often called quinta. So: quinta is a drug. Unlike most others, it doesn’t destroy the body. There’s no chemical dependency. But the psychological dependence is very real. If you’ve slid even a couple of times, quitting without consequences is almost impossible.”
I didn’t interrupt—he caught my unspoken question anyway. His voice stayed calm, without judgment.
Art, voice: “To slide, Reds use boosting—through form-bracelets. They have platinum micro-needles built in, connected to a box. The bracelets are made of formin and can be part of clothing. When a person activates the bracelet, the needles enter the veins, and the quint-pump starts injecting. The level of quinta in the blood rises. The contour overfills—and quinta spills outward, triggering the high. That’s sliding.”
Me, voice: “So sliding is… when it hits?”
Art, voice: “Exactly. There’s active sliding—energy surge, agitation, dilated pupils, tremors. And passive sliding—soft euphoria, relaxation, pleasure. Sliders learn to control the state, dial it up or down.”
Me, voice: “But it’s harmful, right?”
Art, voice: “Formally—no. Quinta doesn’t kill. But the nervous system wears out. The person literally burns from the inside. Ages faster. Possibly lives less—though there isn’t enough data yet, not enough time has passed. What is proven is psychological addiction—and it’s very strong. Almost no one can stop.”
Me, voice: “And the sliders themselves—do they know that?”
Art, voice: “That’s the interesting part. They don’t believe sliding is dangerous. They say things like, ‘Only the weak die,’ or ‘If you slide properly, you’ll be fine.’ It’s an entire culture of denial. They argue with doctors, with scientists. Some of the veterans already understand how it ends—but they can’t quit.”
Me, voice: “And all Reds slide?”
Art, voice: “No. Not all—but many. I’d say the overwhelming majority.”
Me, voice: “And the Greens? Are there sliders among you?”
Art, voice: “No. It’s strictly forbidden for us. When you join the Agency, you sign the Code. There are two clauses about this—no recreational use of Quintessence, and no personal enrichment.”
Me, voice: “Got it. Then where’s the crime with the Reds?”
Art, voice: “Selling. If a Red sells quinta, that’s illegal. That business is mostly run by the Tribe—a closed and dangerous criminal network. Tribe includes both Reds and ordinary people. The Agency fights them, but strictly within the law. We Greens aren’t allowed to use force unless a crime has already been committed. We can defend ourselves, but not attack. The Reds know this, which is why they’re not particularly afraid of us.”
Me, voice: “Okay, that makes sense. What else?”
Art, voice: “Second—violating closed-world protocol. We Greens are obligated to follow it—it’s also in the Code. Reds have no such obligations—neither formal nor moral. So in theory, they could contact the authorities of closed worlds, or wealthy individuals, and tell them about the Delta, about striders, and of course about quinta. But I’ll say this right away: it hasn’t happened yet. I think every Red understands that once you start down that path, the trouble will be ten times greater than the profit. And they don’t really need it—quinta is already plentiful for them.”
Me, voice: “And how do you know there haven’t been leaks?”
Art, voice: “That’s handled by AIO—the Agency for Intervariant Operations. Everyone who supports us works for them. Locals and those brought through the Gates. Great people—you’ll see. And top-tier professionals.”
Me, voice: “I’m guessing there are other agencies in this field?”
For some reason, Art stopped using message mode and spoke out loud:
“Yes. There’s one more—ICDA, the Intervariant Cooperation and Development Agency. Mona works there, actually. My…” He hesitated, visibly flustered. “My close friend.”
I didn’t press him and steered the conversation back to business.
“And what does ICDA do?”
“Studies other Variants. And carefully, under supervision, develops closed worlds—their societies. We help them move toward a level where integration becomes possible—turning them into open Variants.”
I paused, thinking.
“I mean… I can guess,” I said carefully. “But still. What’s stopping our Variant, for example, from becoming open?”
He smiled sadly.
“You really should talk to Mona about that. She’ll explain it properly—and, I think, with pleasure. But yes, you’re probably guessing right. The main barrier is war. State-sanctioned killing.”
I looked at him with a flicker of hope.
“Wait. So… you don’t have wars at all?”
He stared at me, genuinely shocked.
“Of course not. Not for a very long time now. Killing someone means depriving them of the rest of their life—thousands and thousands of minutes, hours, days, years. Just because, say, they think differently. For us, that’s…” He hesitated, searching for words. “That’s monstrous. Barbaric. Obscurantist madness. I simply can’t understand how people can allow it. How they can support armies—entire systems made up of huge numbers of people and machines whose sole purpose is to prepare for, and then carry out, mass killing. Just think about it. Try looking at it from the outside.”
As he spoke, my first instinct was to argue—to say that not everyone here was like that, that there were volunteers, doctors, peacekeepers…
And then I tried, honestly, to look at our world through his eyes.
And I felt unbearably ashamed.
Not of myself—but of my world, of our humanity.
We walked in silence for a while. I didn’t want to keep talking about it, but eventually I asked anyway:
“So you’re saying there’s no violence at all in your world?”
This time, he looked uncomfortable too. With a bitter half-smile, he replied:
“Unfortunately, not yet. But the most we allow ourselves is this.”
He took something out of his belt and handed it to me. A small, dark-gray object, shaped a bit like a joystick or a grip with a raised top. On the front of the protrusion, I saw a tiny black lens; on the handle itself, right where the index finger would rest, there was a small trigger-button. The grip had a pleasant, slightly textured surface and fit naturally into my hand.
I looked at Art questioningly. He began to explain.
“This device is called a resonator—or just a res. Sometimes people also call it a lens. Essentially, it’s a type of e2n interface. When you press the trigger, or give the firing command mentally, the resonator generates a neurocode—a program the human brain can read directly. The res then fires that code as an electromagnetic impulse—a short, invisible beam. When the impulse hits a person—or more precisely, any part of their nervous system—it integrates into their neural signals and reaches the brain. And the brain immediately executes the program.”
“And what exactly is that program?” I couldn’t help asking.
“In theory, it can be almost anything. In practice, two are used most often: paralysis and amnesia. More commonly called ‘freeze’ and ‘forget.’
“Freeze completely disables sensory input and voluntary motor control. Vital processes—breathing, circulation, digestion—continue at a subconscious level. Consciousness remains as well, but it’s completely isolated. The person sees nothing, hears nothing, feels nothing, can’t speak or move. Subjectively, they’re plunged into their inner world and continue to exist only there, with no connection to the outside.”
I tried to imagine myself in that state and shuddered. Art went on:
“Portable resonators like this one can freeze someone for short intervals—from one second up to an hour. The default setting is one minute. That’s usually enough.”
He paused, as if marking the next point as especially important, then continued:
“Generating a single impulse takes about five seconds. When you switch the res into firing mode, the first charge forms in five seconds. After the shot, the next one starts generating—another five seconds—and so on. You can pre-charge up to five impulses, but that only makes sense right before a threat. You can’t walk around indefinitely ‘with a full magazine.’
“The moment you switch the res into sleep mode, all generated charges automatically discharge. That’s not a bug—it’s a safety rule. Carrying a lens in firing mode, or with pre-generated impulses, is forbidden and dangerous. Any accidental press—even a fall or a sharp impact—can trigger a shot, which, by the way, is very likely to hit yourself. So once the threat is gone, you’re required to put the resonator to sleep. Which means all charges are dumped, and the energy is lost.”
I thought it through, then asked:
“If recharge time is so critical, does that mean hitting with the first shot is actually pretty hard?”
“Yes and no. The Net Aide helps you aim. It identifies a person as soon as you look at them or point the lens at them—especially if they also have an active resonator, even if it’s not aimed at you. In threat mode, the clip’s scanner detects an active resonator, and your res automatically locks onto it. So the impulse almost always reaches a stationary target. But… it doesn’t work every time. There are several limiting factors.”
He paused, then went on.
“First, the neurocode has to embed itself into an active signal of the nervous system. That depends on where exactly the impulse hits—what point on the body. Individual physiology matters too, as well as clothing, protective fields, and electromagnetic interference.”
I nodded, trying to fit all of that into a coherent picture.
“The second limiting factor is distance. The farther the target is, the lower the chance the impulse will take effect. The effective firing range is about ten meters—at that distance, the success rate is roughly seventy percent.
“From ten to thirty meters, you’re already relying on luck. Beyond thirty, it’s more like a lottery, and the odds aren’t great.”
Art paused briefly, as if deciding whether to go deeper, then continued anyway.
“And there’s a third factor—target movement. There’s only a fraction of a second between aiming and the impulse making contact, but that fraction matters. If the target is moving, the resonator’s Net Aide doesn’t aim at the person as they are—it aims at a calculated point, a prediction of where they’ll be a moment later.”
He gave a faint, wry smile.
“But people don’t always end up where they’re ‘expected’ to be. If someone moves erratically—breaking inertia, disrupting habitual patterns—the prediction can fail, and the impulse misses.”
He looked at me and added:
“That’s why dodging exists—the art of moving in such a way that you don’t get hit. But we’ll get to that later.”
We walked in silence for a while. Then I asked:
“So… is freezing always safe?”
His expression darkened.
“Unfortunately, no. If someone has respiratory or cardiac issues, or if they’re in a dangerous situation—underwater, at height, behind the wheel—freeze can kill them.”
“Can you bring someone out early, before the timer runs out? Is there an ‘unfreeze’ program in the resonator?”
“Not in portable units. That requires more complex equipment, and only licensed specialists can operate it. In practice, that means transporting the person to one of the medical centers in our Variant. Theoretically, there are field methods to partially break a freeze—but they’re illegal, risky, and can permanently damage the brain.”
He sighed.
“That’s why, as you can imagine, carrying and using a resonator is permitted only for those who’ve completed training and hold a license. I have one.”
“But there are people who use them without a license?” I asked after a moment.
Art grimaced.
“There are. Illegal resonators circulate—and there are more of them than you’d think.”
“I’m guessing I know who likes using them… Reds?”
He smiled bleakly and confirmed my guess with a slight nod.
“Exactly. Although many Reds also have licensed resonators.”
“And do Reds attack you often?”
“Not very often. But it does happen—and with uncomfortable regularity. That’s the third and main category of… let’s call them unlawful actions typical of Red striders. Selling quinta, potential violations of closed-world protocols, and armed robbery—meaning the theft of quint boxes. Those are the three situations in which a Red—or anyone else—becomes a criminal. Until then, Reds are just ordinary, law-abiding citizens.”
There was a trace of irony in his last words.
“And what’s the punishment for those crimes?” I asked.
“The same freeze. Just for much longer periods. It’s carried out using powerful stationary resonators, and only in specialized correctional facilities, under constant supervision. The duration of penal paralysis is determined by the court, depending on the severity of the crime—from one month up to three years. Longer than that isn’t allowed: the human psyche can’t handle it. Irreversible changes begin, and the person simply loses their mind.”
He fell silent for a moment, then added:
“For particularly serious crimes, the punishment can be combined: several freeze terms separated by conventional imprisonment. That way the person has time to physically recover—while fully aware that another block of total isolation still lies ahead.”
I shuddered at his words. The resonator I was still holding suddenly felt heavy, awkward, and faintly repulsive. I handed it back to Art, and he slipped it into his belt.
“To be honest,” Art went on thoughtfully, “we don’t always put maximum effort into apprehending Reds who’ve committed violations and delivering them to law enforcement. In closed worlds, that’s often practically impossible—without creating a clear risk of breaching the closed-world protocol.
“So more often than not, our role is limited to documenting what happened: cameras, scanners, full incident recording. After that, if the offender’s identity can be established, they’re assigned wanted status—or, as we put it, they become an illegal.”
He paused briefly.
“In practical terms, that means access to open worlds is closed to them. From that point on, they can only feel relatively free in closed Variants. And in that, by the way,” Art added with a faint smirk, “probably lies the main reason Reds have absolutely no interest in violating the closed regime or turning closed worlds into open ones.”
Art let the pause stretch waiting for questions—and then, as if with some relief, shifted to another topic.
“Now, about the forget mode. We mostly use it when there’s a risk of breaching the closed regime. For example, if someone accidentally sees you—or another strider—using a tacle. In that case, the resonator fires an impulse encoded to erase short-term memory for a specific period—by default, one minute.”
He made a gesture, as if wiping an invisible recording.
“And what does the person feel afterward?” I asked.
“Either they don’t remember the last minute at all, or they decide it was some kind of hallucination. And if you happen to be nearby and give them a plausible explanation of what actually happened, they tend to believe you and adopt that version. It’s a kind of psychological defense mechanism—the mind trying to restore a familiar picture of reality and avoid stress. So in practice, it almost always works. People rarely feel the urge to tell everyone that a guy suddenly grew a tentacle out of his shoulder.”
He punctuated the last sentence with a ridiculous imitation of a writhing tentacle and a mock expression of horror. We both laughed.
“And just to answer your next question in advance,” Art went on more seriously, “yes—the erased memory segment can be restored. But again, that requires stationary equipment and a qualified specialist.”
I tried to process all of this once more—and realized I couldn’t shake the feeling that such situations might not always be so easily ‘contained.’ I voiced my concern. Art answered without a trace of a smile.
“If you see that you’re not coping, that the risk of a leak is still there—or if the situation is getting out of control altogether—you call in an AIO task group. That’s their job. And they do it very well.”
Art pulled a bottle of water from his pack, took a few swallows, and handed it to me. I followed suit—and only then, momentarily distracted from the conversation, realized how far we’d already walked.
Turning my head to the left, I saw that we had rounded the Gate and were now looking at it from the reverse side. It looked no different than before—the same smooth surface, the same hazy, shifting outlines within.
I shifted my gaze to Art… and involuntarily lingered on the bulge at his belt, where the resonator rested.
“Tell me,” I asked, “how often have you actually had to use it yourself?”
“In forgetting mode—fairly often,” he nodded. “I’ve lost count, honestly. Usually when someone shows up unexpectedly while you’re working. As for freeze… seven times total. And always only after someone fired a resonator at me first. I’ve been frozen myself four times.”
“And what does it feel like?” I asked, already realizing how foolish the question sounded.
His face changed for a split second—he went slightly pale, his gaze hardening.
“The feeling…” he said, looking somewhere near his feet, “is unpleasant. To put it mildly. I hope you never have to experience it yourself. Although…” He hesitated. “You will. One way or another. The training course for resonator use includes a mandatory one-minute freeze. The instructors say it helps you treat the device with the respect it deserves.”
He gave a grim smile—but it faded almost immediately.
“Alright. I think you now know everything you need to about this unpleasant part of our work. And just in time—it’s time to get started.”
I lifted my gaze and saw a narrow trail branching off from the road toward the mountains.
We turned off the road.