The clearing we chose for the night turned out to be unexpectedly cozy and picturesque. It nestled between two rocky outcrops of the neighboring mountain: behind us rose a steep, forested slope; to the left, beyond a ledge, the river shimmered in the dusk; and to the right, a dozen meters away, ran a trail, from which we were hidden by a rocky spur. Another pleasant surprise—and a stroke of real luck—was that, when we went down to the river, we found a spring nearby, emerging from a crack in the rock and flowing straight into the river. The spring was wonderfully cold, and its taste struck me as possessing the subtlest bouquet, like an expensive wine. We drank our fill and topped up our bottles, which by then were nearly empty.
The grass in the clearing was soft. Young trees grew here and there, and boulders lay scattered among smaller stones. One of them—flat and conveniently shaped—I immediately designated as the “main table,” while the others I used to build a fire pit.
Art emptied his backpack and began doing something odd with it: unfastening, refastening, and at times seeming almost to tear the fabric apart.
I took a small axe from my gear and went to gather firewood. When I returned—an armful of branches in one hand and a dry sapling dragged behind me in the other—I was met with an unexpected sight: two small but quite comfortable chairs with mesh seats and backs stood by the “table.” Art was already settled into one of them, leaning back with his legs stretched out.
“They’ll turn into sleeping bags later,” he remarked casually, and once again I marveled at the “magical” properties of formin.
I fashioned stakes with a crossbar from the sapling, hung the pot over the fire pit, lit the fire, and set about making shepherd’s stew—a dish without which no picnic of mine ever felt complete.
First I fried the bacon, then the meat, followed by onions and carrots. Art watched the process with genuine interest, asking questions from time to time. When the vegetables and meat were coated in a golden crust, I added my “signature” spice mix, let it bloom, and finally tossed in the potatoes, a bit of water, and salt. All that remained was to stir and wait.
Soon an appetizing aroma spread through the clearing—the stew was clearly a success. By then, dusk had begun to slide into night, and the first stars lit up over the mountains.
And that was when they appeared.
I had just tasted the stew and noted to myself that this batch had turned out especially well when a long, drawn-out beeeep sounded in my clip. I flinched. Beside the green icon with the number “1,” a new yellow one appeared, glowing with the number “3.”
I shot a glance at Art. He was already on his feet, staring into the darkness toward the trail. I followed his gaze and saw three glowing yellow dots on my mask’s display—resonators in passive mode.
They were coming closer.
A moment later, three figures stepped out of the darkness. Two men and a woman.
Without making a show of it, Art brought up the Essence layer.
The difference was immediately obvious. The emerald glow around them was noticeably darker than the background. I blinked, focusing—and then noticed dark green patches at their belts: boxes, and judging by their intensity, far from empty. A second later my eyes caught on the masks covering their faces and the thin clips at their temples.
The picture came together.
Striders.
“We followed the smell,” said the one standing closest to us, grinning. “Like wolves. Mind if we join you?”
He was massive—like an armored door come to life. Tall, heavily built, with shoulders that looked as if they’d been hewn with an axe. He wore a thick shirt, a leather vest, and loose trousers with countless pockets, tucked into high lace-up boots. A backpack hung from his shoulders, and at his belt rested a resonator wrapped in a faintly glowing yellow mesh.
His long, coal-black hair was tied back in a ponytail, but a heavy lock hung over one eye, giving the unsettling impression that he was looking at me through a gunsight. A mocking smile twisted his mouth beneath a neatly trimmed goatee. He carried himself with confidence and challenge, like someone who knew exactly the impression he made. I caught myself noticing that, despite his intimidating presence and the tension of the moment, there was an undeniable charisma about him.
The other two stood slightly behind him, in the shadows, and I couldn’t make them out right away.
“Of course. Come in, make yourselves comfortable,” Art said. I caught a faint strain in his voice. “My name’s Art.”
“I’m Mac,” I added, raising a hand.
“And I’m Fang,” the big man grinned. “Take a guess why.”
He smiled wide, and I noticed what immediately stood out: his upper canines were longer than normal—and in the Essence layer, they glowed a dense, dark green.
“Mini-boxes,” Fang explained, catching our look. “Emergency reserve. In case things get tight and there’s no quinta handy.”
If I’d had any doubts left, they vanished completely.
These were Reds.
Fang dropped his backpack to the ground and sat down on it, stretching his legs with a weary sigh. I noticed how the pack immediately began to reshape itself, transforming into something like a low chair or a lounger.
The second Red behaved differently. He walked up to the fire, unhurriedly took off his backpack, and carefully set it aside. Then he squatted down and held his palms out to the warmth. Lean, of average height, with straight light-colored hair of medium length, pale skin, and gray eyes. A narrow face, a calm, slightly absent gaze. His appearance was utterly neutral—so much so that the eye slid past him without catching.
“I’m Ion,” he said quietly, in a calm, slightly muffled voice. “Do you know what an ion is? A charged particle.”
“Is Ion your name,” I asked, mostly just to keep the conversation going, “or a nickname?”
He shot me a quick, attentive glance.
“Ion is what I am. You know that people are nothing but elementary particles? Most of them are neutral—they neither attract nor repel. And I’m a charged one. An ion.”
I thought that his appearance gave exactly the opposite impression. And that, apparently, was a sore point for him.
“Oh, Ion, don’t start again,” Fang grumbled irritably, settling more comfortably into what was now a fully formed lounger.
Ion smirked, staring thoughtfully into the fire. He clearly had no intention of elaborating.
So I shifted my attention to the third of them.
It was her. Zara.
Up to that point she had stayed aside, remaining in the shadows. Now she stepped forward—and into the firelight. Unlike Fang or Ion, she needed neither flamboyant gestures nor cryptic phrases. It was enough for her simply to appear.
Huge, mesmerizing light-brown eyes, deep and captivating, framed by long, slightly curved lashes. Perfectly smooth skin, faintly sun-kissed, that seemed to glow from within. A precise line of luxurious eyebrows. Sensual, softly full lips. A flawlessly shaped nose, cheekbones, and chin. Her hair—jet black and glossy—was styled in a short cut that framed her face beautifully and emphasized its expressive features.
Zara’s figure was slim, but not model-thin—rather softly full, with graceful curves, toned and supple at the same time. Her movements were smooth, fluid, effortlessly elegant.
I couldn’t even recall what she was wearing. The clothes dissolved into insignificance. All attention was drawn to her. Not just to her striking beauty, but to the energy radiating from within—a sense of vitality, of presence. It felt as if the space around her grew denser, more alive.
“Hi,” she said. “I’m Zara. That’s my name.”
She gave the last words a particular intonation, casting me a faintly amused glance. Only then did I realize that I had been standing there the whole time with a spoon in my hand. I hastily and awkwardly hid it behind my back and felt myself flush.
Without a word, Zara walked over and sat down in my chair, setting her backpack beside it.
The awkward pause was broken by Art. With his usual ease and a lightly ironic smile, he invited everyone “to the table.” His tone immediately defused the tension. I followed his lead—confirmed that there was plenty of stew for everyone, pulled disposable bowls and spoons from my pack, and began ladling out the hot dish. Steam rose in thick curls, the aroma wrapped around us, and seemed to dissolve whatever tension remained. The Reds visibly relaxed and began settling in, each finding a spot that suited them.
Fang rummaged through his backpack and, with a satisfied look, pulled out and placed on the “table” a rather large, flat metal flask.
“Whiskey,” he explained. “Organic. Twelve years old. Who’s with me?”
He swept the group with a questioning glance. Ion and Zara showed no reaction. Art smiled politely and shook his head. To avoid awkwardness, I smiled at Fang and shrugged.
“That’s the spirit, kid!” Fang exclaimed happily. “Hand me your cup.”
I passed him my mug. He unscrewed the flask’s cap, inhaled its scent blissfully, then poured me a generous measure and filled the cap for himself. I added spring water from my bottle. We clinked.
“Here’s to this, Mac—may we never run out of quinta!”
With that, Fang tossed the contents of the cap into his mouth, grunted with pleasure, and looked at me expectantly. I took a sip as well. The whiskey really was excellent—rich, smoky, with a smooth, mellow finish.
I stepped aside and sat down on one of the rocks. Even though Zara had vacated my chair, I didn’t hurry to reclaim it—quietly hoping she might choose it again.
Zara took a large metal thermos and a stack of light plastic cups out of her backpack.
“Tea. The real kind. Herbal. Picked on slopes where only clouds rise higher.”
Ion added nothing to the communal table. He picked up his backpack and moved aside, farther from the fire than anyone else. There, he leaned the pack against a tree and sat down on the ground, resting his back against it and crossing his legs. He placed his hands on his knees, palms up, closed his eyes, and seemed to withdraw completely into himself.
I portioned out the stew for everyone. Ion’s bowl I set down on the grass beside him. Sensing the movement, he opened his eyes, looked at me without any expression, and—without moving or saying a word—closed them again.
When I handed a bowl to Zara, she took it and looked up at me. There was still that faint note of amusement in her gaze, but also a polite gratitude. And perhaps—though I may have been deceiving myself—I caught a flicker of something like favor, something that flashed and vanished at once.
“Thank you, Mac,” she said, smiling only with her eyes.
I felt a wave of embarrassment wash over me again and immediately turned away, irritated with myself for it.
I gave Fang the largest portion, taking his build into account. He accepted the bowl and, looking at me questioningly, nodded toward the flask. I thanked him and said there was still some left in my mug. So he poured himself another capful of whiskey, tossed it back with relish, and attacked the stew with infectious appetite.
I noticed that Ion had, after all, taken his bowl and was now eating slowly, seemingly paying no attention to the rest of us.
I finished my whiskey and joined in.
We ate, exchanging glances and brief remarks. Gradually the conversation loosened and began to flow more freely. Art asked where they had come from, and Fang, chewing as he spoke, launched into an explanation:
“We’ve been harvesting around the new Gates here for two days now. Today we started out along your trail—but almost right away it was clear someone had already passed through. Nothing but crumbs left. So we veered right, into the spurs. And that’s where it really kicked off! Loads of goodies, and proper pies, too—five times at least. One of them, honestly, was half a cliff!”
“Three hundred seventy-eight amphorae,” Zara said without looking up. “I found that one.”
I caught something childlike in her voice—a girlish note of pride, even though she tried to hide it. It struck me as incredibly touching, and charming.
When I looked at Fang, I saw that he was gazing at Zara with undisguised adoration. A sharp stab of jealousy ran through me.
Fang went on. Art listened attentively, nodding, though his eyes had narrowed slightly, with a hint of caution.
“So how do we split things tomorrow?” Fang asked, licking his spoon. “Whose trail goes where?”
It was as if Art had been waiting for that very question. He didn’t hesitate for a second.
“Half a kilometer down the trail there’s an old bridge over the river. That’s where the road splits—one branch continues along this bank, the other crosses the canyon to the far side. Take whichever you like. It’s all the same to us.”
Fang slapped his knee and flashed a satisfied grin.
“Now that’s what I call business. Then we’ll take the left—through the canyon. Looks like no one’s mowed there yet. Plenty of pies for everyone.”
“Agreed,” Art said with a brief nod.
We finished eating. I gathered the bowls and spoons into a trash bag. Zara walked over to the table, picked up the thermos, and unscrewed the lid. The aroma of mountain herbs rose into the air—spicy, slightly sweet. She poured tea into two cups, took one for herself, and, without looking at anyone, returned to her seat. The second cup remained on the table.
I don’t know whom she had left that cup for—but I felt an overwhelming urge to take it. Without paying attention to anyone and without thinking about politeness, I simply walked up, picked up the cup, and carried it back to my seat.
As I did, I had the distinct impression of feeling a heavy, unfriendly gaze upon me—perhaps more than one. When I sat down and looked first at Fang, then at Ion, neither of them seemed to be the source. Fang was pouring himself yet another capful of whiskey, and Ion sat in the same posture as before, eyes closed.
“Been with the striders long?” Fang asked, tossing back his whiskey and drawing in a loud breath.
“Not really,” Art said with a disarming smile. “About five years. Less, actually.”
I shrugged. “I’m brand new. Just a few days in.”
“So what, you’re not even an Agent yet?” Fang perked up. “Listen—forget them, man. Come with us.”
I asked cautiously, “And what would that give me?”
Fang’s grin spread wide.
“What do you mean—what? Freedom, brother. We’re free striders. All worlds are open to us. All the quinta is ours. You won’t get that kind of high with the Agency.”
“And the Tribe?” I blurted out. “Are you with the Tribe at all?”
Fang burst out laughing. I noticed that even quiet Ion let out a short snort without opening his eyes. Zara didn’t react at all—clearly, I’d asked a stupid question.
“And who’d tell you that?” Fang laughed. “This guy—” he jerked his head toward Art, “—would rat us out in a heartbeat. In the Tribe, only Alpha knows everyone.”
“Alpha?” I echoed.
Fang was happy to explain.
“It’s simple. Rank and file are Omegas. Cell leaders are Gammas. There are a couple of Betas at the top. And above them all—Alpha. No one’s ever seen him. But everyone knows he exists.”
“Alright,” I said, trying to smooth things over and steer away from the topic. “I’ll think about it.”
“Do that—while you still can,” Fang chuckled. “And meanwhile, we’ll have a little fun.”
He shifted his folding chair slightly away from the fire and settled in. Stretched his legs out, rested his hands on them, and closed his eyes. I noticed the sleeves of his shirt suddenly tighten, forming dense bands—like bracelets—just above his elbows.
Fang jerked, as if struck by a jolt or a needle. His breathing grew heavy, his eyes flew open. His whole body tensed, as if he were climbing a steep slope. It lasted maybe half a minute.
Then he slowly went slack. Relaxed. And something flared in his eyes—a strange inner fire. His face lit up with a blissful, triumphant smile. His mouth fell open, releasing a long, satisfied moan:
“Aaaaah…”
I looked to Art, seeking confirmation of what I already suspected. Art gave a short nod.
Then I looked at Ion. He was sitting in the same posture as before—legs crossed, hands on his knees, palms up, eyes closed. But now his sleeves, too, had tightened into bracelets. A soft, almost childlike smile had appeared on his face.
Bracing myself for what I might see next, I turned to Zara. And felt a wave of relief.
She was unchanged. Holding her cup of tea with both hands, lifted close to her face, apparently savoring the aroma. Her gaze was calm, slightly distant. There were no bands on her sleeves. She looked as she had before.
As if to illustrate and confirm my thoughts, Art switched on the Essence Layer again. Zara’s contour and the background around her glowed with the familiar, steady emerald. But around Fang and Ion, a different effect shimmered—a “crown” of short, needle-like rays of pale green light radiating outward from their contours. It reminded me of the solar corona during an eclipse.
I shuddered. Watching it was unpleasant—borderline disturbing.
To distract myself, I took the pot off the crossbar, grabbed the bottle of dish soap, and headed down to the river to wash it.
The night was nearly moonless: a thin, barely visible crescent hung above the mountains. But the sky was ablaze with stars, their light seeming especially bright in the clear, transparent silence.
I went down to the river and carefully washed the pot.
As I was walking back, a strange, unprovoked sense of fear suddenly washed over me.
The trail ahead was drowned in darkness. The campfire was hidden behind a rocky outcrop, and that blackness beyond it seemed to radiate anxiety, threat, something wrong. I had spent dozens of nights in the mountains, both with company and alone, and I had never felt anything like this before.
There was no rational reason for alarm. The icon with the number “3” in my mask was still glowing yellow; no threats were being detected nearby. And yet the feeling wouldn’t go away. On the contrary—the closer I got to the camp, the stronger it became.
When I rounded the outcrop, I saw the firelight and the striders sitting calmly around it. There was still no sign of danger. I even felt a little embarrassed by my fear and decided not to mention it to Art—just to push it out of my head.
The Reds were already resting.
Zara was curled up on her side, her head on her backpack, wrapped in a blanket. Ion lay nearby, also on his side, using his pack as a pillow. Fang was sprawled flat on his back on the ground next to his lounger, arms and legs flung wide, breathing heavily and deeply. All three of them looked sound asleep.
Art was standing a little apart. When he saw me, he motioned me over. As I came closer, I noticed that the chairs were gone. In their place, on the grass, were two strange objects—something between a sleeping bag and a low, single-person tent. They looked like miniature sarcophagi.
Art’s calm voice sounded in my clip.
“These are our sleeping pods for the night. Look—the top opens, you climb inside, then close it. The fabric cells adapt on their own: air flows freely, heat stays in.”
“Don’t you worry that the Reds might try something?” I asked, finally voicing the thought that had been gnawing at me, switching to voice message as well.
Art gave a slight smile.
“In this situation? Highly unlikely. The Net Aide has identified them, saved their profiles, and uploaded their scans to the cloud. Your mask and clip have nine cameras—in threat mode they record continuous video and transmit it, along with all sensor data, to remote storage. So yes, they could attack—theoretically. But they wouldn’t be able to escape responsibility. And they know that perfectly well. They’re not stupid enough to risk their freedom like that.”
His explanation calmed me somewhat, though the vague, formless sense of danger still lingered somewhere inside. I forced myself to dismiss it and, following his instructions, climbed into the sleeping pod.
The top closed softly, almost fusing shut. I felt myself lying on a comfortable mattress, my head resting on a pillow. The air was fresh; breathing was easy. Inside, it was neither hot nor cold. Despite the fact that it was late spring and nights in the mountains were still quite chilly, I felt warm and unexpectedly comfortable.
I tried to relax and fall asleep—but sleep stubbornly refused to come.
I tossed and turned for what must have been over an hour before I understood: it was the same anxiety keeping me awake. That sticky sense of unknown danger. And the longer time passed, the stronger it grew.
At some point the tension became unbearable. I couldn’t take it anymore. I flipped the top open, got up, and looked around.
Everything was quiet. The fire was dying down; beyond its fading glow, complete darkness reigned.
I climbed out of the pod without really knowing what I intended to do and headed toward the edge of the outcrop. Reaching the right-hand rock face, I turned toward the trail we had come down earlier.
And that’s when I saw it.
About ten meters away, near the slope, something was frozen in place.
Against the night—already black—it looked far, far darker, like a blot of perfect, absolute darkness. It reflected no glimmer, no shade, no nuance—only a bottomless, mesmerizing void. Something inside me collapsed.
A wave of terror crashed over me—physical, almost tangible. It started at the base of my skull, ran down my spine, and flooded my legs, which suddenly went weak. I staggered, barely managing to stay on my feet.
And at that exact moment, a calm, distinct voice sounded in my head:
“Black Jellyfish.”
The blot of darkness shifted and slowly began to creep toward the trail. In the night, a silhouette emerged—indeed resembling a jellyfish, only about the size of a small stool.
A Creature.
A completely ordinary Creature—one of the many I had seen hundreds, if not thousands of times before. And now, as was their custom, this Creature had “introduced” itself.
The wave of terror vanished instantly.
My legs obeyed me again, and I drew a deep, relieved breath.
“You okay?” Art’s calm voice came through the clip.
I turned. He was standing about ten steps away, watching me closely. The resonator was in his hand.
“Yes. I’m fine,” I exhaled. “Just a Creature. A Black Jellyfish. Just… very scary-looking.”
“Yes, I saw it,” Art nodded. “Impressive, I’ll give you that.”
We waited until the Creature had crawled away and then headed back to the camp. I automatically glanced at the Reds.
Fang and Ion were lying exactly where they had been, as if asleep.
But Zara was gone.
Panic flared in my chest—only to be extinguished instantly by Art’s short, firm phrase:
“It’s all right. Zara, you can come out. There’s no danger.”
A silhouette detached itself from one of the trees.
It was Zara.
She approached us unhurriedly. She was holding a resonator as well.
“What happened?” she asked. Her voice was calm, but there was tension beneath it, carefully restrained.
Art gave a brief explanation of what had occurred. Zara nodded silently, turned, walked back to her pack without a word, lay down under the blanket, and seemed to fall asleep almost instantly.
I was struck by her steadiness. I was still trembling slightly, feeling weak, lightheaded. I sat down on a rock and tried to calm myself.
Art came over and stopped beside me.
“You know,” he said thoughtfully, “I think I’ve seen that Creature before. Yesterday morning, when we were leaving Lemar’s place. It was on the square, some distance away. It just didn’t look quite so black back then.”
I tried to remember. Yes—one of the Creatures drifting among the tourists and reporters might have looked similar to the Black Jellyfish. But I wasn’t sure.
“Interesting,” Art said quietly. “I’ve never heard of a Creature following someone. Though…”
He broke off.
“Never mind. Not now. Let’s get some sleep. Drink some water and try to rest. Good night.”
He returned to his “sarcophagus” and closed it over himself.
I followed his advice. Sitting on the rock, I took out my bottle of spring water and drank slowly, in small sips. It helped. The last remnants of anxiety gradually dissolved, and I felt calm again. I screwed the cap back on, stowed the bottle in my pack, lay down in the pod—and, to my own surprise, fell asleep almost immediately.
…
When I woke and opened the top, it was already late morning.
I got up and saw that Fang and Ion were still asleep, stretched out on the grass in the same spots. The pot was hanging over the fire, water boiling inside. Art was sitting on a rock with a mug in his hands, and Zara was perched on her fully assembled backpack. Thin wisps of steam rose from their mugs.
Noticing me, Art lifted his mug in greeting.
“Morning, Mac. Want some coffee?”
“Morning,” I nodded, coming closer. “I’d love some.”
Art took another mug from the “table” and began pouring coffee from the pot. I glanced at Zara.
She met my gaze… and smiled.
It was a smile I hadn’t expected, hadn’t dared hope for—light, soft, kind. Beautiful. In that instant, I felt completely, unreasonably happy.
“Hi,” she said, then immediately looked away. It sounded as if we’d known each other for a very long time—and at the same time, as if we were at least good friends already.
“Hi…” I muttered, still staring at her, slightly dazed. Only when Art handed me the mug did I come back to myself, take it, and sip the hot, fragrant coffee.
“Time to pack up,” Art said, pulling me back to reality. “Work’s waiting.”
“Right,” I said quickly, turning to gather my things.
When the packs were ready, I emptied the pot, and set it down in the grass to cool.
“Well,” Art said, “time to say goodbye.”
“Yes,” Zara nodded thoughtfully. “I’ll wake them,” she gestured toward Fang and Ion, “and we’ll head out too.”
She extended her hand to Art.
“Take care, Art.”
He shook her hand and smiled. Then she turned to me.
“Bye, Mac.”
She looked up and held out her hand.
I shook it, gently—and in that same second, the realization hit me: we were parting now. And we might never meet again.
My heart dropped. A sharp wave of panic and despair washed over me.
As if reading my thoughts, Zara held my hand for a moment longer, then said:
“I gave Art my Net ID. You don’t have a terminal yet. If you want, you can get it from him later. Maybe someday we’ll talk again… or message.”
She smiled once more.
I felt an overwhelming relief, as if I’d been pulled back from the edge. She turned and walked away.
Art gave me a gentle tug at the elbow. I obediently turned and followed him.
“Don’t forget the pot,” he said, a hint of amusement in his voice.
I went back, grabbed it, and before catching up with Art, glanced once more at Zara’s retreating figure. Then I turned sharply and hurried after him.