A Second Chance Read online

  A Second Chance

  a novel by

  Vasily Mahanenko

  Invasion

  Book One

  Magic Dome Books

  A Second Chance

  Invasion, Book # 1

  Copyright © V. Mahanenko 2019

  Cover Art © V. Manyukhin 2019

  English translation copyright © Colin Parker 2019

  Published by Magic Dome Books, 2019

  ISBN: 978-80-7619-054-2

  All Rights Reserved

  This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to the shop and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  This book is entirely a work of fiction. Any correlation with real people or events is coincidental.

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  Table of Contents:

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  REALITY IS cruel. The rising level of technological development has led to a rising level of unemployment. They’re laying off everybody, from teachers to technical servicemen. What’s the point of holding onto a person if they can be replaced by an advanced mechanism? But what are the people to do? How are they to live? Where are they to get money from? There is only one answer — Barliona! The official government project is gathering steam, luring more and more people into its net. Who knows how they will behave when they lose everything?

  Brody West is one such person. Unlike most, he doesn’t lose heart. A professional project manager with thirty years in the business simply cannot do that. He has a goal, and a clear understanding of how to achieve it. Nobody can get in his way — not the new class, not the strange friend, and not the unexpected foes.

  Chapter 1

  WHENEVER YOU experience hardship on a cosmic scale, you turn to a higher power. You might formulate it differently each time, but the sense is always the same: “Why me? Can’t somebody else get sick, or die, or lose something important, just for a change?”

  Stupid, pointless questions, yet it’s a rare person who doesn’t ask them in time of woe. To keep your feet you have to be either dead cynical or deeply religious. Or a project manager, in which case forecasting and accepting risk is part of the job. I belong to this third category, so when I received news of my redundancy, I didn’t stress over the question of my uniqueness, because it was bound to happen sooner or later. My miscalculation lay elsewhere — time frames. Occupied as I was with a two-year government project, I figured I was employed until at least its completion, during which time I would develop several of my own business ideas, so that afterwards I could look to the future with confidence from the panoramic window of my own high-end office. It didn’t happen.

  In a world where Imitators — robotic systems with limited artificial intelligence — were taking over more and more jobs, there would soon be no place for the common man. Nobody now remembers how enthusiastically people greeted the first prototypes of the Imitators, originally designed for use in the hazardous manufacturing industries. And then quietly, with none of the original press and Internet fanfare, the robots established a firm foothold in education, medicine, industry, everywhere. Imitators didn’t get tired, didn’t demand wages, and completed their tasks precisely and punctually. Ideal workers. It was only after the mass layoffs that people wised up to what was happening. The powers that be declared the replacement experiment a success, and started kicking crowds of people out of their jobs and onto welfare. Pickets and protests were organized, but it was too late. The powerful and the moneyed of the world understood that the pros of replacement seriously outweighed the cons. In fact there really were only two cons: the general social unrest, and the resultant, ever-growing criminal situation. The government, garnering the support of interested parties, came up with a remarkably original solution — the virtual world of Barliona.

  Relieved of work and a purpose in life, people needed, aside from food and housing, a new ideology. The total-immersion game was presented as the only escape from the drab calamity of existence. The government was aggressive in its promotion of the new virtual messiah to the masses. Everywhere glistened with conscription advertising images, ratings of game achievements were compiled, and new virtual celebrities smiled from media screens. Barliona was awesome, seductive, and carefree. But the real clincher was that in agreeing to a new life in Barliona, people were giving themselves over to total government welfare.

  Municipal residential facilities were built in outlying districts — two-by-three-meter concrete box rooms, with no windows, kitchens, bedrooms, or toilets, but this was compensated by continuous-immersion pods, fully equipped for all your needs. Newly unemployed citizens, who could no longer provide for themselves, would sign a contract with the municipality and receive ownership of such accommodation, along with a lifetime paid account. They were obliged to spend no less than twenty hours a day in the game, including sleep, and were generously allowed to pass the remainder of their time in the real world.

  The idea went down like a bomb. The first to rush into Barliona were droves of adolescents, only too happy to cast off their everyday cares. Accompanied by their whoops of joy, agreements concerning self-imposed exile were signed by unemployed newcomers, freeing up space on the Earth for those who had the money for a real life. Those who escaped to Barliona on the social program became known popularly as “vagrants,” and nobody was offended.

  The old residential suburbs were demolished, making way for new garden suburbs, sports and entertainment complexes, and vibrant mansion communities. The world changed its image, bowing to the will of the rich, with the tacit disapproval of everyone else. That was how natural selection usually worked.

  “So what are you going to do?”

  I sighed to stifle my irritation. In the last week, pretty much everyone had been bugging me with that question. My parents, ex-colleagues,
friends — faux and true. But if my parents really were concerned, everyone else did not always hide their glee. And why should they? Those who had managed to hang onto their positions sensed their superiority, and those who had already been enlisted to the armies of unemployed were relieved they weren’t alone. But absolutely everybody was dying to hear how I planned to remain solvent. Suddenly I developed a cunning plan.

  “So what are you going to do?” Matty poured us another drink each and waited patiently. He wasn’t one to gloat over the misfortunes of others. He was a childhood friend, one of the family.

  “First up, I’m going to celebrate my divorce and the fact that I have no children.” Not a great joke, but that evening was no time to be serious. I was just elated to see Matty for the first time in five years.

  “Well obviously. Although I’m not convinced,” he sniggered, frowning.

  “Uh-huh. You were always pussy whipped. Relax, your wife’s not here,” I laughed, remembering Matty’s other half. If there was ever anyone who shouldn’t be complaining about family life, it was Matty. They were one of those rare couples who were blissfully happy raising children together. At least they were five years ago.

  The first couple of shots washed away the stress of recent days. It really was great to see him and forget our problems for a while, and the booze unwittingly drew us into nostalgia.

  We’d met on the first day of the first year. Neither of us shared the general excitement about starting school, and the example of my elder sister had shown us clearly that our happy-go-lucky yard games would be replaced by lessons and homework. Matty hated kindergarten and school. We stood together, panting under the burden of either existence or our school bags, and brushing aside everyone else’s bouquets of flowers. Common troubles bind people together, and boring lessons and constant knuckle rappings from a spiteful teacher made us almost brothers. We were together throughout school. We fought, teased the girls, and received beatings from our fathers when our mothers tired of threatening us with the belt. At the time it seemed it would always be like that, sticking together through thick and thin because we were a gang.

  But after school we went our separate ways. Matty hadn’t found studying particularly easy at school, so higher education wasn’t even a question. He was, however, a wizard with his hands, and with my help he enrolled on a college course in car mechanics, and found work in a nearby workshop, where he soon earned the respect of all the men. Then all of a sudden he met Liz, married her, and had kids, immersing himself in family life, but looking supremely happy with it. It’s strange: as a car mechanic you’d think he would have been more worried about losing his job, but he assured me he had a reliable client base. As one of his regular clients used to say about the switch over to Imitator mechanics: “It’s like pleasuring your woman with a vibrator when you have your own eager hands, a fully working member, and a head on your shoulders.”

  I had a different fate in store. A bachelor’s degree, a second bachelor’s degree, and a prestigious internship followed by a fulltime job in an incredibly high-end corporation. I started as assistant manager, and was then chief project manager in charge of implementing ERP-class information systems for thirteen years. It sounds terrifying, but all I actually did was ensure my juniors fulfilled their functions proficiently and on time. I soon got out of the habit of working with my own hands.

  At first I hooked up with Matty once a week, discussing problems and sharing news, but those meetings became less and less frequent: once a month, then once a year, and for the past five years we didn’t even call each other. Turns out I suck as a friend. Occasionally I would remember him and swear I’d finish work early the next day and call to ask how he was doing, or even pop round to see him, but I never got round to it. It’s hard when you’re working yourself into the ground fourteen hours a day. That’s why my ex left me. She was sick of going to sleep and waking up alone.

  I was laid off a week ago, and out of the blue Matty shows his face. Even though he hadn’t phoned, he apparently kept abreast of my successes by looking at posts and photos in social networks. He was just wary of letting friendship get in the way of a “big boss,” which amused me, but at the same time shamed me. Time had left us rungs apart on the social ladder, but my dear friend remained nothing but a true human being.

  “You haven’t answered me,” persisted Matty.

  “Matty, why do you keep banging on like that? We’re having a good time, don’t go and spoil it.” I hadn’t noticed my temper rising. I took a couple of deep breaths and added, “I’ll find something. The Imitators can’t replace everybody. They haven’t taken over everything.”

  “Another round?” As if to disprove me, an Imitator-waiter appeared. Its subservient physiognomy irritated, but we couldn’t refuse the offer, otherwise we would have to leave the establishment. The owners kept a strict eye on guests so they wouldn’t be distracted from spending money. “I remind you that you can receive a discount by stating your Barliona login. The size of the discount depends on your character’s level.”

  “Oh wake up, Bro, these monsters are everywhere,” hissed Matty angrily, unembarrassed in front of the robot. “You know who doesn’t have them? The army. Because it’s more interesting to fight with live soldiers — you can be a real hero, even a spy. Intrigue all round, why the hell not? An RPG, in reality, with a Cargo 200 bonus. And they’re way creative. All of them.”

  “What are you getting so wound up about? I thought everything was hunky dory with you?” His over excitement was getting to me. Surely it was me who had problems? And here he was getting all emotional.

  “Hunky dory? What would you know? Five years ago everything was fine. Then it all went wrong.” All of a sudden Matty wilted and looked glum. He drained his glass of vodka.

  “The repair shop closed three years ago. Almost all the customers went over to the Imitators. They’re fast, reliable, and free. That’s a car manufacturer’s lifetime guarantee for you. What could we offer to counter that? Exactly, nothing. Although we took the piss as best we could. We put a huge display stand of family photos by the entrance. Children, wives, parents, dogs. Get it? Pictures from a family album all about happiness. So that when the client picked up his pride and joy, he understood he was feeding someone and would have to come back.”

  Shocked by the news, I swallowed the lump in my throat. “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “What for? To say, ‘Hi, mate! How’s it going up there on Mount Olympus? Still building Hell’s Kitchen for us?’ You were building shelters, weren’t you?”

  “I was,” I said. Up until then it had just been installing and setting servers for the social shelters. A government contract. Yet another project with no reference to specific people or goals.

  We were silent, each thinking our own thoughts.

  “Liz left. No money coming in, children to feed. Josh Spenning had a thing for her ever since school. Maybe you remember him? He’s doing well for himself now, moved to a rich part of town, suggested she moved in too, he’d keep her. The kids are with her, and now they’ve got loads of toys, clubs, sport… I see them once a week. That’s how hunky dory it is.” Matty spoke reluctantly and softly, as though afraid of what he was saying.

  I felt even more wretched now, thinking I could have found out for myself, if only I’d been interested in his life. I could have been there to support him. Matty’s family was everything to him.

  “I’m such an asshole. I never called you once to ask how you were. You didn’t call either, and no news is good news.”

  “Forget it. I’m not pissed off with Liz. What do I have to offer them, apart from a shelter? By the way, they’re not bad little mansions. Well played!” he chuckled.

  “Don’t start. I’m sick of it myself.” I’d asked for it, envisaging a pod in a concrete anthill as a home for my best buddy. “If I can’t find a job, I’ll move close to you, we can be neighbours.”

  “Bro, you know me, I didn’t drag you here out of self-pi
ty,” said Matty, shaking off his melancholy. “I’ve got a proposal for you. How are you with Barliona?”

  “Not good. I started a couple of times and gave up. I can’t be sitting in a pod with my job. It’s not my thing anyway. Are you trying to entice me into your game? An ‘Introduce a friend and receive a bonus’ promotion stunt?”

  “Something like that.” He wasn’t offended. “Listen, I’ve been in the game three years, and I haven’t done half bad, for a vagrant. I’ve got money, connections. But I’m not blind. I see the clan officers taking most of the loot and leaving us with next to nothing. There are hordes of vagrants in Barliona now, so the clans don’t cling on to us so desperately. If they’re dissatisfied with something, they’re told to get lost. A paid account, on the other hand, is something else. This is what I’ve thought up. It’s not easy to earn money in Barliona, but it is possible. First, you need your own clan. While you’ve got money, you can subscribe, create a character, organize your own business. Remember school: I do the handiwork, you do the brainwork. How long did you spend just learning to manage things, Bro? Plus, with a paid account, you’ll have kudos and bonuses all over the place.”