A Second Chance Read online

  I don’t know how long I was out for, but I was woken by a hoarse and anguished cry.

  “Bro-o-o-dy! Bro-o-o-dy!” The groaning receded or drew nearer depending on the location of Matty, who was wandering the house, lost. I felt better, so I sat up and pulled on my pants. I was rejoicing that I wouldn’t die alone and naked on the floor of my own house, when I felt the need to lie down again. What was happening?

  “Just a minute, Matty. I’m going to have a quick lie down, then I’ll be with you,” I muttered, gathering my energies. But he got to me first.

  “Brody, here you are,” croaked the relieved man with the green face. Bent almost double and clutching the wall, he began incoherently to explain the hubbub. “I woke up… so terrible… everything strange… don’t remember what happened yesterday… This is it, I thought, I’m finished…”

  The lover of vintage wine apparently felt nauseous, and like a meandering bullet headed for the toilet. I made myself more comfortable on the floor and put on a T-shirt. I would just lie down a touch longer, wait for Matty, and we’d go to the kitchen for the robodoctor. Or he would bring it to me. Whatever, everything would be alright, although it was a pity I hadn’t thought the day before that Matty wouldn’t be so much hungover in the morning, as poisoned, having spent three years in a pod.

  Through my drowsiness I heard a shuffling, and a warm body lay down on the floor next to me.

  “Bro?”

  “What do you want, juicehead?”

  “Why’re you lying here alone? Doing yoga or something?”

  I cussed obscenely. Looking at Matty’s lean figure, I realized accompanying him to the kitchen was not an option. If Matty was a welterweight, there was surely enough of me to make a couple of full-bodied heavyweights. Bolivar could definitely not carry double. “Crawl to the kitchen and fetch the robodoc.”

  “Okay… Just don’t shout at me… I’m just going to lie down for a bit, and then I’ll go,” he wheezed, curling up into embryo pose. “What happened to you?”

  “It happened. Off you run.”

  “Just a sec, Bro,” he said, struggling up from all fours and staggering to the kitchen. And falling head over heels down the stairs, or so it sounded.

  Further events unfolded fast and dramatically. Matty brought me the robodoctor, and together we fixed on the sensor pads.

  “Blood pressure critical. Pulse week. Temperature low. Emergency ambulance callout. Sector two, block 557. Patient Brody West. Doors unlocked.” The robodoctor transmitted the preliminary information and also sent my address and code by Internet.

  The ambulance arrived precisely three minutes later. The Imitator took a blood sample, confirmed the robodoctor’s initial readings, and asked what symptoms I was experiencing and how it had all started. Then it froze, scanning the blood and receiving data from Barliona’s medical servers. “Acute physical exhaustion, overdose of painkilling medications and a preparation that lowers blood lactate. Confirming your consent to conducting medical procedures.”

  Being way out of touch with disease, pharmaceuticals, and medicine in general, I had no idea what lactate was, who had lowered it or why, who had given me painkillers, or how I’d managed to have an overdose. After my confirmation, I was carefully carried into the bedroom, given several injections, and hooked up to a drip. “Diagnosis confirmed. All procedures conducted. Improvement in condition of patient planned for three minutes’ time.”

  “And the reasons for this condition?” I asked. “What possible consequences, and how do I avoid a repetition?”

  “The settings of your fitness module correspond by default to those of a statistically average person who leads an active life. Your level of physical fitness is very low and corresponds to a sedentary way of life aggravated by poor diet and nonadherence to a daily regime. You spent eleven hours in Barliona, engaged in intense physical exercise, and ignored the exhaustion warning.”

  “I didn’t get any warning!” I protested.

  “Information from Barliona’s servers state the opposite. Notification was sent. You closed the window yourself. For confirmation of this information, contact Barliona technical support. You have an increased level of lactic acid in your muscles from prolonged and intense exercise. The in-built medunit gave you painkilling injections and medicinally reduced your lactate level before your exit to reality, as specified by established parameters. There are no consequences for your body, except for temporary weakness. The pod’s medunit firmware has been updated, the fitness module is set to rehabilitation levels, and the necessary medicinal preparations for muscle recovery have been ordered and will now be administered automatically. We recommend you abstain from immersion in virtuality for twenty-four hours. The cost of services rendered has been debited from your account. Thank you for using our service.”

  A thousand credits left my account, enhancing my already somber mood. I searched through the memory for all the messages I’d received, and there was nothing about exhaustion. I was justifiably angry at my situation and the fact that I’d even been blamed myself. I would log into Barliona, look at the record files, and get myself some compensation.

  Considering it had fulfilled its salvatory function, the Imitator had removed the drip and was preparing to leave, when Matty drifted into the detection zone of its olfactory sensor. Following another natural cleansing session, he’d stepped into my bedroom with the robodoctor in his hands.

  “Attention. The air contains above-normal concentrations of the products of ethanol decomposition. The figures correspond to heavy intoxication. Should procedures be conducted for the accelerated removal of acetaldehyde?”

  “What?” asked Matty, shying away.

  “No, no. Thank you. We’ll cope by ourselves,” I said, louder than necessary, when I realized how much Matty’s decontamination might set me back. My portable robodoctor could cure a hangover absolutely free of charge.

  “You are requested to confirm you have no need for medical attention,” the Imitator said to Matty.

  “I confirm. You’re free to go,” he replied proudly and dismissively. The smart machine obediently left the house.

  “Switch the robodoc’s regime from diagnostic to treatment. Select ‘cure hangover’ and ‘conduct full body cleansing,’ I said, after evaluating his condition.

  Even for edifying purposes a person shouldn’t suffer for too long, otherwise it’s not so much edification as torture. I’m all for humane education. In a matter of moments the robodoctor returned Matty to a reasonable condition. His green pallor disappeared, and his cheeks blushed with a modest ruddiness, emphasizing the dark bags under his eyes, but even progressive medicine was impotent against those.

  “Phew! I thought I was going to die. I’m never gonna drink like that again. Ever.” The rescued man stretched out blithely in his chair and closed his swollen eyelids.

  “Yes, Matty. Sorry, but not a drop from now on. Not you, not me. First training, work, and family. Everything else can wait. Agreed?”

  “What, we can’t even have a couple of beers?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “For the next six months it’s prohibition. Then we can get drunk either to drown our sorrows or to celebrate.”

  “Agreed.” He nodded and shuddered. “Describe exactly what happened to you.”

  “A mutiny on board. Or rather in my body,” I giggled in reply, not knowing how to explain intelligibly. A turbid story had emerged along with the warning, which according to the records had been given, but in actual fact hadn’t. “I hired a call girl because I was thinking of losing some weight. And I lost some weight.”

  “I get it,” Matty guffawed and slapped his knee. That’s your comfortable life screwing you up. I didn’t recognize you in the café.”

  “I don’t recognize myself,” I said, remembering the fat, always sweaty man who looked at me every morning in the mirror. “Are you seeing the kids tomorrow?”

  “Nah. They’re off out of town today to Liz’s parents. I haven’t told
her anything yet,” he said, his voice quavering. “I figured I wouldn’t say anything yet. I want to find a job first, settle in… find my own home…”

  “Absolutely right,” I said, supporting him and not wishing to belabor the subject or poke my nose into someone else’s business. The physical exertion was taking its toll, and I wanted to sleep again. “Let’s not do anything today and catch up on some sleep. I’m a bit sick of Barliona.”

  “What about training?” asked Matty, yawning heftily.

  “We can leave everything till Monday. You need to recover too, after yesterday and your pod time.”

  I didn’t remember Matty leaving. Sleep overcame me quickly, and my conscious switched off even before that.

  We slept all day Saturday and, feeling relaxed and chipper, I spent nearly all of Sunday drawing up a program of five-day courses. First work, then Barliona. Matty sat in the Internet all day, seeing which were the most in-demand and highly paid jobs, picking courses, and occasionally coming to me for advice. Then he fixed the settings in his pod and connected it to the educational servers, before once more analyzing the job market. I had to stop him making hasty decisions — he was itching to begin a new life there and then.

  The day’s designated workload was nearly done, when I received an e-mail from Barliona’s tech support.

  Dear user!

  We are pleased you have joined the multitudinous and multifaceted community of Barliona.

  Re: your inquiry №BR–1443–1. In accordance with the user agreement, we inform you that deletion of a character created by random generation is possible only after one calendar month, about which you were warned during the process of launching the selected scene. Deletion of a game bank account including withdrawal of all funds is possible after three calendar months, in accordance with the rules of the New User First Deposit promotion, which you agreed to when you opened your account.

  Deletion of an account including loss of all funds is possible at any time convenient to you.

  The Barliona team expresses its regret that the suggested closed tiefling race did not satisfy your expectations. We consider it necessary to inform you that at the present time, testing and checking of the race are being conducted on real game servers. The race will become accessible to a wide circle of users in three months’ time. We hope you will show tolerance toward your character and change your mind about deleting it. All proposed bonuses will remain valid after testing is finished. By way of supporting your loyalty to the tiefling race, we offer you favourable conditions for depositing funds into your game account: you will receive an additional 50% of the deposited amount. To execute a transaction follow the link.

  Thank you for helping us improve Barliona. It is only thanks to you that our virtuality is worthy of reality.

  With best regards, the Barliona team.

  I didn’t know what to say. I understood what an idiot I was, but that loyalty bonus was just taking the piss. They would hardly have gone bankrupt by offering something a bit more substantial. All that remained was to hope I was right after all, and that there hadn’t been any exhaustion warning. Then I’d take them to the cleaners for the risk to my health.

  After the letter I decided I would definitely stay a tiefling for a month and think about it later. Of course I could leave the nursery right then, transfer the money to Matty, delete the account, and deposit the money in a new one, but I still had business in the nursery. The second possibility — transfer the money to Eredani — I didn’t like at all. I didn’t trust such an experienced jailbird.

  After dealing with some personal affairs, I hurried to look at the records, but standing in front of the pod and having already removed my T-shirt, I stopped myself short. Virtuality could wait. Neither myself nor Matty had been outside for two days. With the thought that priorities needed setting out correctly, I dragged him out of his pod, and we went to the only local open-air cinema without glasses and similar high-tech gizmos. I hadn’t been there in ages. Matty grumbled that we could watch a film in comfort at home, but it wasn’t entertainment on my mind. Of all that gibberish the psychologists had written about me, they were right on one thing — I had forgotten all about live interaction with people I owed nothing to, and they me.

  When we got home we argued ourselves hoarse about choosing the right specialities for him. He could only think about his work experience, and I — about the need to retrain. It was into the wee small hours when we finalized a list of courses, and too late to dive into Barliona.

  I spent half the following day polishing up my internship obligation.

  “And on that note ends our first meeting. I hope you at least take away the main point, which is how to recognize and resist attempts of subtle influence and manipulation from others. Tomorrow we begin the theme of conflict, and we’ll be developing our skills in solving problem situations. As homework, try to remember an instance of conflict in your experience. Not necessarily work, it might be domestic. Describe how you felt and how your opponent looked, what the outcome of the disagreement was, if any, and your suggestions for reconciliation. See you tomorrow.”

  “What’s all this for?” There was always one brainiac. “Who needs these live conflicts? It’s been years since everybody started resolving problems using electronic document flow regulations. Are we going to be employed or not?”

  I completely understood the feelings of those present, having myself recently been in their shoes, but everyone must do their job, and mine was to conduct communication courses.

  “Young man, have you studied carefully the specifics of the organization you wish to work for?” I regarded my audience intently. That day there were seven of them, and they were easy to classify: the potential leader, his disciples (clear and latent) and his various opposition, and the low-profile loner. It didn’t matter which social category you created your group from — these classes were always represented.

  “Why study it? I’m spending my time on these courses without any guarantee of a job.” With the tacit approval of the rest, my pluckiest listener was expressing the general unease. Uncertainty and fear for the future had transformed into vexation and were looking for an outlet.

  “I can’t guarantee you’ll find a job,” I said, looking the inquirer right in the eye without raising my voice. “But I’m doing everything I can to increase your chances. The company does not use Imitator labor and prefers live interaction to electronic document flow.”

  There were no further questions, and the group headed for the exit, for some reason Helen among them.

  “Helen, where are you off to? You and I haven’t even started,” I called out to my individual project.

  Changing course sharply, the girl flew back to me and started to babble excitedly, “Brody, that was so cool! I would never have thought we were surrounded by manipulators. You explain everything so well. I want to go home and watch the seminar again. It’s a great topic. Can I show it to my friends? You show everything so clearly. You can feel your professionalism straight away. I want to do that too. Can I watch the video again now?”

  “Helen, did you do your homework?” I had watched the children’s show with a sad heart. The actors were gutsy, but not convincing. Helen hesitated, losing her passion in a trice.

  “No... Yes!... No.”

  “Yes or no? Make your mind up,” I prompted her. The earlier we jumped to it, the earlier we could leave.

  She thought for a moment, then adopted a decisive look, and with defiance in her eyes said, “I didn’t do it.”

  I understood it wasn’t going to be an easy fortress to take. Oh, Helen, Helen! Fine. That was just the right time to give her a lesson in acting technique. Lower the shoulders, chin down for deeper grief, swallow, and greater dismay in the eyes.

  “No? Well, if you didn’t do it, you didn’t do it. Off you pop. Tell your grandmother I’ll be along for the documents in a minute.” I turned away to gather my things, while Helen froze in indecision.

  “What abou
t telling me off? What documents?”

  “Why tell you off? You’re a big girl, you heard everything yourself. I get the job if I teach you, but you don’t like my methods and you don’t want to study. That means I don’t get the job… Anyway, go... I still have to call your parents and disappoint them. Good luck in your job,” I said vaguely, without turning toward her, and wiped my forehead and eyes. Check and mate, little girl.

  “Brody, are you manipulating me?” she asked, unsure. Damn, she was clever. I had forgotten I’d just been sounding off for four hours. “I’ve learned everything.”