A Second Chance

by Vasily Mahanenko

  Reference information

  Account types

  Social one-size-fits-all — A pay-as-you-go account for people living in social housing and prisons, with a compulsory contribution to the government of 30% of all income. In the game, players with this type of account have their name underlined in red (cannot be hidden).

  Commercial account, beginner — An account with a monthly fee of 11 credits, without bonuses. Most popular with schoolchildren and students.

  Commercial account, basic — An account with a monthly fee of 525 credits. Bonuses: Experience +1, Reputation +2.

  Commercial account, premium — An account with a monthly fee of 2100 credits. Bonuses: Experience +3, Reputation +5. Favourable terms and offers from the game bank. Opportunity to become a member of the top private game clubs.

  “You’re suggesting I waste my time and money in Barliona, just to end up in a shelter even sooner? Instead of looking for a job? And swapping my commercial account for a vagrant one? Yeah, right!” The sceptic in me was fuming. “If only it was all that simple, Matty. Then half of us would be Mahans. Dream on!”

  “Who knows? Maybe it is a dream. But you have to believe in something. And I believe you’d make a damn good clan chief. We can find earners, buy a castle. I’ll do the creative stuff. We’ll earn a ton of cash, and everything will turn out all right—” He was interrupted by an electronic signal from the device on his wrist.

  The Imitator came over: “Matthew Lavery, your reality time limit expires in thirty minutes. A taxi is waiting for you by the entrance. Payment will be debited from your account.”

  Matty rolled up his sleeve and shook his metal bracelet. Everyone on a social contract had one, to monitor their whereabouts, time-management skills, health, and other important stats.

  “Damn convenient piece of kit.” He winked. “If you change your mind, give me a buzz. And good luck in the job search.”

  He rose from the table, thought for a moment, and necked another shot.

  “The pod will flush me out anyway, and the way home will be more chilled,” he explained before waving goodbye. “Lead on, oh soulless one!”

  The Imitator saw Matty out and returned. “Another drink, or would you like to move to the VIP lounge?” The machine could see my account balance and was doing its utmost to reduce it. The VIP lounge entailed live serving personnel and doubled prices. Otherwise it was no different from the general bar.

  “No, I’m good, thanks. Debit payment from my account.”

  “Your companion has already paid the bill,” said the Imitator, before escorting me to the door. “Would you like to use the Sober Driver service?”

  I declined, informing the robot I had autopilot, and climbed into my expensive car. Apart from a huge headache and no free time, my job as project manager had also provided me with a decent income. The car drove past blocks being readied for demolition. The alcohol and the conversation with Matty evoked thoughts of social inequality. High-rises were being knocked down, and new mansions built in their place. Mansions like mine — large, comfortable, and expensive. I’d never given thought to where the people would go. An entire district, hundreds of twenty-story buildings, a thousand flats in each, and each flat housing a family. Surely they can’t all be in Barliona? Now was probably not the best time to think about it.

  The following morning was fine and sunny, unlike my physical and mental state. I hadn’t been that drunk for ages. My head pounded mercilessly, and my body begged to be horizontal again. It was only the nauseating, electronic, “Incoming Correspondence” signal that prevented me from dying in peace. The sound came from the Smart Home management module, and indicated receipt of a letter from the management company. Taking a couple of shaky steps, I accepted I wouldn’t be able to cope without the robodoctor, and trudged through to the kitchen to deal with my hangover.

  Dear Mr. West, the management company Everything for a Present Future would like to remind you that your prepaid, one-year lease on a mansion in Sector 2, address: House 43, Street 2, terminates four months from today. Your current account balance is sufficient to extend the lease for two years, including advanced payment of utility charges.

  Considering the absence of weekly deposits into your account, the management company would be happy to offer you a comfortable flat in Sector 5 at a price to suit you. You can browse all the options by following the link below. The price of a one-year lease includes: a two-room flat with standard conveniences, direct connection to Barliona, and secure parking. The management company has studied your levels of social and intellectual development, and has selected the most suitable neighbours for you.

  To extend your lease or apply for a housing swap, look in the My Profile section of the main menu.

  We are pleased to be of service to our clients, and to make their future a comfortable present.

  Fuck off with your joyful concern! I’ve only been unemployed for a week.

  Sector five was a high-rise ghetto on the outskirts of the city, a concentration of human desperation, crime, and all manner of disease. Even the police didn’t bother showing their faces around there. Why would they? Let the dregs destroy themselves. Fewer people equals fewer problems. There was only one way out of there — into a long-stay pod, and I wasn’t ready to give up my place in the sun, in the literal sense of that expression. Submitting to a momentary fit of rage, I flipped the finger at the entirely blameless management module, and extended the lease on my comfortable and expensive domicile for another year.

  I spent the whole day checking my email, sending my resume to some of the bigger companies, and phoning work contacts. Nothing. Out of twenty companies, only seven responded, all of them with rejections. Project managers had been replaced with the new generation of Imitators. Looking at the employment sites was fairly damn joyless too. Every job offer had loads of replies, whether it was for a VIP-establishment waiter or a specialist in microelectronics. White-collar workers were no use to anybody. Reading forums, phoning acquaintances, and lunch with a particular big cheese proved no cause for celebration either.

  By the end of the day I was seriously ready to contemplate Matty’s proposal. People on the forums agreed about one thing: Barliona was now pretty much the only place where you could earn anything at all. So for want of anything better to do, I decided to do some homework on the subject, filtering out the adverts. A rigorous analysis of the information available took me two hours, and my conclusions indicated that Matty’s suggestion was not an option. The game was created for people to spend money, not earn it. What the vagrants called earnings was peanuts compared to my usual take-home, and even then they hoarded it, scrimping on everything and paranoid about anyone taking anything. The comfort and security of your personal assets came at a price. Absolutely everything cost money, from use of the Bank to a Scroll of Flight to expanding your inventory. All this convinced me Barliona was designed to relieve players of their money, time, and reason, and in no way to provide them comfort in their declining years.

  An “Incoming Correspondence” notification flashed up. On autopilot I opened my mailbox. With all the stress and fatigue, my brain had switched off.

  Greetings, Mr. West. We have perused your resume, and would like to invite you to an interview at our company for the position of project manager. The interview will take place…

  “Yeees!” I shouted, without even reading the details. My body was gasping for any opportunity to make up its deficit in feel-good hormones. For the first time ever I regretted not having someone close to share this small piece of non-binding good news with.

  The company inviting me to interview was not a giant in some market or other. In fact I could only find a couple of mentions in the Internet. No scandals, quantum leaps, or participation in tenders, and oddly, everything I could glean about my potential employer came from their own website. A supplier of network equipment, with its own consulting and commissioning departments. Just what I was looking for. In years of managing project
s, I had studied all this stuff in such detail I could work as a manager, architect, or design engineer. If they’d let me prove myself, that was.

  My reply was quick and concise: Your offer is interesting, I am familiar with the company, I will definitely be there. Almost immediately I received confirmation that my letter had been read, and a few seconds later a contact request appeared in the messenger application of my mail client:

  hrs@rightdecision.com requests to be added to your list of contacts.

  WTF? There’s a real live employee sitting there? The system clock read 1:00 a.m. I clicked on “Accept Message.”

  HR department: Good evening, Mr. West. Please forgive me for disturbing you at such a late hour. I saw your letter and decided to reply.

  Brody West: Good evening. No problem, I’m not sleeping anyway.

  HR department: We arranged your interview for tomorrow at midday, but unfortunately the head of the department is flying out at 10:00 a.m. You can wait until her return, or come to the interview at 8:00 a.m. tomorrow.

  Brody West: Tomorrow at 8:00. Thank you for warning me.

  HR department: ;) Pleased to be of assistance. We will expect you tomorrow at 7:50. I will order a pass for you.

  What the f…? A smiley from a real live HR employee. And a live interview. Could it be a joke? Job interviews went virtual eons ago. My last live interview was about ten years ago. Nothing but a waste of precious time. Maybe this was just a test? To see how much I valued my time, and theirs.

  Brody West: You mean I have to come to the office? Why not use conference call? Especially since the head of department is flying out.

  HR department: There’s nothing to be afraid of  Live interaction at work is a company policy. Our staff consists only of people.

  Brody West: Why?

  HR department: That’s not for me to say )) Come and see us and you’ll find out everything. Good night.

  Brody West: Good night.

  I was intrigued, to say the least. Good night? I googled Right Decision Ltd. with renewed vigour, but learned nothing new. Old links concerning charity affairs, and their website. That was it. There was no information whatsoever in the Internet about companies which had opted out of Imitator services. Some random company with a load of inconsistencies. How could you provide network equipment for Imitators, without even using Imitators?

  hrs@rightdecision.com was still online. The silence of the empty house was stifling, and I wanted to continue our chat, the more so because my curiosity was getting the better of me.

  Brody West: Can I ask you a question?

  HR department: As long as it’s just the one, and it’s not about work )

  Brody West: Why did you write to me here? You could have called tomorrow or advised me in a letter.

  HR department: I saw the “Message Read” notification and figured you really needed a job )

  Brody West: So you took pity on me?

  HR department: That was your second question ) See you tomorrow.

  So much for the chat. A cup of camomile tea was more comforting than the abortive chin wag, and I went to bed.

  The interview with the head of the project management office was a walk in the park. I was tested on my knowledge of my professional sphere, asked to elaborate on details of successfully completed projects, and, as is usual, to comment on problematical situations, before being informed that on the whole I fitted their requirements. The working conditions suited me, as did the salary. The office manager waved away my questions about the project, saying I would find out everything if I got past the big boss, and after wishing me success, he headed off to an exhibition of new Imitator prototypes on a different continent. If only I lived like that.

  A girl entered the conference hall and said, “Good morning. Could you please fill in these forms, and I’ll take you through to Mr. Williams’s reception room.”

  I silently took the papers from the outstretched hand of the clearly recent school leaver. She sat down opposite me, trying to look important, but her hastily gathered hair and ink-stained hands ruined her businesswoman image.

  Paper forms? A ballpoint pen? Yet another anachronism to add to the list of the company’s quirks. I hadn’t held real documents in my hands for years. I’d even forgotten what a pleasant sensation quality paper could produce.

  “My name is Helen. I’m your personal HR manager. If you have any questions, please ask.”

  “Hello, Helen. Was it you I spoke to today?”

  “Today?” The girl frowned and wiped her forehead with dirty fingers, smearing ink on it. “No, yesterday… Ah, yes. I mean today.”

  So this was who I had to thank for the successfully rescheduled interview. This young homely creature, on her first day at work. It explained a lot, especially the smileys. At that age feelings of compassion haven’t yet atrophied, and the desire to show one’s worth runs high. Not to worry, we’ve all been there; it passes with time. It was a good job our chat hadn’t got off the ground; otherwise I would have been feeling very embarrassed just then.

  “Helen, thank you for organizing the interview. You’re a very responsible employee.” I flashed the girl a friendly smile to thank her for her consideration. “Your diligence is literally written across your forehead.”

  I demonstratively wiped my own forehead, unsure how to drop the hint while not offending her sensibilities. At first she just frowned and mirrored my gesture. Then the penny dropped and she squealed.

  “I’ve smudged my forehead again, haven’t I? I just can’t get used to this thing actually writing. Styluses aren’t messy like that.”

  I smiled politely again and busied myself with filling in the standard HR forms, while Helen cleaned herself up with a tissue.

  Twenty minutes later the sweet, though very young, HR girl led me to reception and handed me over to a real office shark. It was etched into everything from her stylish coiffure to the tips of her high heels. The high-class secretary was arranging documents, and with such dignity and focus that doomsday itself paled before the importance of the task. All I merited was a curt glance from her severe and impeccably mascaraed eyes, motioning me toward a visitors’ chair. Not a single word. But who needs words anyway? Words would only have spoiled the whole magic of that silent, yet evocative film.

  It was entertaining to see a real live secretary in action. Due to the efforts of directors’ wives, secretaries had been among the first to be replaced by Imitators, relieving honest women of that particular headache. Were I conscious of my own uniqueness, I might well behave that way too.

  The internal telephone on the table rang. “Yes, Nathan… of course,” said the secretary in an incongruously pleasant voice. She replaced the receiver and, looking at me coldly, nodded toward the office door. “You may go in.”

  A semidarkness reigned in the room, diluted by the light of a projector. On a small screen I saw the first slide of my resume. Nathan Williams was sitting at his desk and unhurriedly poring over the contents. He cut an interesting figure: expensive suit and tie, manicure, watchful stare, and no sign of plastic surgery to conceal his age. I had read on the company website that the owner of Right Decision Ltd. was over ninety, and for that age he looked amazing. In the comments it mentioned that he did not use a medical pod on principle, having on the staff a human doctor, who was just as ancient as him. Looking at his wrinkled face, that was easy to believe. His liver spots didn’t add to Williams’s charm, but in no way did they affect his working capacity. His mind remained ever alert and inquiring.

  “Take a seat,” said Nathan with some effort. His hoarse, forty-cigarettes-a-day voice was more suited to a ship’s captain than a businessman. The slides changed on the screen — a photo, achievements from my previous places of work, personal information. I didn’t recognize the last slide, which contained information from the security service. There couldn’t be anything to be ashamed of. A career in a prestigious company obliged you to take good care of your personal and business reputation. Rea
ching the end of the presentation, the owner asked:

  “Brody, what is your relationship with God?”

  Only now did I notice the Bible on his desk and a large crucifix on the wall. Both objects looked very expensive, and several bookmarks made of torn pieces of paper protruded from the book.

  I don’t know what my face reflected, but long-forgotten obscenities swam up in my head. Fuck! You have to warn people in advance about corporate policies like that. I wasn’t an atheist, but I preferred not to have anything to do with God. At all. You could call me an agnostic — I believed there was something somewhere, but it didn’t encroach on our lives and did not demand worship. With regard to faith, that was enough for me. But what do you say when your only source of income is at stake? I searched desperately for a correct response.

  “I am christened. That was my parents’ decision. But I don’t go to church.”