From autor: follow me on Twitter https://twitter.com/MahanVm to get new information about my books

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, but 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 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, and everywhere else. 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 exploded. The first to rush into Barliona were hordes of adolescents, only too happy to cast off their everyday cares. Under 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?" Matt 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 Matt 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 Matt's other half. If there was ever anyone who shouldn't be complaining about family life, it was Matt. 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 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. Matt 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. Matt 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 Matt 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 Matt 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 Matt.

"Matt, 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 Matt 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 Matt 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." Matt 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. Matt'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 mate. "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-pity," said Matt, 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 crowds 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."

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 gained +1, Reputation gained +2.

Commercial account, premium – An account with a monthly fee of 2100 credits. Bonuses: Experience gained +3, Reputation gained +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, Matt. Then half of us would be a Mahan. 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 Lorov, your reality time limit expires in thirty minutes. A taxi is waiting for you by the entrance. Payment will be debited from your account."

Matt 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 Matt 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 refused, 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 Matt 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 the 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.

Piss 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. And 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 Matt'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 Matt'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 that 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. I opened my mailbox on autopilot. 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, 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 projects, 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 is.

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 new contact request appeared in the messenger application of my mail client:

[email protected] 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.

Bloody hell! 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 J 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 will 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?

[email protected] 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 awkward 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 towards 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 towards 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 he himself. 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. Reaching 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. Whatsoever. 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."

"You misunderstood me. I wasn't asking about your relationship to the institution of faith. I was asking about your relationship with God."

"That's a very personal question. Nathan, I need a job, and I don't know how to answer your question in order to get it."

The old man laughed. "Brody, there are no correct answers here. I'm just interested to know what sort of person wants to work in my company."

"I think I would best describe myself as an agnostic."

"Thank you for your honesty. People are losing their faith. It's tragic, but not without reason. Barliona can also be used to control the people, can't it? Hehehe."

I didn't know what to say, and shrugged my shoulders. I wanted this to end soon, and with some degree of certainty. It was crappy practice to philosophize on the subject of citizen-control techniques during a job interview.

"Tell me, Brody, what is good about faith? Why do people believe in God?"

"Because it's easier to overcome hardship. Some people don't have enough strength of their own, and faith supports them, humbles them. It's like an element of psychotherapy."

"Good. I like your answer. You've probably noticed certain peculiarities of the company. I shall explain. It's connected with my faith, and that, as you correctly stated, is very personal. Consider everything which doesn't fit into a normal framework for you, to be the folly of a pious old man. When all is said and done, what does it matter if I give you the opportunity to pay for a villa in sector two, and at the same time don't demand that you share my feelings? Right?"

He laughed again. With a couple of unconventional questions, he had checked my resolve in a stressful situation, and defined the limits of what was admissible. Whatever underpinned his methods of business organization, he acknowledged the right of his employees to choose their own faith, but demanded the same of them. It does no harm in this business to remember who pays who, and for what.

"And now to business. Tell me about yourself."

I breathed a sigh of relief when I heard this more familiar interview phrase. In view of the fact that my life story had recently flickered across the screen, the request was obviously loaded. A classic test of attention to detail. Without touching on information already provided, I had to flesh out my resume. Which was all well and good, but the facts needed sifting through scrutinously, otherwise the security service would not have done its job properly. Knowledge of such details allowed relations with the security team not to be spoiled from the word go. I had a set piece ready for just this situation.

"Brody West. Thirty-five years of age. Divorced. Employment history as project manager – over thirteen years. Three major and twenty-five smaller projects successfully completed. I prefer to use Gantt charts, and PMI methodology, considering other methodologies superfluous or inadequate. As tools for Gantt charts I use—"

"Enough," Nathan cut me off, twiddling his fingers nervily. A company owner is the last person who wants to hear the jabberings of a potential mid-level manager, which was exactly what I was banking on. "Have you been told about the project?"

"No. But I'm ready to take on anything lawful. My experience enables me to manage any size of project concerning the construction of network infrastructure. That's why I'm here."

Williams was quiet for a while, concentrating on the restarted presentation. After rubbing his red eyes, he pressed a button on the desk with a shaking hand, and said:

"You've got the job. But there are conditions. Go and have everything explained."

The secretary came in and stood by the door, holding it open. I said goodbye to Williams and left. The lady followed me out, sat down at her desk and, in a businesslike manner, held out a file of documents, saying:

"Brody, here is the decision of the personnel department concerning your candidacy. The director has already approved it."

The file contained my slides printed out on copy paper. When I got to the Conclusions page I was flabbergasted:

"Avoids solid social relationships outside the workplace? Seriously?"

The conclusions of the local psychologists stated categorically that I had problems communicating with other people outside work. When was I supposed to socialize and establish these "solid" relationships, if I was at work from eight in the morning till ten in the evening?

I stared at the secretary, demanding an explanation of what this had to do with the company. She took the file back and flicked through it.

"The conclusions are based on an analysis of the last four years of your life," she began. "You have no family, friends, or interests. Even in Barliona you're represented by a level-ten character. Your entire life is work. You are in a risk group."

"What risk group?" I asked, gobsmacked, still not quite grasping what they were trying to tell me, and unable to get my head round the surreal situation. The secretary slapped the file shut.

"The company is not interested in hiring employees with a risk of developing depression or neurosis from loneliness. If you notice, we pay particular attention to interaction, especially real-world interaction. Even our electronic document flow is kept to a minimum. Brody, has anyone ever made you work thirteen hours a day?"

"No, but work must be completed on time." Apparently the lady and I lived in different realities. In mine, any boss was happy if a person lived at work and for work.

"Mmm. So, you're a good project manager, but managing your working time is beyond you, right? Or were you just afraid to leave the office before the management?" She raised a mocking eyebrow. A secretary able to play with facts! "I must tell the girls to register you for the time management course. Don't worry, it's a common problem now. The director considers it necessary to remind employees about the importance of free time, socializing, and other pleasures."

"So to work for you I have to get married? Or will sexual relations with a long-standing partner suffice?" Angry that strangers were teaching me how to live, I couldn't resist a touch of sarcasm.

"If sex is supplied to you on a contractual basis, it doesn't count," replied the secretary, utterly unabashed. "Brody, do you need a job?"

Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

I nodded gloomily, and she smiled at me almost humanly.

"Then let's dispense with these attempts to rub me up the wrong way. We are currently recruiting a team. The project begins in ten months' time. Your professional qualities are impressive. Your personal ones are cause for alarm. The latter is a priority for our company, but the former permits us to give you a chance. Attend our training course. Of course it's not exactly what you need, but you have to start somewhere."

"And how will you know when I no longer cause alarm for your psychologists and HR people?" I asked.

"That's no problem for them. While you're on the course, they'll watch you and suggest an individual approach to solving the problem."

"For example?" I already didn't know what to expect from these people.

"Anything at all. You can make it up for yourself. Meet up with friends, take interest in their lives, have lunch with your parents more often. If you find a steady partner, it can only be a good thing. Or join a clan in Barliona. You can socialize there. The main thing is that it should be just for fun, and not for the pursuit of some work-related goal. Understand?"

"I understand," I replied unenthusiastically. It irked me that people had weighed me up and were now giving me their recipes for normalcy.

"It's important for us to evaluate your ability to communicate with people outside work. During this time, Nathan is willing to employ you officially as an intern, with a salary of twenty-five percent of a project manager's full pay. If you accept, sign the last page. There's a pen on the stand."

Biometrics had long since replaced personal documents in our state, and a handwritten signature had lost all meaning. Your fingerprints and the retinas of your eyes were always with you, and when you held them to the scanner, you weren't worried about forgeries.

Tired of the weirdness and excessive questions, I just wrote my surname. I didn't have a specific flourish for these situations, because these situations didn't arise. I would deal with everything as it happened, since there was no other way out. I needed any work I could get, because I wanted my own house, a real piece of meat, and the real sun.

"Welcome to the company, Brody. Training begins in one hour. Helen will show you the way." The secretary folded my signed papers meticulously and filed them away.

"Okay, um…" I hesitated, realizing I still didn't know her name. "How should I address you?"

"Victoria."

"Victoria, I still haven't been told anything about the project," I said, reminding her of the purpose of my visit.

"All information upon completion of your training. Helen, show Brody to the training hall."

The course turned out to be standard communication training, the likes of which I'd seen a gazillion times before. Never mind seen, I used to run them myself. For a good half hour, myself and seven other unfortunates were subjected to tired tropes explaining the importance of communication and live contact with coworkers. Badly, and by the wrong person. Little Helen, standing by the board, studiously drew adaptation graphs, recited wise quotes, and even read a short piece on the history of the Imitators, without understanding the first thing about it herself. It was clear she had mastered the methodology well enough, but she'd never actually been to an event like this. The result was a master class in how not to conduct a training session.

With my experience and the necessary knowledge, out of sympathy for the girl I gently seized the initiative and organized a Brownian Motion business scenario. One of the best ways to acquaint people with each other is to take the heat off by showing the need for nonverbal communication. It was curious to watch people who were used to exclusively digital interaction, blushing and becoming flustered in their attempts to think up new ways to greet another person – at first tactilely and silently, then tactilely and verbally, and by the end just verbally. After touching another person twice, they now found it difficult to readjust and greet them with only words.

Following that I introduced a standard scenario called, "Find five positive features of your neighbour," which forced them to enter into dialogue, communicate, and draw conclusions about somebody based on that communication. Helen forgot completely about her role and became actively involved in the game, and by the end of the session, the atmosphere was certainly warm, if not friendly. Eventually came the moment I'd been dreaming of since the very start – they let us go home. On the way out of the hall I was intercepted by a stern-looking woman, who turned out to be the head of HR and Helen's direct boss.

"Brody, I'd like a word with you."

I went back into the hall, to see Helen, now wearing headphones, tidying up and shaking her tousled head in time with the music. Seeing her superior in the doorway, she quickly removed the device and tried to adopt a serious look. It was comical, just like in school, I swear.

"Brody, these sessions are not suitable for you," announced the lady. "You've clearly had experience of something similar before. When was that?"

"Way back at the dawn of my rebellious youth. And since then I've often conducted them myself."

"You can tell. You helped me a lot," Helen chipped in.

"Helped?" the boss teased her. "He did your job for you. Should I give him your wages? It's shameful."

The dressing-down had been friendly enough, but the girl's eyes sparkled with tears. The lady and I pretended we hadn't seen anything. To encourage snivelling in the workplace was the height of unprofessionalism. We were agreed on that.

"The training is pointless for you." The lady steered our conversation back on course. "You were clearly in your element. You need taking out of your comfort zone, and we have a number of solutions. Please take a look at these."

An image flickered on the screen. At last, a glimpse of automation, a hint that this might yet be an IT company!

"A company trip to an exhibition of modern art… A fishing competition... A blind date... A character upgrade in Barliona… Stop, rewind! I agree to the training." And I'd thought we were done with idiocy for the day.

"Brody, concentrate on the matter at hand, which is to take you out of your comfort zone." She was relentless.

"I have another suggestion. You and I are business people, aren't we?" I wasn't about to give up so easily, and said, "You still have to do the adaptation course for the others. I can help Helen, teach her. For that we can keep… an upgrade in Barliona, and we can forget about my personal life."

She wasn't exactly fired up at the suggestion, and she fixed me with a heavy stare. But I didn't yield. Assistance came in a very unexpected form. Helen.

"Oh, Grandma, say yes. Brody can help me with my training, and I'll help him with his upgrade. And I'll introduce him to my friends."

The boss's stern manner disappeared in an instant, and she turned to her granddaughter:

"Helen, there is no 'Grandma' here! How many times do I have to tell you? Here I am Maria," said Maria before turning back to me. "Very well, Barliona it is. It's good enough for your purposes. I see your case isn't too far advanced. With your acumen, Brody, you need to build your career using social connections."

"And I will," I chuckled, looking poignantly first at Maria and then Helen. "So what's happening with Barliona?"

"We have a checklist for that kind of adaptation too."

The projector displayed a list of ten items.

SOCIALIZATION VALUES FOR A BARLIONA SCENE

Numerical value

1

Develop your character to required level (candidate chooses parameters)

50

2

Become a full clan member or create your own clan (clan size in both cases min. 20 people)

—

3

Pass Dungeon at any level as part of another group

20

4

Receive Friend status from other players free of charge

5

5

Fulfil socially important tasks which provide no game advancement

50

6

Give assistance free of charge to random players when they complete tasks

20

7

Ask for insignificant help from Social category players

10

8

Extended verbal communication with another player

>=2400 min per 6 mths.

9

Participate as a contestant in 2 festivals in Barliona

2

10

Receive 80 Agreeability points from a Barliona NPC

2

"On top of that, you will lead the course and teach Helen for six months, and then I will approve your socialization." The HR manager had pronounced my sentence.

"I'll be playing at home," I warned.

"You can play in the nether world for all I care… God forgive me," she replied. I was beginning to take a shine to the lady. "But you will spend two hours every day in the office. I shall be checking up on you personally. Now off you go, I'll be expecting you tomorrow."

I went home via the nearest Barliona office. I urgently needed a new pod with the standard frills, and the only game-connection devices at home were a dusty old helmet and gloves, the kind long since discarded by everyone.

Barliona had almost as many outlets as KFC or McDonald's. Each office had its own unique fantasy design based around a real object in the game: a medieval castle, an earth-goblin burrow, or a witches' hut. The person who dreamt all this up was a genius – it was both advertising and immersion in the game. And you couldn't miss it.

The office I came across was stylized as a country tavern. Everything was so real I could hear the creaking of worn steps under my feet, and the sweet aroma of food played with my empty stomach. The interior furnishings and decor also seemed authentically medieval. As you would expect, keeping house behind the oaken bar was an Imitator-innkeeper, and several "customers" – devil-may-care pirates or highwaymen – were drinking beer, playing dice, and poking fun at the serving girl. The most active and noisy were the Imitators; the rest of the crowd consisted of holograms. There wasn't a single person among the office staff.

"Good day to you, lord. What is your desire? I see this is your first time with us." An electronic menu appeared on the counter.

A new client is a favorite client!

In order to become our client, select a type of pod:

* General continuous-immersion pod (GCI). Supplied free of charge. All standard features: medical unit; sanitation unit; bed sore prevention and massager; pleasure/pain impulse sensors; feeding tube.

* Professional continuous-immersion pod (PCI). Supplied for an additional fee. All standard features, plus extras: full tactile sensation unit; olfactory centre; fitness module, allowing increase of real physical characteristics (agility, strength, endurance) whilst playing.

* Professional transitory-immersion pod (PTI). Supplied for an additional fee. All the extras of the PCI pod, but without some standard features: medical unit; sanitation unit; bed sore prevention; feeding tube. Continuous game-connection limit – max. 3 hours. Interval between connections – min. 1 hour.

Familiarize yourself with the terms of the contract and the user agreement.

A multipage text appeared, of the kind which, due to the nature of my profession, I was used to reading in full and with care. Cutting corners wasn't an option anyway, because the system monitored my eye movements, turning the page accordingly. It was impossible to just scroll to the end of the documents and touch a finger to the scanner to confirm my agreement with the contents. I didn't learn anything new – just the customary buck-passing from the administration to the player. I'd prepared identical documents myself and knew all the nuances. There could be no fault-finding – if I died or went bust, it would be my own fault.

The system confirmed that my eyes had followed the text from start to finish, and opened a new window:

Touch any finger to the scanner screen.

Congratulations! You are a new, and therefore favourite client!

Select a type of pod and take the test to define the limit of your tactile sensation

GCI | PCI | PTI

TEST

Choosing a pod wasn't all that straightforward. The GCI was free, meaning I would save some money, but it was damn unpleasant when you could feel the feeding catheters, the urine-collection bag, and whatever else inside your body. My body mass, now in three figures, had long been hinting at exercise. The household robodoctor was forever complaining about my blood pressure, and sugar and cholesterol levels, and suggesting a diet and exercise plan, but I would refuse, citing a mad rush at work, a bad mood, the release of the new Star Wars film, or just that it wasn't Monday. Ultimately the choice was between the long-stay and short-stay professional models, and the advantages of the long-stay were obvious: I would fulfil the socialization tasks quicker, the built-in medunit would make sure I was losing weight and, significantly, in six months' time I would be able to give the pod to Matt. I'd be doing him a good turn. And I still felt guilty. Some things are worth loosening the purse strings for.

No sooner had I signed the contract than a crew of service engineers left for my house to install the pod, without even waiting for it to be fully tested. The pods gave the user a whole range of tactile sensations, to make the playing process as realistic as possible, but each one had its own sensitivity threshold, and so that the user didn't accidentally go schizo from overdosing on pleasure or pain, they ran checks before fixing the settings. My figures settled at roughly 30% pain and 80% pleasure. With high parameter readings, the conscious became addled or switched off altogether. In this respect I was statistically average – it would be easier to fuck me to death than beat me to death.

"Would you like to open an internal game bank account? If you do this the same day you sign the contract, we will offer you a discount." The Imitator had begun trying to flog me optional extras, as befitted any good worker.

I had read up on the Bank and the internal game accounts the previous evening, so I knew it was the same bells and whistles as the immersion pod. When a character regenerated, half the money they had at the moment of death remained at the place of death as a trophy. Beginners, of course, had nothing to lose, but as your level rose, so did your income, and thoughts of losing it would begin to torture everyone who was progressing. The Bank offered an automatic transfer of money to your game account, bypassing any pockets. No cash meant you couldn't lose it. Only vagrants refused, because for them, losing half their money was no scarier than the commission for opening and maintaining a virtual account.

"What terms are you offering?"

"Fifty-three credits to open the account. A yearly service subscription of fifty-eight credits. The commission for account transactions is two percent of the sum of the transaction."

"I hope that's without the discount?" I understood vagrants very well.

"The discount applies only to opening an account. Without it the fee is seventy credits. You can also merge a real account with a game account."

"No, I'll keep the game account separate."

"We have a promotion at the moment. If you top up your account with between one thousand and ten thousand credits, you will receive an additional twenty percent from Barliona. There is one small condition – you cannot withdraw the money for three months."

What a surprise! The last free gift I received was from Santa Claus. And that was bought by my dad. My account balance was no secret to the Imitators, and they were trying their hardest to con me into converting real money into game money, in strict accordance with the object of their existence. The less money a client had in reality, the less desire they had to return to that reality.

"Transfer fifteen thousand credits to my game account." Even so, the offer was very tempting.

"Would you like access to a mailbox?" The Imitator continued to list the services available.

"That will be all, thank you." I brought the conversation to a close. Being blessed with a brain, I would decide everything else after reading some forums and guides, and after a chat with my personal expert, Matt.

When I got home I was cheered by the news that the installation and setting of the pod would drag on into the late evening. I called Matt.

"Hi, mate! Can you talk?"

"Hi, Bro. I always have time for you. Just wait a second and I'll log out."

If anyone was going to diss modern technology, it certainly wasn't me. You could call somebody even if they were in their pod. The main thing was to know their number.

"Has something happened?"

"No, I just wanted some advice. I'm having a pod installed. Can you tell me how to go about starting? I killed off my old guy."

"So you decided to go for it?" he said thrilled. I didn't want to go into details over the phone, so I responded with silence, but Matt wasn't expecting anything else. "Cool! You've made my day."

"Uh-huh. Listen, you said you'd worked it all out. Let's meet and you can tell me who to play and where to begin?"

"Great!" He was genuinely excited. "But only in two hours, okay? I've got to finish a quest against the clock. Some guys are waiting for me. Then we'll discuss everything. Bro, shit! Buddy, we've got big work to do! We're gonna kick Barliona's ass for sure!"

Matt hung up, and I dialled the next number. I had a training session to prepare for.

"Vadim, hi, it's Brody West. All good, thanks. Oh, you know already? I've nearly found one, that's why I'm calling. How are you? Great. Listen, remember we ran that communication course years ago? Have you still got the teacher training and preparation plan? It should be on the server in the archive somewhere. Yeah, with the course. I fancy giving it a go. Yes, I know it's all out of date. Can you send it in an e-mail? Thanks. I owe you one."

Before meeting Matt, I had just enough time to fry myself an enormous marbled steak. While I had money, no one was going to stop me enjoying a slap-up meal.

We arranged to meet in the park zone just outside the city. Anywhere else would be difficult for him to get to. The social shelters were being built a ninety-minute journey from the edge of the city, and the reasons were compelling enough. Firstly, to minimize time spent by social citizens among the Free. The less a vagrant saw of normal, comfortable life, the fewer improper thoughts they would have; and if such thoughts did arise, then their realisation would not be far off – an hour tops. Secondly, so that endless concrete anthills wouldn't ruin the green delight the city had become.

The park zones were being developed directly outside the city specifically so the vagrants would have somewhere to stretch their legs. Beyond them was an exclusion zone which only public transport was permitted to enter. The state very charitably paid to deliver the wearers of the metal bracelets from their shelters to the park zone and back. To get to the city you had to take a taxi, and pay for it yourself.

I sat on a bench with a parcel of warm food on my knee and a bag of our favorite beer beside me. It was already evening, though at that time of year twilight draws in much later, so I saw Matt's gangly, jogging figure from a long way off.

"Hey! It's cool you came." He was panting, but it didn't stop him rejoicing at seeing me, and a little physical exertion. We embraced, and he plopped himself down beside me.

"Ah, living it up two days running! Decent food." Matt took his wrapper and got stuck into his kebab. His stomach would organize a revolution out of sheer joy.

"What do they feed you? If I'd known, I would have grabbed something more substantial," I said, opening two cans of beer. I'd already forgotten how easy it was to talk to Matt about simple earthly matters. At work everyone used office speak, even if they were talking about some new dish on the set lunch menu.

"Powdered gruel, like what they give babies. Very little pleasure involved, it's just to clear the pipes out so they don't get gunked up. So go on then, tell me. We haven't got much time." Matt somehow managed to chew, and chat between mouthfuls.

I took a swig of beer, then told him everything, just like at confession.

"Yes, you're in trouble now," he said. "Do you really want to work there? If you ask me, the people in Barliona will be more normal than there."

"Matt, they're offering me something Barliona doesn't have and never will – reality. Sorry, but I want to live here."

"Yeah, I get it. You don't have to explain. In six months you'll completely disappear."

"No, I like the idea of the clan. Let's try it. Six months for set up and development, then we'll need a powerful advertising campaign. Then I'll hand over management to you, and only login for a couple of hours a day."

"Like that, huh? What the hell do we need advertising for?"

"No offense, but even a genius director won't lead an all-vagrant clan to the top. We need advanced players with gear and money. It would be good to find a Maecenas or two. The Phoenixes and the Legends made names for themselves first, then people came flocking to them. Now they always have plenty to choose from. A well thought out advert is half the battle. So, Matt, we create a clan, we establish connections, we organize the collection and processing of materials, we do quests, we sign contracts with NPCs. And that's it – we're the victors in life. All we have to do is start and finish."

"You've already drawn up a plan?" asked Matt respectfully.

"Yeah, just now," I admitted honestly. "They're installing me a pod too, but I haven't got a clue. That's why I called. Come on, we've only got half an hour left."

"You're right. It's just a bit sudden." Matt snapped out of his daydreaming about a happy future, and looked balefully at his bracelet. "If only I could take this bloody leash off. Anyway, listen. A new continent has just appeared…"

Reference information

Continents in Barliona

Astrum – a continent for players in North America

Kaltua – a continent for players in Africa

Calragon – a continent for players in Europe

Celestial – a continent for players in Asia

Ratrandia – a continent for players in South America and Australia

Stivala – a continent introduced in the latest version of Barliona, with no geographical reference for players

For the remaining thirty minutes, Matt gave me the most important bits without going into too much detail. He really did have an idea. While doing some Blacksmith and Engineer business, he'd wangled a rare quest connected with materials on Stivala. After the first settlement of the new lands, players began to mine resources and sell them at auction. Prices for the demon ore were exorbitant, but it was still snapped up in seconds. Matt pushed the boat out too and bought a little ore and some other ingredients, whereupon, for perhaps the first time in the game, fortune smiled on him. After you created some object, the system offered a unique handicraft task, only it demanded lots of resources and funds. He couldn't boast either of these, but were he to have a reliable clan, it might all work out. At that moment he found out I'd lost my job, and he was struck by a ray of hope.

I needed to create my character on another continent, get busy with some Mining and Lumberjacking, bust a gut while making others work too (demanding ten percent to the clan), build a castle on the new continent to house the main stores, and wait for Matt to show up. His last piece of advice concerned expenses imperative for a comfortable game: an account in the game Bank, a mailbox, and a Communication Amulet with a game number. But I knew all that anyway. That was pretty much it: our master plan to nail some unreal megabucks.

I wanted to discuss the rest of the details over the phone, but Matt rejected the idea categorically. Pods and phones were wired, and great ideas stolen without scruple. We parted on that good note, and without me saying out loud what I thought of the plan. At first glance it looked utopian. At second glance too. And third. But what did I know about game economics? Nothing. Before you've done any digging around for yourself, it's silly to speak of the reality or unreality of any plan. Who was I to criticize without an alternative to offer?

Returning home, I poured the first of that night's succession of coffees down my throat, and fell to digging. For three hours I scoured everything available, all the way down to advertising descriptions, guides and official reference materials, until my head was in pieces. Most of what I read was almost worthless, and any essential information on the new continent was only to be found in fee-paying resources. Game specifics, extras, bonuses, advancement tips, videos – everything cost money, and sometimes quite a lot. Apparently this was due to an announcement by the Barliona Administration that people would no longer be able to influence the mechanics of the game. Some recent, large-scale bribery cases had forced the Corporation to take extreme measures – complete replacement of the development and support team by Imitators. Programmers, scriptwriters, designers, cartographers, project developers, and testers were all laid off. Now nobody could spill any beans. The market reacted instantly and prices rocketed. Not so much on legacy content, but you could easily make reasonable money from selling new content.

I decided not to use the sellers' services, preferring to rely on my own experience. On the official site, the most valuable information about starting the game concerned a bonus for commercial accounts. If a player created a new character but left the choice of race, class, and generation location to the discretion of the game, they received a bonus. Since I had no thoughts on the matter, and I only wanted Matt to see the right continent, I was delighted at the opportunity for random generation and the extra bonus for my lack of initiative. As long as the bonus was of use, of course.

When I finished the theoretical preparation for immersion in Barliona, the clock showed I only had three hours plus journey time before work. It was too late to think of sleep, so I decided to check out the pod.

Years ago I dreamt about a huge grand piano in the middle of the living room. That dream, adjusted for time, had almost come true. In the middle – though not of the living room; and huge – though not a grand piano. In its dimensions, the professional pod for continuous immersion in the virtual reality of the Barliona game world was consistent with an unrealized dream. Maybe someday I'd enrol on a course and climb in there to play Vivaldi or Chopin.

After pressing some buttons and carefully studying my new toy, I froze with indecision. To climb in or not to climb in?

Hell, bring it on! This ultra-modern coffin was thought out to the last detail. I didn't actually have to climb in to it, like in the vampire films, because the pod adopted an almost vertical position for loading and unloading the passenger.

Inside, to my surprise, there were no horrible probes, tubes for biowaste, or other suchlike fittings. Or rather there were, but they only appeared and were aligned while the pod was returning to its horizontal position, so the player didn't experience fear or discomfort. I didn't even notice the roof closing. A platform came out, I stood backwards onto it, and it went back in, depositing me into a chamber in the lower part of the pod, at which moment a hoop was lowered onto my head, taking over control of my brain. Absolutely no feeling of claustrophobia or being buried alive in a coffin. Cool!

I stopped sensing my body. All around was boundless and pristine space. And a message before my eyes.

Welcome to Barliona!

Description: We are delighted to welcome our new player! The initial settings of the pod are fixed. The sensory perception filters are set in accordance with your individual characteristics.

Important: You are entering the pod after a long absence from the game. Be advised that the Barliona game mechanics have been significantly revised. You will find a description of the changes on the official game site. A redenomination has been conducted, equating the value of gold in the game with the value of credits in reality.

The system confirmed that I'd read the message to the end, and the message changed.

Select a faction:

Kartoss | Malabar | Free Lands | Random

All the available selections were lit up in red. All I had to do was fix my eyes on an item, and it would instantly change colour to green, changing back as soon as I looked at another item. All clear with navigation.

There were actually many more factions in Barliona, but for our geographical location only these were available. Matt played for Malabar, so I didn't worry too much about my own selection there. The user agreement said the pod was able to read the upper layer of my thoughts. I fixed my eyes on "Malabar" and mentally pronounced:

"Malabar."

Select a faction

Are you sure?

The "Selection Assistance" option provides the player with reference information concerning each faction.

"Yes! I don't need any assistance. My selection is Malabar!"

Selection accepted: Malabar

Select the race you would like to play for

| Random

"Random generation." This phrase was the key to loading the scene I'd read about on the website.

Random generation of character selected

Necessary action: Define parameters for random generation (min. 4).

Parameters:

* Faction

* Race

* Class

* Name

* Appearance

* Geographical reference

* Initial location

I shifted my gaze from one parameter to the next, making my selections, until only geographical reference was still red. Players from different factions could easily communicate and collaborate with each other, the only question being language barriers. Still, let's go for it!

Geographical reference selection

Necessary action: Select geographical reference for your character. After confirming random generation, you can only change your race or class after 30 calendar days.

Parameters:

* Choose continent

* Go back

* Cancel random generation of character

"I need the continent of demons – Stivala! I confirm random generation of all other parameters!"

Instead of a message or a progress bar, in front of me appeared a gray-bearded and long-robed elder holding a staff. Resting his hands on the staff, he bowed his head in a dignified manner and said:

"Greetings to you, Free one! You have taken a decisive step." The old man pursed his lips deferentially and stroked his beard. "Such valour is worthy of reward. Barliona needs brave heroes, and it is encouraging that you are one such. Welcome to Barliona, hero Kvalen!"

He knocked on the ground with his staff, then crumbled into a cloud of pixels, leaving in his wake the parameters of my character.

Initial settings generated

* Faction: Free Lands

* Race: Tiefling

* Class: Demon hunter

* Name: Kvalen (name from "reserved" list)

* Appearance: customized appearance of player

* Geographical reference: Lok'dar, continent of Stivala

* Initial location: Demon hunter training camp

What's a tiefling? Never heard of… demon hunter… I can run around as a hunter… Kvalen is, well, Kvalen, I don't care… All the rest we'll deal with later… "Start game!"

The white space darkened, and a ball of mist appeared ahead. It grew, curled, and stretched, forming a silhouette. The figure gained substance and was complemented with features, and when the mist dissipated I saw a horned, tailed, and hooved creature looking back at me. WTF! My first thought was, "That can't be my guy! It's a goat! All that's missing is the beard!" And in response to my indignation, a somewhat sparse beard suddenly sprouted. Shit! And where's my bonus?

The creature eyed me aggrievedly with its pitch black eyes, with no whites. I looked it sceptically up and down, and gave the mental order to "give us a twirl." This is what they call "customized appearance of player"? The gray canvas coat didn't hide my spare tire, and novitiate's trousers refused to stay up on it. Way to go, tolerance! Although it's true I was even fatter in real life.

So, tieflings are humans with tails, hooves, and goat's horns. If I bumped into my ex in Barliona, she would definitely say, "I always knew it." She would also add that it was a hint at my subconscious and a manifestation of my real alter ego. Ugh, I'm definitely going to change it in a month. I can just imagine Matt's face.

With that thought, I decided to learn how to change my parameters. The beard had materialized, after all. I began mentally saying what I wanted to change, and assessed the results. The original image really was a work in progress waiting to be tweaked. I altered the length and ramification of the horns, the appearance of the tail, the colour of the skin and eyes, and various other things, until I got bored.

Since the game was 18+, I ordered the tiefling to undress, and appraisingly sized up its figure.

"I want a six pack stomach!"

The game responded humorously by drawing lines over the bulging belly. I see you're no idiot.

"I want a sinewy, muscular body with fifteen percent body fat. Oh, excellent!"

My gaze shifted down. Well, it was my customized body, and nobody had actually complained. I decided to leave it as it was.

Making peace with my character's image, I found the Save button with my eyes and read it mentally. Another message appeared:

Birth of a Tiefling scene launched

Description: The Birth of a Tiefling race scene launches every hour. Next launch in 32 minutes. You will be put to sleep while you wait. We wish you a pleasant game!

The tiefling assumed a sprinter's crouch before charging in a flash towards me, horns down. I felt odd and tried to step out of its way, but couldn't – I didn't have a body. At the last moment, when I realized collision was inevitable, I screwed up my eyes and… felt nothing. No impact, no pain. But I couldn't open my eyes.

The feeling of space suddenly changed. There was no time to even pin down or keep track of the moment. I was just suddenly aware of myself drowsing in a comforting liquid and experiencing fantastical blissfulness. I floated with closed eyes, occasionally bumping into something soft and warm, rejoicing in my own being, and that of the warm, soft thing, and in our bumping. I loved this thing, and I loved our gentle physical contact, and it responded in kind, for in the ocean of bliss there is room for all. There is no need to waste your breath on spite and aggression. Everything around is invoked to give us happiness.

"Arise, my children! Your hour has come. It is time to emerge into the light." A delicate and seductive voice sang out. Only a mother could speak so tenderly. Mother. I wanted to approach her, and was afraid to uspet her with my inertia. I must hurry! I reached out towards the voice, straining to open my eyes. It wasn't easy, but I tried. Mother would be angry if I was blind or came last. She didn't like failures, and ate them straight after their birth. There was no place for weaklings among demons.

I broke out in a cold sweat from head to toe. What freaking demon? When I understood the absurdity of my own thoughts, I opened my eyes. Then I screamed. From shock. A normal reaction for a person who finds himself swimming in a lake of molten lava. The world around was so natural, its colours so deep and voluminous that my vocal cords seized up with fear and my cries were cut short. I managed to save my conscious by concentrating on the game interface buttons, which did not disappear even when I blinked. My brain accepted this as a weighty argument in favour of virtuality, and was calmed. It's just Barliona, I'm in virtuality, surrounded by a pod, nothing more. Everything's fine.

I breathed out heavily and looked around. There really was a lake of lava surrounded by cliffs. The horizon line was hidden some distance away, behind the tall, rocky barrier. Leaden clouds hung low in the sky, showering rain down on me through the thunder and lightning, though the water drops evanesced before they could reach the ground. The lava did not burn; quite the opposite, it was warm and comforting.

Aside from me, another dozen heads were swimming in the lake. Oddly, I couldn't see a single other player among the newborn tieflings. They were all NPCs. In a state of ecstasy from their unity with the lava – primogenitrix matter – they also floated eyes closed. My hand reached out by itself to touch my new accoutrements. Curious sensations. Neither the tail nor the horns felt alien, just like I'd had them all my life. Completing my examination, I swam a little front crawl, all the while contemplating my fellow clansmen. Until I realized my mistake – I was not alone here from the real world. Alongside me was a player from the social shelters, for some reason bearing the simple name Eredani.

Reference information

Character names

Within Barliona every character's name is unique. To provide uniqueness, and to satisfy players' desire to be named as they choose, composite names are used, consisting of two or more words. There is also a register of "reserved" simple names. This is a fee-paying service. Reserved names can be used free of charge by Premium Account holders, or when a player selects random generation for his character (min. 3 parameters). Simple names are also assigned to prisoners, using min. 10 letters.

When the player noticed me, I nodded to him in greeting, but instead of replying, he pointed to something behind my back. I turned round and immediately began paddling backwards and swearing loudly. It was going to take a while to get used to Barliona. On the shore of our jacuzzi stood the High Demoness Ireness, and behind her, chained to the wall, hung an array of tormented and barely alive beings: orcs, humans, elves. The demoness made a pass with her hand, and one of the victims doubled up in pain. The creature, a onetime paladin, choked on his own shrieks, before his body went limp and gray, and another tiefling surfaced beside us, luxuriating. A life for a life was the name of this sanguineous scene.

Turning again to the vagrant, I saw him swimming with broad strokes towards the opposite shore. A sensible decision. I had no desire to hang around under Mother's gaze myself, so I swam after him, carefully detouring around blissed-out tieflings. We reached the rocky shore at almost the same time, but I chose to climb out a little way from Eredani.

I pulled myself half out of the lava and was immediately pierced through by a savage cold. Once upon a time my wife had convinced me to buy a cryochamber, saying something about rejuvenation and rebooted immune systems. Still young and in love, I allowed myself to be talked round without going into the details, but by the time I was wearing wafer-thin clothes and strange footwear with metal heels, I felt most out of sorts. I entered the first chamber without a fuss, simply because I didn't know what to expect, and was greeted by a temperature of -60. I had to be manhandled into the second chamber (where it was -120) by my colleagues, motivated by the fact that it was already paid for, and assured I wouldn't notice the difference. Only then did I realize what the iron heels were for: those fuckers outside could hear if I'd died or still hadn't quite yet attained the grade of White Walker. The only thing that got me through the ordeal without strangling anyone, was remembering I was a real man and could not disgrace myself in front of my dear lady.

Similar sensations awaited me when I hauled myself out onto the shore. But seeing Eredani, who had pulled himself out first, produced a muffled "Woah, shit!" and dived straight back in, and understanding there was no one around to flaunt anything to, I followed his example. Immediate relief and drowsiness, and no wish to exit the lava again. If anyone felt so inclined, they could dig me out.

"In the name of Light!" A hullabaloo to wake the dead came crashing through the thunder and the snarlings of the demoness. "Die, spawn of the Abyss!"

Lightning bolts skidded across the lava and produced a light, but nevertheless unpleasant prickling on the skin. New dramatis personae entered the stage: a sparkling gold warrior, a girl dressed in snow white, and a heavyset, bearded man with a shield twice his own size. My little knowledge of game classes and races was enough to identify a paladin, a priestess, and a warrior. Or alternatively, a human, a she-elf, and a dwarf.

"You're too late, light one!" hissed Mother, adding ultrasonically, "They are all mine!"

My body quaked at the shrieks of the primogenitrix, and the upper part of my viewer was occluded by a slew of vibrantly coloured pictograms. Mother's debuffs did us no harm; the demoness guarded her children most attentively.

Reference information

Buff

A positive status effect on a player, created by increasing one or several of their characteristics. A buff may affect a player indirectly, increasing, for example, their Agreeability to NPCs. The duration of a buff may be specified, or may last until cancelled by the player.

Debuff

A negative status effect on a player, differing from direct damage. As a rule, for any stat which may be increased by a buff, there is a debuff which decreases it.

"You have no power in this world!" answered the paladin no less loudly. He raised his hammer up to the heavens, where it shone brighter than the sun. "In the name of Eluna!"

"Bastard," said Eredani, wincing with pain. The paladin had fixed the whole vicinity with light magic, unconcerned for our wellbeing. The slightest movement was enough to burn your whole body mercilessly, and it occurred to me that thirty percent pain was too much for me. Trying not to move, I observed the unfolding spectacle. The scriptwriters had gone a touch overboard on pathos for my liking.

"Your paladins were the first to be sliced up," laughed the demoness, blind to the light emanating from the hammer. "But do not weep, they did not die in vain, for they allowed my children to enter Barliona. It is their home now and you cannot banish them from it. See how strong my children are. It was the power of the paladin's death cries that made them this way."

"Beast! Go back to where you came from! I banish you!" cried the priestess, and the white Eluna merged with the yellow light of the paladin's hammer. The demoness could not hold off this two-pronged attack and she began to wither, as her recent victims had. I remembered from the guides that fire could not harm a high fire demon, and only sacred light could have any effect on them. Ireness was in a really bad way, and in her death throes she threw out crimson threads to her prisoners, mummifying them on the spot. The instantly released power she kept for herself, though there was little of it, and she was not about to die quietly:

"You shall never achieve anything! This world will be ours!"

The demoness scattered like ash, and all was still. Gone was her monotonous gnarling, gone were the prisoners' wails, gone was the thunder. And in that ringing silence, the footfall of the paladin rang out like the blows of his hammer.

"They are all dead, Bartalin," said the girl sadly, after inspecting the prisoners shackled to the rock face. "She took their souls with her. I cannot revive any of them."

"Lorgus, unloose them." Even when he wasn't shouting, the paladin's voice was powerful. "The brothers deserve a proper burial."

Servants appeared and, under instruction from the dwarf, began to release the mummies from their chains and lay them on stretchers. The paladin and the priestess approached the lake.

"Spawn of the Abyss!" said the paladin with ill-disguised hatred, and spat. His spittle evaporated before it hit the lava.

"Do not be so harsh, Bartalin. They are the sons and daughters of our brothers." The priestess was more tolerant towards other races. "Children are not responsible for the sins of their parents. Give the volcanic tieflings a chance."

"You ask too much for the demons! There is only one place for them in Barliona – the eternal chains of the demonologists!"

"They are not demons, Bartalin." The she-elf was insistent. "Our blood runs in them too – the blood of elves, of humans, of dwarves, of orcs. Do not let the memory of that blood die! There are ever fewer warriors. Ireness will return. Be prepared! Instruct the tieflings and send them to fight her. Better a half-demon should die than a human or an elf. We will choose those who can stand against the will of Ireness, we will purify them, we will train them, and we will send them into battle."

So that's the way it is! Mercy comes in no pure form. The priestess saved us not out of kindness, but for the sake of her fellow tribesmen who were hunted and killed by Ireness. Expendables – that's what tieflings were to the she-elf. Hypothetically, Ireness could only have killed us. We were unfit to be used as food or for bearing new children.

"As you please, Abigail," the paladin relented. "Do with them as you will."

The priestess nodded. An inexplicable force drew me up out of the soothing hot liquid and left me hanging in the air. The cold immediately fettered my body and my mind, but before I blacked out, I heard the order:

"Lorgus, we need more stretchers! We are taking the tieflings with us."

My consciousness returned in a couple of seconds; at least, that's what the system clock showed. I was lying inside a warm dome, which is why I no longer felt cold. The lake among the cliffs had transformed into a stony dungeon with steel bars at the window and a small iron door. Apart from myself, and two wizards holding up the dome, there were also two elves: the familiar snow-white Abigail, and a certain Uldaron, dressed in leather with chainmail reinforcements.

"I'm not sure," said Uldaron, looking me over like a horse at the fair. "Too many disadvantages, too much hassle. The fiery nature and demonic essence must be suppressed, otherwise he'll die. But that will make him weaker. What do I want with a warrior like that? The first weakling he runs into will knock him down with a stick."

"His enemies are demons. He has good defense against them. All the rest is irrelevant. He's a Free citizen, he can come back from the Gray Lands. If they knock him down with a stick, he will get up, dust himself down, and continue. Such warriors are exactly what we need now."

"Then let him be a warrior!" muttered Uldaron, dissatisfied. "Why make a demon hunter out of him?"

"Because these are the only two left!" said the priestess. "You should have come to the assembly on time, then you could have chosen your own Free citizens! They all came. Uldaron, you know you can't not take them. Either you take them, or your training camp will be closed down and all the recruits redistributed. The choice is yours."

"Oh, I'm riddled with doubt now!" he quipped. "Let me think. So, either they shut down the training camp, or I take these two waifs. I really don't know, it's such a difficult choice."

"Quit clowning around. Consider the tieflings a challenge."

"Purify them and dispatch them. I'll figure it out as we go along." This was already the second NPC to concede an argument to Abigail. Did she have high Charisma or something? On the surface you wouldn't say so.

"Brother Lektor, he's all yours," called Abigail, and another priest entered the cell. This time a human. I got goose bumps just from the look of him. Brother Lektor had a malicious look about him. Not spiteful, but just that – malicious. And heavy.

"Dome!" he ordered, swinging his censer harder and harder and filling the cell with smoke. The wizards lowered their hands, and the heat sphere around me disappeared. "Now get out!"

The NPCs vanished into thin air, and for the third time recently the cold descended on me. I hunched over on the floor, searching convulsively for the Escape button. However, either the cold affected my brain that way, or I wasn't allowed out according to the script, because there were no buttons on the status bar. The game did not want to release me until the end of the scene.

"Don't hold your breath, you're not going to die." Kindness was not brother Lektor's strong suit. He waved the censer above me until I was totally enveloped in black smoke. The cold left me, giving way to weakness. The priest proceeded to whine a prayer in a mind-numbing recitative in an unfamiliar language, and then sprinkled my head with a gray power. Resigning myself to my current situation, I wearily shut my eyes and waited for the end. The cold was gone, and sooner or later the script would come to an end.

"I name you Kvalen!" After the purification process Abigail preferred to endow me with my name herself. "Henceforth you are a tiefling – half-demon/half-human. Arise, Free citizen of Barliona!"

I tried to get to my feet, but it was futile – my body was wooden. Every movement was a struggle requiring maximum effort. Sensations and my perception of the world were too natural. During the scene I forgot a couple of times that everything around was virtuality. Which is why I remained lying on the ground, waiting for whatever would happen next. I wasn't in the habit of putting myself out much in the real world, and I couldn't make myself overcome pain just like that and stand up in a virtual one. It wasn't about pressing buttons in a comfortable armchair.

"And this is a demon hunter?" asked Uldaron in disgust. "He can't even get up off his knees! Take him to the training camp! I hope he'll have the brains to escape from there by himself."

Birth of a Tiefling scene completed

Description: Birth of a Tiefling race scene completed. We wish you a pleasant game!

Some control buttons appeared on the progress bar, and I pressed Exit. Fuck Barliona with its continuous immersion! I should have agreed to that fishing date.