10 Chapter Ten. An Undocumented Feature
"If at first you don't succeed, failure may be your style."
Quentin Crisp
"HI, MY NAME's Phil Panfilov. I've got a job interview at nine-thirty."
The pretty receptionist ignored me entirely, too busy scrolling through an Instagram page. She yawned, covering her mouth with her smartphone, then finally looked up at me. Her fake eyelashes were so long she could probably fan herself on a hot day just by fluttering them.
"Sorry, what is it?" she yawned again. She must have had one hell of a weekend.
Monday mornings in an office inevitably resemble a disturbed anthill. But this particular company gave me the impression of an ant revolution in progress, with furious worker ants rushing around, about to dethrone the queen. Telephones rang non-stop. The air was blue with cussing. Printers rattled; doors slammed; the coffee machine gurgled.
"Martynov! Get off your ass and mail the proposal to Butchers Market! They're begging to be closed!"
"Which one?"
"To the Armenians, you dimwit!"
"Who's taken my coffee?!"
"Which part of 'cash before delivery' don't you understand?"
"Who's got the Virgil file?"
"Cyril, do you mind? This is my spoon! Kindly put it back once you're finished with it!"
"No, we don't do cash after delivery. Only before. Which means we need their money first!"
"Max, the accountant girls are looking for you everywhere! Their printer is down! They can't process the invoices!"
"How do you do, sir? Yes, I can most surely mark it down..."
"They're out of printer ink, that's all!"
Normal. Business as usual.
I looked around me. The spacious office was heaped high with boxes and product samples; the desks groaned under tons of paperwork. The management area looked like an island of tranquility in a raging sea of sales reps who occasionally tried to breach its calm waters.
"Excuse me," I squinted at the girl's name tag hovering over her head, "Darya, isn't it? I have a job interview at-"
"Down that corridor, last door to the right. It's marked HR."
"Thank you.... Darya."
With a nod, she turned her attention back to her phone.
I found the HR department. The corridor in front of it was quite crowded. It looked like I would be there for quite a while.
"Hi," I said. "Are you all interviewing for the job?"
"We are indeed," a small and lively young guy grinned at me. "Don't tell me you too have a nine-thirty appointment! You're interviewing for sales rep, aren't you? Well, you're late, man! It's nine-forty now."
He squinted his bright blue eyes at me, chatting non-stop. "Only joking. We all have the same time. What's your name? I'm Greg. I used to sell windows. That bastard of a boss of ours stopped paying our bonuses. And my wife's pregnant so I need the money real bad. I haven't quit my current job yet though. I told them I had a meeting with a customer. Clever, eh? And you? What did you do?"
"A bit of everything," I shook his proffered hand. "I'm Phil."
The guy was a born sales rep. Talk about skill! He could sell windows for a submarine if he really had to.
He was also a born bullshitter. He wasn't married at all. I could see his stats, couldn't I?
Gregory "Bullshit Artist" Boyko
Age: 25
Current status: sales rep
Social status level: 7
Class: Vendor. Level: 5
Unmarried. No children
Criminal record: yes
Current Reputation: Indifference 0/30
Then again, so what if he wasn't married? He might have a live-in girlfriend.
Losing all interest in me, Greg B.S. returned his attention to a quiet girl standing next to him, resuming the conversation apparently disrupted by my arrival. Her age and clothes betrayed her as a college student. Was I right?
I most surely was,
Marina Tischenko
Age: 19
Current status: college student
I peered at all the others. Almost all of the job applicants were younger than me. All of them were wearing office clothes and even ties.
I'd very nearly done the same. I too had a business suit gathering dust in the back of the wardrobe. Still, reality proved quite harsh. No matter how hard I tried to tuck my stomach in, I just couldn't button up the trousers. So in the end, I'd had to make do with a pair of jeans and the suit jacket worn over a clean white T-shirt.
I curiously studied their product samples which littered the office, peering at their stats. Rolls and rolls of cling film, thermoforming film, anti-corrosion film, water-soluble film, shrink film and air bubble film...
Air bubble film, yes! I just loved popping it. Who doesn't?
My Insight skill could identify anything within direct line of sight, saving me the trouble of actually approaching or handling any of the items.
"Phil? What do you think?" Greg demanded.
I stared blankly at him.
"What's the easiest product to sell?" he repeated.
Everyone's eyes turned to me. Apparently, Greg had been the heart of the unfolding discussion.
I didn't have to think hard. "The easiest product to sell is the one your customer needs. You don't even need to sell it to him. He'll buy it anyway."
"Exactly! He's right!" the others chimed.
My Reputation with some of them, including the Marina girl, had grown a little. Now it was Indifference, 5/30.
So easy? They didn't mean it!
"Aha! You see?" Marina grinned victoriously at Greg. "So much for your windows!"
She wasn't as timid as I initially thought. In fact, she was very much like Yanna used to be at her age.
I took another look. She was quite pretty, actually. A delicate face with rather thick eyebrows under which sparkled a pair of emerald eyes amazing in their purity.
She met my gaze and gave me a wink. Embarrassed, I looked away, suppressing a smile.
"I don't think so!" Greg insisted. "How do you know what your customer needs? And you don't need just one! You need loads of them! And they don't give a damn that you have a quota to meet! They don't care if you lose your bonuses! Or if your product is out of season! And this," he pointed at the rolls of packaging film, "who needs these things? Shops? Supermarkets? Farmer's markets? Cling film suppliers are one big mafia, man..." he nodded at the office seething with workers.
I froze. He had a point.
I opened the map and sent a mental search request.
Nothing happened. I tried to reword my query several times until finally I had every shop and market in town marked on the map.
Fingers crossed.
I told the system to sort the shops, leaving only those in need of a packaging supplier.
"So windows are big, trust me!" Greg concluded. "They're something everybody needs!"
The current level of your Insight skill is insufficient to access the information you've requested!
Bummer!
The HR door opened, letting out a disheveled job applicant. Frowning, he looked over at us, then left.
"Next please," a male voice called from behind the door.
They spent no more than five minutes with each applicant. The company's turnover must have been huge, forcing them to hire everyone who'd agree to work for a minimum wage with a prospect of bonuses.
Finally, Greg walked in. He stayed in the room longer than everybody else and walked out grinning from ear to ear, utterly pleased with himself.
"I'm good! And I don't care. If they don't hire me, it's their loss. See ya, guys! I've got windows to sell!"
He shook hands with everyone, gave Marina a wink and left.
Marina walked through the HR door. I was next.
After a while, she walked out with an embarrassed smile. "I think they've hired me," she whispered.
I walked in.
"Good luck," she said behind my back.
Thanks, girl.
* * *
I LEFT THE PACKAGING office feeling good. I had a funny feeling I'd made it. They said they'd call me — same thing as they'd said to everyone else, I suppose. In any case, the day was so good, the air filled with the bountiful aromas of summer blossoms. The sun touched my face, heating my shoulders. I removed the jacket and slung it over my back.
I turned my head this way and that, identifying everything in sight just to level up a little. I was curious, too. A concrete trash can; a Porphiry Govorov, age: 12, middle grade student; a curb, a car, a Lyudmila Voronina, age: 72, retired; a LED streetlamp, a Vita Balashova, age: 24, a fortune teller...
Wait a sec. Age, 24? The person looked like an old woman!
I took another look. A street beggar, most likely a Roma judging by her traditional Gypsy garb: several frilly floral skirts worn on top of each other and a matching flounced blouse peeking from under a filthy woolen cardigan. A torn knitted shawl was wrapped over her shoulders for a bit of extra warmth. She indeed appeared ancient.
The likes of her — whether begging, selling counterfeited goods or simply offering to tell your fortune — were a common sight on Russian streets. I couldn't see her face from under the black headscarf. Still, her hands betrayed her: filthy but smooth, definitely not the hands of an old woman.
I knew of course that not all of them were genuine Roma. Many of them were rip-off merchants of any nationality, making good money on people's sympathy to the underprivileged. But posing as an old woman? What an actress!
A skeletal dog lay on the soiled tarmac next to her, resting his filthy head on his paws. A dirty washing line was tied to the collar constricting his neck.
Richie. A German Shepherd.
Age: 6
Current status: pet
Owner: Svetlana "Sveta" Messerschmitt
I stopped next to them. Without raising her eyes, the fake "Gypsy" mumbled monotonously,
"Cross my palm with a few coins, dearie! Just for a crust of bread for me but mostly for the dog, he needs feeding... Cross my palm with a few coins, dearie! Just for a crust of bread..."
"Excuse me," I said, not knowing how to begin.
She kept mumbling, ignoring me.
"Excuse me, is this your dog?"
"Of course it is. Spare a few coins for the dog, dearie, he needs feeding..."
I chuckled. Her dog, yeah right. "Richie? Richie my boy!"
The dog raised his ear. He opened his eyes and lifted his head, looking at me curiously with his intelligent eyes. He was a handsome dog with an off-white patch on his chest.
"Richie, good boy! Come!" I slapped my leg.
The dog scrambled to his feet, intending to walk over to me. His short leash pulled tight.
The fake "Gypsy" tugged at it sharply. Whimpering in pain, the dog dropped to his side.
Panting heavily, he kept staring at me. His tearful eyes were caked in some filthy goo.
That was the last drop. I loved all cats and dogs indiscriminately (Yanna's departed Chihuahua being the only honorable exception). I couldn't watch them being hurt.
"Stop torturing the dog now," I said. "This isn't your dog. I know who it belongs to. I'm calling the police," I pulled out the phone, pretending I was dialing the number.
The fake Gypsy exploded into some desperate screaming.
Heavy footsteps resounded behind me. A godawful whack on the head sent me to the ground.
Damage taken: 93 (a punch)
Current vitality: 77,64501%
The edges of the system message turned crimson. A new warning appeared,
You've received a Bleed debuff!
Duration: 30 min
-0,01151% to Vitality per sec
Current vitality: 77,53350%.
The fake Gypsy stopped screaming. I clutched at my head. My fingers touched something wet and sticky. My attacker must have had a signet ring or something on his hand.
I tried to scramble back to my feet. Immediately I received an almighty kick in the ribs which knocked the wind out of me. My throat seized with an agonizing pain.
Damage taken: 126 (a kick)
Current vitality: 76,17388%.
Holding my stomach, I rolled onto my side to see my attacker. The "Gypsy" was busy dragging the struggling dog away, followed by a man in track pants and a leather jacket .
Georgy Balashov. Age: 29
Current status: Unemployed
I submitted this data to memory.
Gradually, the pain began to release me. My Vitality began to rise. That was good news, meaning I hadn't received any internal damage.
What a bastard! He'd stripped me of nearly 2.5% health with just two hits!
Staggering, I climbed to my feet and brushed the dirt off my jeans and my good jacket. The street was quite busy — but no one had approached me, offering help. That was all right. How many times had I ignored people lying unconscious in the past, thinking it must have been some useless homeless drunk? Oh well, welcome to the club.
Wonder if it had something to do with my low social status? Some sort of karma effect? And how many times had I myself attacked people from behind in the game, shamelessly raising my Honor (or should I say Dishonor) point count?
What a shame I'd lost the dog, though. To pay my attacker back in kind would have been nice too. But it looked like their wrongs would never be avenged.
Still, there was something I could do.
I opened the map and submitted a query.
Immediately I saw all three of them: the dog, the fake Gypsy and her back-stabbing sidekick. They seemed to be back at the farmer's market which is usually the center of petty criminal activity in most Russian towns.
What a shame I didn't have a single combat skill on my list. Just to get even with him, you understand. Having said that, he wouldn't be alone. And I just wasn't good enough to singlehandedly take on an entire gang.
Which is why I used the map to lay the route to the nearest urgent care center. It was only half a mile away, so I walked there.
I didn't skip and hop around anymore. This was real life, after all. The human body was very different from a digital cartoon. Here, stat-building required some dedicated training and the proverbial second wind.
The urgent care doctor studied my head wound as if it was the most normal thing in the world. He administered first aid by applying some medication to the wound and dressing it properly.
His actions removed the Bleed debuff entirely. Finally, he wrote a statement for the police and sent me on my way.
The station was just next door. Desk Sergeant Kravetz listened to my complaint with a skeptical look on his face. Another cold case was the last thing they needed.
So I embellished it a little, telling him the dog was mine and that it had been missing for a while. And today I came across it in the street accompanying a street beggar.
"You sure it was your dog? How did you know?"
"It's my dog. His name's Richie, a German Shepherd, six years old. He has an off-white patch on his chest. There aren't many dogs like that around."
"Maybe there aren't but I've seen a few," the Sergeant replied, hesitating.
"I called him, and he reacted to his name."
"I see. And then what happened?"
"I wanted to take him from her when someone attacked me from behind. They hit me on the head, then kicked me in the ribs. Here's a statement from the first-aid place. Here's my bandaged head. And here's the bruise under my ribs."
I attempted to describe the fake old woman and my attacker. On second thoughts, I also mentioned a young girl who was allegedly with them (in case the fake Gypsy had already shed her old-woman disguise).
Finally, I told him I knew their current location. "They're at the north entrance to the farmer's market."
"How do you know?"
"I followed them," I inconspicuously checked the map. "I think they're still there."
"Yeah right. Why didn't you tell me at once? They must be miles away by now."
The sergeant sent a patrol to the market, armed with the descriptions of all four: the dog, the goon and the two women, one old, the other young. Then he returned to his desk and motioned me to a bench along the wall.
I wasn't born yesterday. I doubted very much they could help me. Had it happened before my involvement with the game, I'd have just turned round and walked back home to nurse both my wounds and my injured pride.
I'd never filed a complaint with the authorities before, ever. I'd been in a scuffle or two in my lifetime. I'd had my nose broken in a bar brawl. Another time, a couple of large individuals who hadn't liked the way I'd looked at them decided to punch my lights out. I'd also had my phone taken from me by a gang of local kids.
Still, I'd never reported any of this to the police. I'd just suffered in silence, refusing to believe they could actually do anything about it. Criminals and lowlifes always get their own way in life, don't they?
As I waited, I switched to my mental interface and summoned Martha. "Hi."
"Greetings, Phil," her voice echoed in my head, seemingly reverberating through the room. "I need to inform you that you need to have some bedrest ASAP. Go home and spend at least several-"
"Sorry, I can't," I interrupted her. "If you don't mind me asking, do you have any visualization options? Talking to a voice in my head isn't very healthy, is it?"
"Yes, I do have the option you require. Please specify the details."
"The details, well... A female, 18 to 35 years old. Dark-haired."
A shapeless blob comprised of various colors filled my interface. "Martha, what's that?"
"There're 482,352,941 matches. Would you like to narrow your search?"
That was half a billion pixels. Talk about too much of a good thing. "I don't think I'm physically able to check them all. I need your help."
"I can create an image which will have a 97% probability of matching your personal taste in ladies."
"Yeah right. You just want to show off your knowledge of my brain scan results. Go ahead, then. Do it!"
Holy Jesus! I jumped, suppressing a much stronger word.
"Keep quiet, you," Sergeant Kravetz grumbled.
It was easy for him to say! A stunningly beautiful young lady stood but a couple paces away from me. Almost six foot tall, she was wearing some ripped denim shorts, a pair of Converse sneakers and a white T-shirt hugging her bronze body. Her gorgeous dark hair flowed down her back. Not a trace of makeup.
The girl was chewing gum, grinning at me. Her eyes sparkled with mischief.
She gave me a wink. "Hi. You okay?"
I realized I was still sitting. I hurried to stand up to answer her greeting. "Are you Martha?"
"Good! You're not hopeless, after all!"
Was she teasing me? Even her voice was different, melodious and cheerful. But still...
"What's wrong with you?" Sergeant Kravetz snapped. "Are you hearing things? Sit down and stop your nonsense!"
Martha brought a finger to her lips. "Be quiet."
"Got it," I replied mentally. "But you... you're so different!"
"I'm sorry. I did indeed study your brain scan results. According to them, a girl's appearance wasn't the only thing that mattered. I had to build a new person with her own character, voice and behavioral patterns. I had to analyze your dreams as well as your favorite books and video games in order to isolate the most common objects of self-gratification..."
I jumped to my feet. "What?!!"
"Enough!" Sergeant Kravetz snapped. "Out, you! Go and wait outside!"
"Fap fap fap," Martha mouthed teasingly.
I knew better than to argue with a police officer. I headed for the door. Martha hooked her arm through mine and followed. I could feel her touch. I could smell her — a fresh, briny scent of some vaguely familiar perfume. I tried to remember what it was called but couldn't.
How was that for a full immersion experience? This was better than Dolby Atmos in 3D!
Once outside, I pulled out the phone, turned the camera on and tried to take a picture of the two of us.
Predictably, I was alone on the screen.
"Phil, give it a break, man. I'm in your head! Do what Sergeant Kravetz just told you and stop your nonsense."
"But... How did you do it?"
"How do you think you can see the interface and all the messages?" her voice betrayed some emotion. "Do you remember what the program is called?"
"Augmented Reality 7.2. Home Edition, wasn't it?"
"Exactly. Augmented being the operative word."
"Are you now going to stay like this?"
"Phil, use your brain. You wanted an embodied assistant and that's exactly what you got. You still can summon or unsummon me at your convenience."
Oh yes, she was embodied all right. I thought she'd be some sort of cartoon head in the corner of my interface window, a bit like the MS Office talking paperclip. A 3D animation, maybe. But this... this was mind-boggling. It wasn't just the fact that she was so beautiful — no, I did like her cheekiness, her sarcasm, her girl-next-door friendliness.
I might need to ask her to replace this avatar with something less provocative, otherwise I might never look at a human woman again. Not even Yanna.
A patrol van pulled up by the station. I sent Martha a mental command to disappear. She popped a gum bubble and dematerialized, licking the bits of gum from her lips.
The patrol officer called me, then opened the back door of his van. "Your dog? You need to get him to the vet. He's in a bad way."
Richie was lying in the back with his tongue stuck out, panting heavily.
Come on boy, don't let me down.
"Richie!" I was just so happy they'd found him. "Richie, come!"
Reluctantly wagging his tail, the dog rose and sniffed my proffered hand. I used my other hand to stroke the scruff of his neck and scratch behind his ears, all the while telling him he was such a good boy, that we were back together now and that everything was going to be all right...
"Good!" the officer said. "Take him. We don't have all day."
"How about the Gypsy woman and the other one?"
"They were gone. We searched the market but didn't see them anywhere. We found the dog lying by the market fence. He answered the description so we took him. You should be grateful."
"I am. Thanks a lot!"
"Thanks don't pay bills," he said pointedly.
I pulled out my wallet, opened it and showed it to him. "I'm broke, sir."
He heaved a sigh. "Shame. How about some cigarettes?"
"I don't smoke," I turned to go.
"Wait," he said, averting his gaze. "The Sergeant wants to see you."
I took the dog and walked back inside.
"Happy?" Kravetz said. "Good. It would be better if you revoke your complaint now."
"Why?"
"You've got the dog, haven't you? And we'll never be able to locate those two. And we have quotas to meet. You understand that, don't you?"
Oh yes, I did. They'd already gotten their baksheesh from the two crooks who must have paid the patrol officers off, given them the dog and disappeared. He was right: it was pointless looking for them now. My complaint was only going to add to their cold-case statistics.
Justice as usual.
"Not a problem," I said, then left the station.
Richie staggered along on his shaking legs.
We stopped in a small park under an old maple tree. I fed him a bread roll and gave him some water from a plastic cap I'd bought from a street vendor on our way there. Richie lapped the water greedily, splashing it around and grazing my fingers with his rough tongue.
Having finished, I opened Facebook. The search wasn't long: we had only one fourteen-year-old Svetlana Messerschmitt in our town. I left her a message saying that if she'd lost her dog lately, I might have found it. I gave her my cell number and decided to wait a little.
If she didn't reply soon, I might need to take Richie to the vet myself. What little money I had should be enough for some first aid. And by then, I should have received the payment for my last-night content writing gig. Provided the customer didn't request any edits.
I summoned Martha. I needed to sort out a few things. Might as well do it now.
"Hi, Martha."
"We've seen each other today, haven't we?"
"True. Mind telling me how the social status thing works? Also, how do you gain XP points? How many of them do I need to make the next level?"
Martha spat her gum into the trash can and turned serious. "The social status basically shows a person's value to society. The higher the level, the more important their voice is in global decision making. Think of things like elections, passing new laws or the abolition of the death penalty. Any person below level 10 has no say in such matters. The higher one's social status level, the more privileges they receive. Their lives are more valuable in terms of human civilization. In your historical period-"
"What did you say?" I interrupted her. "Do you see now?"
"Phil, I'm not stupid."
I just didn't understand anything anymore. This was surreal. She couldn't be an AI!
I jumped off the bench. Richie raised his head warily.
"Martha, only two days ago you kept trying to connect to a non-existent server!"
"Phil, please sit down. No good getting so upset."
"Okay. Come and sit next to me," I made an inviting gesture. "Now tell me."
"That wasn't me. That was a bot. Highly sophisticated but still a bot. When you decided to summon me, you authorized the system to allocate bigger resources on your assistant. That allowed me to activate the dialogue function. It's an undocumented feature, very useful. Had I been back in our time, the system would have contacted the server and engaged an available AI. But seeing as there's no server in your time, I made the decision to initiate myself."
Her mention of resources was what worried me the most. What kind of resources? Did she mean my brain? "What are the resources required for the system to work?"
"Sorry. That's classified information."
"Come on, give me a hint."
"You've no idea how far technology will go by the 22nd century. Human beings are capable of working wonders you can't even imagine. That's all I can tell you. If you want to find out more, you'll have to level up Insight."
"Never mind. Just forget it. Now, XP points. How do you earn them?"
"Phil, Phil. The only reason I created a gamelike interface was because that was what you were used to seeing in games. But this is real life. This isn't computer simulation. The social status level has nothing to do with cartoon avatars and their stats. You can't level up here just by farming XP and smoking mob packs! Yes, sure, you could go to war — provided there is a war — and become a hero by killing thousands of enemy soldiers. But even in that case, you might become a hero in your own country but not for the whole of humanity. Every word and action which is beneficial for the human race will cause your XP to grow."
My phone rang. Martha tactfully fell silent.
I picked up the phone. A girl's voice asked,
"Did you find Richie?"
Quentin Crisp
"HI, MY NAME's Phil Panfilov. I've got a job interview at nine-thirty."
The pretty receptionist ignored me entirely, too busy scrolling through an Instagram page. She yawned, covering her mouth with her smartphone, then finally looked up at me. Her fake eyelashes were so long she could probably fan herself on a hot day just by fluttering them.
"Sorry, what is it?" she yawned again. She must have had one hell of a weekend.
Monday mornings in an office inevitably resemble a disturbed anthill. But this particular company gave me the impression of an ant revolution in progress, with furious worker ants rushing around, about to dethrone the queen. Telephones rang non-stop. The air was blue with cussing. Printers rattled; doors slammed; the coffee machine gurgled.
"Martynov! Get off your ass and mail the proposal to Butchers Market! They're begging to be closed!"
"Which one?"
"To the Armenians, you dimwit!"
"Who's taken my coffee?!"
"Which part of 'cash before delivery' don't you understand?"
"Who's got the Virgil file?"
"Cyril, do you mind? This is my spoon! Kindly put it back once you're finished with it!"
"No, we don't do cash after delivery. Only before. Which means we need their money first!"
"Max, the accountant girls are looking for you everywhere! Their printer is down! They can't process the invoices!"
"How do you do, sir? Yes, I can most surely mark it down..."
"They're out of printer ink, that's all!"
Normal. Business as usual.
I looked around me. The spacious office was heaped high with boxes and product samples; the desks groaned under tons of paperwork. The management area looked like an island of tranquility in a raging sea of sales reps who occasionally tried to breach its calm waters.
"Excuse me," I squinted at the girl's name tag hovering over her head, "Darya, isn't it? I have a job interview at-"
"Down that corridor, last door to the right. It's marked HR."
"Thank you.... Darya."
With a nod, she turned her attention back to her phone.
I found the HR department. The corridor in front of it was quite crowded. It looked like I would be there for quite a while.
"Hi," I said. "Are you all interviewing for the job?"
"We are indeed," a small and lively young guy grinned at me. "Don't tell me you too have a nine-thirty appointment! You're interviewing for sales rep, aren't you? Well, you're late, man! It's nine-forty now."
He squinted his bright blue eyes at me, chatting non-stop. "Only joking. We all have the same time. What's your name? I'm Greg. I used to sell windows. That bastard of a boss of ours stopped paying our bonuses. And my wife's pregnant so I need the money real bad. I haven't quit my current job yet though. I told them I had a meeting with a customer. Clever, eh? And you? What did you do?"
"A bit of everything," I shook his proffered hand. "I'm Phil."
The guy was a born sales rep. Talk about skill! He could sell windows for a submarine if he really had to.
He was also a born bullshitter. He wasn't married at all. I could see his stats, couldn't I?
Gregory "Bullshit Artist" Boyko
Age: 25
Current status: sales rep
Social status level: 7
Class: Vendor. Level: 5
Unmarried. No children
Criminal record: yes
Current Reputation: Indifference 0/30
Then again, so what if he wasn't married? He might have a live-in girlfriend.
Losing all interest in me, Greg B.S. returned his attention to a quiet girl standing next to him, resuming the conversation apparently disrupted by my arrival. Her age and clothes betrayed her as a college student. Was I right?
I most surely was,
Marina Tischenko
Age: 19
Current status: college student
I peered at all the others. Almost all of the job applicants were younger than me. All of them were wearing office clothes and even ties.
I'd very nearly done the same. I too had a business suit gathering dust in the back of the wardrobe. Still, reality proved quite harsh. No matter how hard I tried to tuck my stomach in, I just couldn't button up the trousers. So in the end, I'd had to make do with a pair of jeans and the suit jacket worn over a clean white T-shirt.
I curiously studied their product samples which littered the office, peering at their stats. Rolls and rolls of cling film, thermoforming film, anti-corrosion film, water-soluble film, shrink film and air bubble film...
Air bubble film, yes! I just loved popping it. Who doesn't?
My Insight skill could identify anything within direct line of sight, saving me the trouble of actually approaching or handling any of the items.
"Phil? What do you think?" Greg demanded.
I stared blankly at him.
"What's the easiest product to sell?" he repeated.
Everyone's eyes turned to me. Apparently, Greg had been the heart of the unfolding discussion.
I didn't have to think hard. "The easiest product to sell is the one your customer needs. You don't even need to sell it to him. He'll buy it anyway."
"Exactly! He's right!" the others chimed.
My Reputation with some of them, including the Marina girl, had grown a little. Now it was Indifference, 5/30.
So easy? They didn't mean it!
"Aha! You see?" Marina grinned victoriously at Greg. "So much for your windows!"
She wasn't as timid as I initially thought. In fact, she was very much like Yanna used to be at her age.
I took another look. She was quite pretty, actually. A delicate face with rather thick eyebrows under which sparkled a pair of emerald eyes amazing in their purity.
She met my gaze and gave me a wink. Embarrassed, I looked away, suppressing a smile.
"I don't think so!" Greg insisted. "How do you know what your customer needs? And you don't need just one! You need loads of them! And they don't give a damn that you have a quota to meet! They don't care if you lose your bonuses! Or if your product is out of season! And this," he pointed at the rolls of packaging film, "who needs these things? Shops? Supermarkets? Farmer's markets? Cling film suppliers are one big mafia, man..." he nodded at the office seething with workers.
I froze. He had a point.
I opened the map and sent a mental search request.
Nothing happened. I tried to reword my query several times until finally I had every shop and market in town marked on the map.
Fingers crossed.
I told the system to sort the shops, leaving only those in need of a packaging supplier.
"So windows are big, trust me!" Greg concluded. "They're something everybody needs!"
The current level of your Insight skill is insufficient to access the information you've requested!
Bummer!
The HR door opened, letting out a disheveled job applicant. Frowning, he looked over at us, then left.
"Next please," a male voice called from behind the door.
They spent no more than five minutes with each applicant. The company's turnover must have been huge, forcing them to hire everyone who'd agree to work for a minimum wage with a prospect of bonuses.
Finally, Greg walked in. He stayed in the room longer than everybody else and walked out grinning from ear to ear, utterly pleased with himself.
"I'm good! And I don't care. If they don't hire me, it's their loss. See ya, guys! I've got windows to sell!"
He shook hands with everyone, gave Marina a wink and left.
Marina walked through the HR door. I was next.
After a while, she walked out with an embarrassed smile. "I think they've hired me," she whispered.
I walked in.
"Good luck," she said behind my back.
Thanks, girl.
* * *
I LEFT THE PACKAGING office feeling good. I had a funny feeling I'd made it. They said they'd call me — same thing as they'd said to everyone else, I suppose. In any case, the day was so good, the air filled with the bountiful aromas of summer blossoms. The sun touched my face, heating my shoulders. I removed the jacket and slung it over my back.
I turned my head this way and that, identifying everything in sight just to level up a little. I was curious, too. A concrete trash can; a Porphiry Govorov, age: 12, middle grade student; a curb, a car, a Lyudmila Voronina, age: 72, retired; a LED streetlamp, a Vita Balashova, age: 24, a fortune teller...
Wait a sec. Age, 24? The person looked like an old woman!
I took another look. A street beggar, most likely a Roma judging by her traditional Gypsy garb: several frilly floral skirts worn on top of each other and a matching flounced blouse peeking from under a filthy woolen cardigan. A torn knitted shawl was wrapped over her shoulders for a bit of extra warmth. She indeed appeared ancient.
The likes of her — whether begging, selling counterfeited goods or simply offering to tell your fortune — were a common sight on Russian streets. I couldn't see her face from under the black headscarf. Still, her hands betrayed her: filthy but smooth, definitely not the hands of an old woman.
I knew of course that not all of them were genuine Roma. Many of them were rip-off merchants of any nationality, making good money on people's sympathy to the underprivileged. But posing as an old woman? What an actress!
A skeletal dog lay on the soiled tarmac next to her, resting his filthy head on his paws. A dirty washing line was tied to the collar constricting his neck.
Richie. A German Shepherd.
Age: 6
Current status: pet
Owner: Svetlana "Sveta" Messerschmitt
I stopped next to them. Without raising her eyes, the fake "Gypsy" mumbled monotonously,
"Cross my palm with a few coins, dearie! Just for a crust of bread for me but mostly for the dog, he needs feeding... Cross my palm with a few coins, dearie! Just for a crust of bread..."
"Excuse me," I said, not knowing how to begin.
She kept mumbling, ignoring me.
"Excuse me, is this your dog?"
"Of course it is. Spare a few coins for the dog, dearie, he needs feeding..."
I chuckled. Her dog, yeah right. "Richie? Richie my boy!"
The dog raised his ear. He opened his eyes and lifted his head, looking at me curiously with his intelligent eyes. He was a handsome dog with an off-white patch on his chest.
"Richie, good boy! Come!" I slapped my leg.
The dog scrambled to his feet, intending to walk over to me. His short leash pulled tight.
The fake "Gypsy" tugged at it sharply. Whimpering in pain, the dog dropped to his side.
Panting heavily, he kept staring at me. His tearful eyes were caked in some filthy goo.
That was the last drop. I loved all cats and dogs indiscriminately (Yanna's departed Chihuahua being the only honorable exception). I couldn't watch them being hurt.
"Stop torturing the dog now," I said. "This isn't your dog. I know who it belongs to. I'm calling the police," I pulled out the phone, pretending I was dialing the number.
The fake Gypsy exploded into some desperate screaming.
Heavy footsteps resounded behind me. A godawful whack on the head sent me to the ground.
Damage taken: 93 (a punch)
Current vitality: 77,64501%
The edges of the system message turned crimson. A new warning appeared,
You've received a Bleed debuff!
Duration: 30 min
-0,01151% to Vitality per sec
Current vitality: 77,53350%.
The fake Gypsy stopped screaming. I clutched at my head. My fingers touched something wet and sticky. My attacker must have had a signet ring or something on his hand.
I tried to scramble back to my feet. Immediately I received an almighty kick in the ribs which knocked the wind out of me. My throat seized with an agonizing pain.
Damage taken: 126 (a kick)
Current vitality: 76,17388%.
Holding my stomach, I rolled onto my side to see my attacker. The "Gypsy" was busy dragging the struggling dog away, followed by a man in track pants and a leather jacket .
Georgy Balashov. Age: 29
Current status: Unemployed
I submitted this data to memory.
Gradually, the pain began to release me. My Vitality began to rise. That was good news, meaning I hadn't received any internal damage.
What a bastard! He'd stripped me of nearly 2.5% health with just two hits!
Staggering, I climbed to my feet and brushed the dirt off my jeans and my good jacket. The street was quite busy — but no one had approached me, offering help. That was all right. How many times had I ignored people lying unconscious in the past, thinking it must have been some useless homeless drunk? Oh well, welcome to the club.
Wonder if it had something to do with my low social status? Some sort of karma effect? And how many times had I myself attacked people from behind in the game, shamelessly raising my Honor (or should I say Dishonor) point count?
What a shame I'd lost the dog, though. To pay my attacker back in kind would have been nice too. But it looked like their wrongs would never be avenged.
Still, there was something I could do.
I opened the map and submitted a query.
Immediately I saw all three of them: the dog, the fake Gypsy and her back-stabbing sidekick. They seemed to be back at the farmer's market which is usually the center of petty criminal activity in most Russian towns.
What a shame I didn't have a single combat skill on my list. Just to get even with him, you understand. Having said that, he wouldn't be alone. And I just wasn't good enough to singlehandedly take on an entire gang.
Which is why I used the map to lay the route to the nearest urgent care center. It was only half a mile away, so I walked there.
I didn't skip and hop around anymore. This was real life, after all. The human body was very different from a digital cartoon. Here, stat-building required some dedicated training and the proverbial second wind.
The urgent care doctor studied my head wound as if it was the most normal thing in the world. He administered first aid by applying some medication to the wound and dressing it properly.
His actions removed the Bleed debuff entirely. Finally, he wrote a statement for the police and sent me on my way.
The station was just next door. Desk Sergeant Kravetz listened to my complaint with a skeptical look on his face. Another cold case was the last thing they needed.
So I embellished it a little, telling him the dog was mine and that it had been missing for a while. And today I came across it in the street accompanying a street beggar.
"You sure it was your dog? How did you know?"
"It's my dog. His name's Richie, a German Shepherd, six years old. He has an off-white patch on his chest. There aren't many dogs like that around."
"Maybe there aren't but I've seen a few," the Sergeant replied, hesitating.
"I called him, and he reacted to his name."
"I see. And then what happened?"
"I wanted to take him from her when someone attacked me from behind. They hit me on the head, then kicked me in the ribs. Here's a statement from the first-aid place. Here's my bandaged head. And here's the bruise under my ribs."
I attempted to describe the fake old woman and my attacker. On second thoughts, I also mentioned a young girl who was allegedly with them (in case the fake Gypsy had already shed her old-woman disguise).
Finally, I told him I knew their current location. "They're at the north entrance to the farmer's market."
"How do you know?"
"I followed them," I inconspicuously checked the map. "I think they're still there."
"Yeah right. Why didn't you tell me at once? They must be miles away by now."
The sergeant sent a patrol to the market, armed with the descriptions of all four: the dog, the goon and the two women, one old, the other young. Then he returned to his desk and motioned me to a bench along the wall.
I wasn't born yesterday. I doubted very much they could help me. Had it happened before my involvement with the game, I'd have just turned round and walked back home to nurse both my wounds and my injured pride.
I'd never filed a complaint with the authorities before, ever. I'd been in a scuffle or two in my lifetime. I'd had my nose broken in a bar brawl. Another time, a couple of large individuals who hadn't liked the way I'd looked at them decided to punch my lights out. I'd also had my phone taken from me by a gang of local kids.
Still, I'd never reported any of this to the police. I'd just suffered in silence, refusing to believe they could actually do anything about it. Criminals and lowlifes always get their own way in life, don't they?
As I waited, I switched to my mental interface and summoned Martha. "Hi."
"Greetings, Phil," her voice echoed in my head, seemingly reverberating through the room. "I need to inform you that you need to have some bedrest ASAP. Go home and spend at least several-"
"Sorry, I can't," I interrupted her. "If you don't mind me asking, do you have any visualization options? Talking to a voice in my head isn't very healthy, is it?"
"Yes, I do have the option you require. Please specify the details."
"The details, well... A female, 18 to 35 years old. Dark-haired."
A shapeless blob comprised of various colors filled my interface. "Martha, what's that?"
"There're 482,352,941 matches. Would you like to narrow your search?"
That was half a billion pixels. Talk about too much of a good thing. "I don't think I'm physically able to check them all. I need your help."
"I can create an image which will have a 97% probability of matching your personal taste in ladies."
"Yeah right. You just want to show off your knowledge of my brain scan results. Go ahead, then. Do it!"
Holy Jesus! I jumped, suppressing a much stronger word.
"Keep quiet, you," Sergeant Kravetz grumbled.
It was easy for him to say! A stunningly beautiful young lady stood but a couple paces away from me. Almost six foot tall, she was wearing some ripped denim shorts, a pair of Converse sneakers and a white T-shirt hugging her bronze body. Her gorgeous dark hair flowed down her back. Not a trace of makeup.
The girl was chewing gum, grinning at me. Her eyes sparkled with mischief.
She gave me a wink. "Hi. You okay?"
I realized I was still sitting. I hurried to stand up to answer her greeting. "Are you Martha?"
"Good! You're not hopeless, after all!"
Was she teasing me? Even her voice was different, melodious and cheerful. But still...
"What's wrong with you?" Sergeant Kravetz snapped. "Are you hearing things? Sit down and stop your nonsense!"
Martha brought a finger to her lips. "Be quiet."
"Got it," I replied mentally. "But you... you're so different!"
"I'm sorry. I did indeed study your brain scan results. According to them, a girl's appearance wasn't the only thing that mattered. I had to build a new person with her own character, voice and behavioral patterns. I had to analyze your dreams as well as your favorite books and video games in order to isolate the most common objects of self-gratification..."
I jumped to my feet. "What?!!"
"Enough!" Sergeant Kravetz snapped. "Out, you! Go and wait outside!"
"Fap fap fap," Martha mouthed teasingly.
I knew better than to argue with a police officer. I headed for the door. Martha hooked her arm through mine and followed. I could feel her touch. I could smell her — a fresh, briny scent of some vaguely familiar perfume. I tried to remember what it was called but couldn't.
How was that for a full immersion experience? This was better than Dolby Atmos in 3D!
Once outside, I pulled out the phone, turned the camera on and tried to take a picture of the two of us.
Predictably, I was alone on the screen.
"Phil, give it a break, man. I'm in your head! Do what Sergeant Kravetz just told you and stop your nonsense."
"But... How did you do it?"
"How do you think you can see the interface and all the messages?" her voice betrayed some emotion. "Do you remember what the program is called?"
"Augmented Reality 7.2. Home Edition, wasn't it?"
"Exactly. Augmented being the operative word."
"Are you now going to stay like this?"
"Phil, use your brain. You wanted an embodied assistant and that's exactly what you got. You still can summon or unsummon me at your convenience."
Oh yes, she was embodied all right. I thought she'd be some sort of cartoon head in the corner of my interface window, a bit like the MS Office talking paperclip. A 3D animation, maybe. But this... this was mind-boggling. It wasn't just the fact that she was so beautiful — no, I did like her cheekiness, her sarcasm, her girl-next-door friendliness.
I might need to ask her to replace this avatar with something less provocative, otherwise I might never look at a human woman again. Not even Yanna.
A patrol van pulled up by the station. I sent Martha a mental command to disappear. She popped a gum bubble and dematerialized, licking the bits of gum from her lips.
The patrol officer called me, then opened the back door of his van. "Your dog? You need to get him to the vet. He's in a bad way."
Richie was lying in the back with his tongue stuck out, panting heavily.
Come on boy, don't let me down.
"Richie!" I was just so happy they'd found him. "Richie, come!"
Reluctantly wagging his tail, the dog rose and sniffed my proffered hand. I used my other hand to stroke the scruff of his neck and scratch behind his ears, all the while telling him he was such a good boy, that we were back together now and that everything was going to be all right...
"Good!" the officer said. "Take him. We don't have all day."
"How about the Gypsy woman and the other one?"
"They were gone. We searched the market but didn't see them anywhere. We found the dog lying by the market fence. He answered the description so we took him. You should be grateful."
"I am. Thanks a lot!"
"Thanks don't pay bills," he said pointedly.
I pulled out my wallet, opened it and showed it to him. "I'm broke, sir."
He heaved a sigh. "Shame. How about some cigarettes?"
"I don't smoke," I turned to go.
"Wait," he said, averting his gaze. "The Sergeant wants to see you."
I took the dog and walked back inside.
"Happy?" Kravetz said. "Good. It would be better if you revoke your complaint now."
"Why?"
"You've got the dog, haven't you? And we'll never be able to locate those two. And we have quotas to meet. You understand that, don't you?"
Oh yes, I did. They'd already gotten their baksheesh from the two crooks who must have paid the patrol officers off, given them the dog and disappeared. He was right: it was pointless looking for them now. My complaint was only going to add to their cold-case statistics.
Justice as usual.
"Not a problem," I said, then left the station.
Richie staggered along on his shaking legs.
We stopped in a small park under an old maple tree. I fed him a bread roll and gave him some water from a plastic cap I'd bought from a street vendor on our way there. Richie lapped the water greedily, splashing it around and grazing my fingers with his rough tongue.
Having finished, I opened Facebook. The search wasn't long: we had only one fourteen-year-old Svetlana Messerschmitt in our town. I left her a message saying that if she'd lost her dog lately, I might have found it. I gave her my cell number and decided to wait a little.
If she didn't reply soon, I might need to take Richie to the vet myself. What little money I had should be enough for some first aid. And by then, I should have received the payment for my last-night content writing gig. Provided the customer didn't request any edits.
I summoned Martha. I needed to sort out a few things. Might as well do it now.
"Hi, Martha."
"We've seen each other today, haven't we?"
"True. Mind telling me how the social status thing works? Also, how do you gain XP points? How many of them do I need to make the next level?"
Martha spat her gum into the trash can and turned serious. "The social status basically shows a person's value to society. The higher the level, the more important their voice is in global decision making. Think of things like elections, passing new laws or the abolition of the death penalty. Any person below level 10 has no say in such matters. The higher one's social status level, the more privileges they receive. Their lives are more valuable in terms of human civilization. In your historical period-"
"What did you say?" I interrupted her. "Do you see now?"
"Phil, I'm not stupid."
I just didn't understand anything anymore. This was surreal. She couldn't be an AI!
I jumped off the bench. Richie raised his head warily.
"Martha, only two days ago you kept trying to connect to a non-existent server!"
"Phil, please sit down. No good getting so upset."
"Okay. Come and sit next to me," I made an inviting gesture. "Now tell me."
"That wasn't me. That was a bot. Highly sophisticated but still a bot. When you decided to summon me, you authorized the system to allocate bigger resources on your assistant. That allowed me to activate the dialogue function. It's an undocumented feature, very useful. Had I been back in our time, the system would have contacted the server and engaged an available AI. But seeing as there's no server in your time, I made the decision to initiate myself."
Her mention of resources was what worried me the most. What kind of resources? Did she mean my brain? "What are the resources required for the system to work?"
"Sorry. That's classified information."
"Come on, give me a hint."
"You've no idea how far technology will go by the 22nd century. Human beings are capable of working wonders you can't even imagine. That's all I can tell you. If you want to find out more, you'll have to level up Insight."
"Never mind. Just forget it. Now, XP points. How do you earn them?"
"Phil, Phil. The only reason I created a gamelike interface was because that was what you were used to seeing in games. But this is real life. This isn't computer simulation. The social status level has nothing to do with cartoon avatars and their stats. You can't level up here just by farming XP and smoking mob packs! Yes, sure, you could go to war — provided there is a war — and become a hero by killing thousands of enemy soldiers. But even in that case, you might become a hero in your own country but not for the whole of humanity. Every word and action which is beneficial for the human race will cause your XP to grow."
My phone rang. Martha tactfully fell silent.
I picked up the phone. A girl's voice asked,
"Did you find Richie?"
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