Hero

by Dan Sugralinov

  “Do you think you’d recognize them?”

  “Dunno... it was pitch black.”

  “I see. Why didn’t you file a complaint?”

  “I’d rather sort it myself,” he mouthed.

  “Well, that’s stupid. What if they’d killed you? Never mind. Listen, you’ll be here on the mend for another two or three weeks. So I’ll go to the tournament instead of you. Got it? If I win, it’ll pay for Julie’s treatment.”

  He nodded. “They’re gonna take you apart,” he added with a weak smile.

  “We’ll see. I’m gonna take Julie to my parents. They’re retired so they can take care of her. I would have brought her back to my place but I’m virtually never at home. What kindergarten is she in?”

  “Forty... eight. Thanks.”

  A ward attendant barged in, rattling her cleaning equipment. “What’s that now, young man? These people are supposed to be resting! Leave the ward immediately!”

  “No worries,” I said to Kostya, ignoring the noisy officious cow. “Just lay there, bro, and get better. Julie, say goodbye to your brother. I’ll wait for you outside.”

  I touched Kostya’s hand. He couldn’t even grip mine. His fingers barely twitched in response.

  From the hospital, we went to my parents’ to pick up little Cyril. I decided to take the girl to the movies with us, hoping to cheer her up.

  Mom and Dad were both at home. I left Julie in Cyril’s care and went to the kitchen to explain to my parents what had just happened.

  “How horrible!” Mom exclaimed. “And the girl is so skinny...”

  “She has a rare disease that can’t be treated in Russia. She needs to be taken abroad for surgery. But that’s not why she’s here.”

  “Absolutely no problem! I’ll be taking her to kindergarten myself,” Dad said. “We’ll fatten her up, you’ll see! All the more fun for us. Seeing as you can’t be trusted to provide us with any grandchildren...”

  “I thought Cyril was your grandson?”

  “He is,” Dad replied proudly. “The best grandson ever!”

  “Don’t listen to that old fool,” Mom butted in. “Don’t worry, we’ll take good care of the girl. We’ll be taking her to the hospital to see her brother.”

  Still, I’d detected in my Dad’s tone of voice that he would have liked a grandson who’d bear the family name — in other words, someone who’d carry on the male line. To his credit, he hadn’t said it out loud.

  “Thanks a lot,” I said. “I’ll take them to the movies now and bring them back later. I still have things to do today. Would you like me to bring you something? Seeing as we’re going to the mall anyway.”

  “We were just about to go to the market to get some meat,” Mom replied. “Apart from that, we have everything. We grow all our own stuff at our summer cottage.”

  ‘Won’t you have some tea before you leave?” Dad said with a begging note in his voice.

  I checked my smartphone for the movie schedule, trying to work out how long it might take us to get there. “Absolutely.”

  “Great,” he said.

  As we drank tea, Julie perked up a little. In the end, she was chatting away with “Nana Lydia” and “Papa Oleg”. As I watched both her and Cyril who was staring at her with puppy eyes, I couldn’t help noticing their high Compatibility (yeah right). I also made a mental note of their respective potentials: with Julie it was drawing (so it might be a good idea to send her to an art school) while Cyril might excel at Programing. I needed to share this information with their parents and make sure they gave them the right education.

  We chose to watch Hotel Transylvania 3: Summer Vacation. Nothing of note happened during the showing, but afterward I realized I hadn’t thought of picking up any spare clothes for the girl. So we went to the first boutique on our way where I bought her everything the helpful salesgirls had suggested: a few sets of underwear, a dress, a couple of T-shirts and a pair of shorts. Then we went to the toy department where Cyril got himself a big construction set and Julie, a remote-controlled car — after she’d rejected a doll point blank, probably under the influence of her big brother.

  As we passed a perfume boutique, my eye fell upon an aftershave with a whopping +5 to Charisma. I bought it unhesitantly.

  This impromptu bout of shopping had eaten up all of the last poker winnings for which I’d received the ban. Well, this probably wasn’t the worst way to spend your money, judging by Julie’s incredulous excitement as she pressed the shopping bags to her chest on our way home to my parents’.

  I then spent the Sunday night watching video replays of all the best boxing matches. Before going to bed, I invested the last remaining characteristic point into Agility.

  * * *

  I USED TO have this poetic collection I’d received from a writer friend. It was titled Monday Morning. No matter how much I read it, I hadn’t found a single mention of any Monday in the whole book. Only later had I realized that the actual Monday morning mood was there, written between the lines of his unrhymed poetry.

  This is the mood we seem to imbibe with our mothers’ milk. We soak it up with our skin. It permeates our entire mind: this restless, anxious, gloomy and hung-over feeling. On Monday, parents take their baby to the crèche for the first time, carrying her out into a frosty winter morning smelling of exhaust gases[53]. On every such gloomy Monday morning, the sweet comfort of idling around at home is replaced with the rigors of the nursery school with its oatmeal porridge and milky macaroni soup. Then on another such dreary rainy morning the growing child lugs her heavy satchel to school where not everyone is happy to see her. This lasts a whole eleven years[54], after which she has to serve another five years at college, followed by a lifetime of work. Wherever she turns, she can’t escape the grim, bitter misery of Monday mornings.

  This is the kind of lifestyle reserved for those who only start living on Friday night. Luckily, I wasn’t one of them. Not the way I was now, anyway. For me, every beginning of the week meant a new opportunity to slightly better myself and this world. True, the official weekend allowed us to spend more time with our families. This was what I liked about them — but not because I didn’t have to work. When you enjoy what you’re doing and when you’re overcome by the passion to make things better; when your entire team seems to have the same goal, then Monday mornings become radically different from how my writer friend had described them. This was just another morning which you were supposed to celebrate, greeting the first sunrays the way our cave ancestors did.

  After my morning run, I took a shower, had breakfast and a cup of coffee and was just about to lock up after myself when the phone rang — the one I used for my search and rescue contacts. Without taking off my street shoes, I hurried back into the lounge to answer it.

  “Excuse me, who is this?” a lifeless male voice asked.

  “Who are you calling?”

  “Is this Phil?”

  “Yes, it’s me.”

  “You’re a slimy piece of shit, Phil, you know that? If I knew where to find you, I’d have ripped your head off,” the voice trailed away.

  “Who is this?”

  “I’m her husband,” he said sarcastically, then dissolved into uncontrollable laughter. ‘I’m Max,” he said when he’d finally stopped. “Was it you who told Olga where to find me? Wretched psychic!”

  “Why, what happened?”

  “I went on a bender! For five years I never touched a drop! Doesn’t one have the right to go apeshit once every five years? She caught me in a sauna with some chicks. She dumped me. She’s just gone to file for divorce. You scumbag!”

  He hung up.

  The edges of my vision turned crimson as the program delivered its verdict:

  Warning! You’ve just performed a socially detrimental action!

  Now performing the analysis of consequences...

  The harm to society is negligible.

  Penalty: 1000 XP

  XP points left until the next social status
level: 2190/18000

  I called the man back.

  “What do you want?” the voice asked.

  “Getting a divorce doesn’t go that quick,” I said. “Go to her and apologize. She’ll forgive you. And stop drinking.”

  This time I hung up first. Seeing as he believed me to be a psychic anyway, let’s just hope he followed my advice.

  I switched the phone off and left the house.

  As I walked, I called Matov from my usual phone to tell him I was going to replace Kostya at the tournament. He wanted to know what had happened to him and which hospital he was in, then promised me to go and visit him there. If he indeed renounced his place in the tournament, Matov would write me in instead.

  THE WHOLE BUNCH of them — Alik, Gleb, Greg, Marina and Kesha — were hanging around the entrance of the business center, smoking the place out. Next to them, Cyril courageously shuffled from one foot to the other, battling the temptation to join in.

  I flew up the stairs with a spring in my step and walked over to them to say my hellos.

  “Phil, er, you know...” Alik began. “I might need to pop out at ten o’clock to submit my college application.”

  “Sure,” I agreed unhesitantly. “Is it the place where you wanted to go?”

  “That’s right. The management faculty. But the scholarships are finished so they only have places for paying students. Old Mark has made out a contract between me and the company. This way the company will pay for my studies and I pay you guys back half of my divvy... devvy...”

  “Dividends,” Kesha offered, suppressing a smile.

  “That’s right. Fifty percent of my cut. From the profits, like.”

  “That’s not a problem,” I said.

  Mr. Katz had already explained to me the reason behind his idea. According to him, if Alik paid for his own studies, that might make him more responsible. As a corrective measure, sort of.

  “How was your Friday night?” I asked.

  Marina rolled her eyes. “Oooooh!”

  “Like this,” Kesha drew the girl toward him and planted a kiss on her lips.

  “So! That was quick!”

  Marina lowered her eyes. No wonder: only a week ago, she’d shown more than a considerable interest in humble me.

  “I’m so happy for you, guys,” I said. “Really.”

  Gleb guffawed. “What a soap opera! Phil, we should really stop all this office romance nonsense.”

  “Get away with you!” Kesha laughed. “Just so you know, we’re going to campus after work tonight to collect Marina’s stuff. She’s moving in with me.”

  “I can see your Friday night was a busy affair!” Greg quipped.

  “Why, are you jealous?” Marina glared at him, utterly embarrassed.

  “No offence meant,” Greg replied. “In any case, you weren’t the only ones who had a busy night, were they, Alik?”

  Alik blushed. “Oh Phil, by the way,” he hurried to change the subject. “It’s Gorelik’s B-day today. Should we club in to get him something?”

  “We could,” I paused, trying to remember what I knew about the man’s preferences. “Isn’t he into fishing? One of you should get on down to Rose and ask her for some petty cash to get a present from the sports angling store.”

  “What sort of budget do you have in mind?” Kesha asked, businesslike.

  I made a mental list of potential gifts, checking their Compatibility with Gorelik. Spinners, tackle, rods, echo sounding gear... no...

  Finally, I had it. “I’d buy him a Japanese telescopic rod,” I said. “From what I’ve heard, he’s hooked on floats so he’s gonna love it. As far as the model is concerned, you need to ask-”

  “Hi guys,” Veronica said as she joined us. She hugged me lightly and gave me a peck on the cheek, then did the same to all the others. But when she reached Alik...

  “Hi, sweetheart,” she said.

  The two clung to each other in a long passionate kiss.

  “Hi babe,” the reddening and flustered Alik finally said, forcing himself away from her.

  Babe? What was that now? We’d hardly begun to work and the company was already starting to resemble a family shop! All that was left to do was bring Stacy back, hire Greg’s wife Alina and find a suitable candidate as a match for Cyril. I just hoped this wasn’t going to end as some sentimental Brazilian soap opera.

  As for the rest, our first weekday went without a hitch. We had a morning briefing to allocate the week’s tasks, then everyone set about doing their own thing.

  After lunch, a whole bunch of potential clients barged into the office. I recognized one of them as Tural Abdulaev, the guy who’d very nearly stabbed me to death after my encounter with Valiadis. He must have recognized me too because he looked embarrassed.

  But I kept a straight face. Only after we’d signed the contract and found him a few job offers, I asked him point blank, “How’re things, Tural?”

  He said something in Azeri to his fellow team workers, nodding at me. Each of them jumped up, grabbed my hand with both of theirs and shook it. The program showered me with “improved Reputation” messages.

  “We’ve finished that job and retrieved our passports from the boss,” he replied. “He paid us in full. But we’ll never forget your help! That money... it was really handy.”

  “Good. I’m happy I could help.”

  * * *

  I WAS GOING to spend the evening leveling up Boxing which was now very close to 8. All that shadowboxing, watching the reruns of great fights, and refining my technique on the punch bag which I’d finally had installed at my place was now paying off.

  But first thing I had to have a talk with Martha. I routinely activated her in the kitchen where I was having a cup of tea.

  This wasn’t the grubby kitchen of my days with Yanna: the sad crumbling place with the leaky tap and the wonky oven door where I’d had breakfast with Yanna on the day I’d got my interface. That had been less than three months ago — but so many things had changed since then.

  Martha materialized and sat opposite me, holding a cup from the same tea service. She was still maddeningly beautiful which made my interactions with her esthetically pleasing as well as enlightening.

  “Good evening, Phil.”

  “Evening, Marth. Would you like to eat?”

  “No, thanks, I’m not hungry,” she said. “How’s your work?”

  “It’s on the boil. Moving well and all that. Everything seems to be going according to plan. Tomorrow is the last day of the month. I’m curious to see how July went.”

  “I’m happy for you,” she gracefully lifted the cup and took a sip. “I can see you’ve managed to avoid another ban today?”

  “Exactly. I helped a woman find her husband and got a penalty for it. Why a penalty and not a ban?”

  “You saw it yourself. The damage to society was negligible. Either they’ll kiss and make up, or their divorce might prove to be the best solution for everyone. What are you feeling?”

  “About what?”

  “You’ve changed the lives of several people with just a few careless words. The husband, the wife, their children and their parents... If they do get divorced and meet somebody else with whom they start a new family, that would change even more lives. The ripples on the water spread wider and wider... you understand?”

  “I do...” I frowned. “That was a mistake.”

  “What makes you think so?”

  “I broke a family up. How are the children going to grow up without a father? Their whole world is now crumbling around them...”

  “It’s good that you realize that. But you shouldn’t call it a mistake because you acted with the best of intentions. There was no knowing what could have happened had you chosen not to divulge her husband’s whereabouts. He might have gone on an even longer bender and gotten into real trouble. He could have been robbed — killed even. Or he could have come out smelling of roses, gone back to his family, and then done it all over again. He could have
started drinking so heavily that he might have lost everything he had, which would have incurred much bigger losses to everyone involved. He might have started beating on his wife in front of their children every time he got drunk. Do you understand it now? You can’t decide whether something’s good or bad without knowing all the potential development routes. Which you can’t possibly know. Therefore, it’s not a mistake.”

  I spent some time mulling over it. Finally I nodded my agreement and went to pour myself some more tea.

  “Phil, do you remember you were asking me about my prototype?” she offered.

  “Sure,” I replied excitedly, overfilling my cup with boiling water. “Damn!”

  I used a paper towel to wipe it up and returned to Martha. “So you do have a prototype, don’t you?”

  She smiled. “No, I don’t. Allow me to remind you that the character and manners of this particular avatar are based on your personal preferences. But as for my appearance... there is a 99,002 chance of it having a real-world prototype.”

  I blew a disappointed sigh. “Not a 100 percent?”

  “Her eye color is different,” Martha explained. Mark it down: Jenna Petersen, 31 years old, born in Paarl.

  “Where’s that?”

  “The Republic of South Africa. Married with a little daughter,” she gave me a compassionate look. “I’m sorry, Phil. She’s got a Facebook page. You can add her to your friends list if you wish.”

  I grabbed my smartphone, opened Facebook and hurried to log in. I entered the name into the search and found her.

  Jenna Petersen.

  An older version of Marta smiled back at me from the screen — the only difference being her eyes which were hazel instead of blue.

  * * *

  THE NEXT DAY, I finally received a phone call from Panchenko, Ultrapak’s illustrious commercial director. He suggested that we met up in their office. I agreed. I hate leaving things in the lurch even though in this case it wasn’t my fault — but still this particular job had been on my to-do list bugging me for weeks.