I paused, thinking. It wasn't nostalgia alone. My body and I, we had much in common. We'd been through a lot together. And if there ever was a chance to preserve it—don't even ask me why—I had to use it. My mind was apparently immortal which meant that one day I might come back, albeit temporarily, to that joint-creaking frame, even if just to have a stroll along the streets of Moscow—if Moscow still existed, of course. Seventy thousand dollars didn't sound like a lot of money any more. I wrote a lengthy letter to Mom, giving her Olga's Chronos number and asking her to mention the code phrase, Laith, Level 52 High Elf, in order to make an urgent cryonics contract. She'd already had a power of attorney to act in my name, and as for my death certificate, soon it wouldn't present too many problems. The new expense did smart, but I had that feeling that I'd done something very right.

Mom would never agree to go perma while I was still alive. But Taali—she would need a capsule of her own very soon. It was never a good idea to use one of those underground digital parlors as they were all regularly raided by the Feds who pulled the naïve idiots out of their paradise of choice and blacklisted every one of them. Those who were suspected of suicidal or digitized behavior were ordered to visit the nearest ID center for a retina scan—apparently, it made digitizing much more difficult. Absolutely voluntarily, of course. Alternatively, they were sent for compulsory treatment in a closed medical facility.

So what I needed was a second-hand capsule. I already knew how to hack one and where to get all the rigged gear and jailbreak chips. This was one shady market the authorities would have a hard time cracking.

AlterWorld was buzzing with all sorts of operators offering real-world services. The auction was flooded with their offers:

Only for perma players: assistance in family reunion.

A FIVR capsule for daily rent, completely renovated.

Bugs for sale, hard and soft! Entomologists don't need to apply.

This last offer interested me the most, especially because the vendor had been in business already for over a year, his profile boasting tons of positive feedback. Once he checked my digitized status against some arcane database of his, he promptly answered my PMs, agreeing to find a capsule, do it up, then deliver it to the address given. With all the bells and whistles plus his commission, it cost me three thousand dollars. I could live with that. If everything went as he'd promised, they'd deliver a functioning FIVR set to my mother's in the next two days. But the vendor's unobtrusive offer of 33% off if he could have his capsule back once I didn't need it any more made me realize another thing. It looked like I would end up with two more bodies in need of cryogenic procedures. Burying them would be sacrilege. At this point, my inner greedy pig gritted his teeth at the prospect of parting with another hundred and forty thousand bucks. Yeah right, who said the rich had it easy? I cost more in maintenance than some goddamn aircraft carrier.

I'd have loved to text Taali, even if just for a quick smilie exchange. But I couldn't. She was already lying low, avoiding any eventual electronic trail. No phone calls, no logins nor bank card transactions, moving around only in covered transport. She had to be cussing under her breath as she was adjusting to her new gun. Then again, she could be enjoying its quiet report and gentle recoil. Her shoulder must be all black and blue from her old Vepr. From what I'd heard, this was how they'd detected women snipers during the Chechen war.

We'd planned her to act in five to seven days. Fingers crossed. I knocked the bedpost. Good luck, old girl.

The clock showed past midday. Enough spending! Time to make some dosh. I contacted the auction controller, confirming our meeting in a café on the town square. I'd made the reservation well in advance to provide for any eventualities. It was a good thing I'd done so, too: the central square of the Original City was bustling with eleven hundred and forty would-be disciples awaiting dedication matched by about the same amount of bystanders. Ten auction representatives were already working hard for their 3%, keeping order and separating the onlookers from the customers.

Next to the auction controller sat a sturdy man in an unknown uniform, his clan tag in full view: Virtual Police. All right... The use of this word combination was prohibited when naming any clans or characters. So this had to be a true to life virtual pig, the real living and breathing thing, if you can say so about a cartoon avatar. Actually, the likes of him weren't regular characters—they used special accounts that gave them rights similar to the Admins', allowing them access to databases, internal control consoles and lots of other important things. A law passed seven years earlier obliged every virtual world developer to create this kind of puppet for Federal needs.

The auction controller rose, offering his hand. "My name is Chris. I'd like you to meet Officer McDougall, Chief Inspector of the Virtual Police Control Department."

The cop wasn't particularly courteous. Glancing in my direction, he gave me an excuse for a nod.

The controller explained guiltily, "The law demands the Virtual Police monitor all deals between players that exceed one million dollars. The balance of your yet unsecured account exceeded that limit an hour and a half ago."

Yeah, so the Feds thought it gave them the right. "You'd make much better use of your time if you tried to monitor all instances of forceful imprisonment," I scowled back at the cop. "Any idea how many people are stuck in cells and cages? How many are bound to torture posts?"

He didn't deign to answer, just squinted at me and spat on the paving stones. The agent gritted his teeth and commented,

"The digitized individuals still don't have any legal status. You are either a game character belonging to a legally incompetent comatose individual or a piece of uncontrollable binary code."

Now it was my turn to squint. I took a step toward the cop and waved my hand in front of his face. "Hey, fancy communicating with a sequence of zeros?"

Unperceivably, he grabbed my hand and squeezed it in his iron grip. My life bar blinked, reporting damage sustained.

"I suggest you don't move if you don't want to spend the next week in a FIVR Police Department cell for assaulting a police officer in the course of his duty. Understood?"

I yanked my hand, indignant, but he didn't budge. "Understood?"

What was that now? Even here these Federal bastards could get at you. Well, they could try! The long arm of the law wasn't long enough to haul me out of the First Temple.

"Not, it's not understood!" I yelled. "Your department won't stand for much longer if you keep people in cages on such petty charges!"

The officer grinned, reaching for a pair of handcuffs gleaming purple. "Threatening, well. Article 119 of the Anti-Terrorist Act doesn't require an arrest warrant and allows to keep a suspect in custody for up to three years, including third-degree questioning and the use of special interrogation techniques."

"Officer," the agent butted in, "I'm afraid I'll be forced to file a complaint about an unprovoked arrest on personal grounds."

The cop looked at him. His glare glinted with promise. "And you're his associate, I presume?"

The agent wasn't easily frightened. Meeting the cop's stare, he said, "I've videotaped our exchange. I'm authorized to do that. Based on the video, our legal office AI predicts 96% probability of the arrest being ruled as illegal."

The cop grinned. "Well, if it makes you feel better in the cell. You really think we can't stand up for our own? So you'll have plenty of time to repent while waiting for the case to go to court. You might even hang yourself with guilt. These things happen, you know."