Here he was again in the same darkened room. The same cracks of sunlight around the blinds. The same impatience with him that he felt emanating from his therapist. He wondered if she meant to convey that feeling, if it was part of the therapy. Or if she was just genuinely frustrated by him.
“But you still play?”
“Yes.”
“On your own.”
“No, with Mora.”
“She’s dead, Michael.”
“You don’t understand.”
“Tell me.”
He drew a long, slightly tremulous breath. “I make one move a day. Day One, I start. Day Two, I change seats. I’m Mora. I try to get inside her head. Day Three, I’m me again. I make my second move.” He paused. “It’s like she’s there with me again. Sharing my thoughts, my time, the game.”
“Who wins?”
“Mora, of course. As always.”
There was one of those long silences that Angela seemed so fond of inflicting upon him. Then he was aware of her leaning forward in the dark. He could almost feel her disapproval. “That is literally self-defeating, Michael. You have to stop this game. You’ll never get over her if you persist in giving shape and form to her ghost like this.”
“Maybe I don’t want to get over her.”
“Yes, well, then that’s the root of your problem. You have no desire to move on, to leave Mora in your memory. You don’t want to start living in the present.”
Michael blew air through pursed lips. “I have tried, Angela. Going back to work was a part of that.”
He heard her sigh. “Well I suppose it was at least a step in the right direction.”
“No. The key’s in the words. Going back to work. Trying to pick up where I left off before meeting Mora. I can’t. I’m not the person I was. It’s not working for me, Angela. I don’t know what I’m going to do. Probably pack it in when my contract’s up. Head back east.
“There’s that word again, Michael. Back. And you’re right. Back is not good. We have to find a way of moving you forward.”
Michael took a deep breath. “Not we, Angela. Me. I’m going to have to find a way to move forward on my own. I’m afraid I’ve got to bring our sessions to an end.”
He heard the concern in her voice. “Because you don’t feel we’re getting anywhere?”
“Because I can’t afford you anymore.”
“Oh.”
More silence. Michael wondered how much each minute of silence was costing him, and if it had ever been worth the money. Eventually she stood up and tilted the slats of the blinds to let in the day, and turned to face him across the room.
“Well, I can’t help you with your financial problems. But you could continue in therapy.”
“I told you... ”
She cut across him. “At no cost, Michael. Well... nominal.”
“I don’t understand. How is that possible?”
She eased herself back into her chair and looked at him earnestly. “I’ve been experimenting with a new form of group therapy, Michael.”
“Group therapy? You mean a bunch of people sitting around telling each other their problems?”
She smiled. “In a manner of speaking.”
He shook his head. “I couldn’t do that, Angela. In many ways it’s hard enough just talking to you. I couldn’t face the idea of unburdening myself about Mora, sharing my inner thoughts with a group of strangers.”
“It wouldn’t be like that. In fact, you wouldn’t really be there at all. You’d send an emissary to speak for you.”
He frowned. “What?”
She laughed. “Oh, Michael, I know it sounds crazy.” She grinned. “But, then, that’s my field.”
“Explain.”
“For some months now I’ve been conducting group sessions with patients in a 3D virtual world called Second Life. Have you heard of it?”
He shook his head.
“It’s a simple concept, really. You download a piece of software. Free. Install it on your computer, and then access the virtual world through the internet. It is a completely parallel world, not unlike the real world in that its residents create everything in it. Buildings, roads, shops, products. And do all the kinds of stuff that real people do in real life. Buy things, sell things, gamble, listen to music, buy property, flirt, play games, watch movies, have sex. There are whole continents, seas, islands. It is already populated by nearly 14 million inhabitants.”
Michael shook his head. “It really doesn’t sound like something for me, Angela. I’ve never been interested in computer games.”
“It’s not a game, Michael. Most definitely not a game. Any more than life itself is a game. There is no manufactured conflict, no set objective. It’s an entirely open-ended experience. Literally, a second life.” She chuckled. “Although for some people it has almost become a first one.”
He stared at her across the room, hardly able to imagine it. “You said I would send an emissary. What did you mean?”
“To go into Second Life you have to create an avatar. A virtual representation of your real life self. You can make it look like you, or you can create your fantasy self. The point is, that nobody knows who is really behind your AV. The beautiful blond who asks you to dance might be a fat old man. Who cares? In SL you are who you want to be.”
Michael shook his head, still doubtful. “I don’t know... ”
“Look, Michael, just try it. It’ll cost you nothing, and if it doesn’t work for you, then you can drop out. But I have to tell you, my experience so far suggests that people find it much easier to express themselves freely from behind the anonymity of their avatars. And I’m breaking new ground here. Using my SL experiences in virtual group therapy to write a book. So I’m not charging my patients.” She smiled. “In a way you’re my guinea pigs. But we can all benefit.”
Michael sat thinking about it. He had enough problems to deal with in his real life without having to worry about a virtual one. Angela looked at her watch and stood up.
“I have another patient coming.” She walked to her writing bureau and checked her diary. “Why don’t I come round tomorrow evening, show you where to download the software, and help you set up your AV. Are you free?”
“I might be on call, but yes, I guess so.”
“Okay, about seven then.”
And somehow, it seemed, he had agreed to it. She opened a drawer and pulled out a sheet of paper, holding it out toward him.
“Your final account.” She smiled. “I hope you can still afford to pay me.”
Chapter Seven
The sunset had been glorious, turning the horizon the colour of blood. As its luminosity faded, a red moon rose slowly into the gathering darkness, and the sounds of revellers rang out across the island of Revere. A DJ was playing music from the Lost Frontier sound stage, and a crowd had gathered to line dance across the open area below it.
Out on the river, people stood on the deck of a yacht to watch and to listen to the music.
Couples had gathered on wooden platforms built into huge trees with spreading branches that overlooked the stage. Some were making out, others dancing, some communing in silent conversation.
On the far side of the island Quick was engaged in her second sex act of the evening. 1000 Linden dollars already paid into her account. Of course, she didn’t do it for the money. But that gave it a little extra thrill. She simply enjoyed the fantasy of selling herself for sex. Of being in complete command of a man, any man, and making him do whatever she wanted in total security.
She had met Gray Manly at the club where she was employed as a pole dancer. But that was boring, taking your top off when a mere two hundred Lindens were dropped into the tip jar, a bunch of horny men sitting on stools watching in silence, occasionally IM-ing to suggest a private rendezvous.