Текст книги "AlterWorld"

Автор книги: Dmitri Rus

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Play to Live

by D. Rus

Book 1

AlterWorld

Copyright © 2014 D.Rus

All rights reserved.

Distributed by Smashwords

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover Art © Kadziro

Translators © 2014 Irene Woodhead, Neil P. Mayhew

Ebook formatting by www.ebooklaunch.com

Also by D. Rus:

The Clan

(Play to Live: Book #2)

The Duty

(Play to Live: Book #3)

Table of Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

MMORPG Glossary

Sensitive information

Eyes only

Destroy after reading

From a memorandum to President of the Russian Federation:

At year’s end 203X, we have lost 82,000 of the population to the 'perma mode effect' which is 3.2 times more than in the previous year. However, it should be noted that overall, the disappearance of the above nationals improves the country’s gene pool and eases the burden on our economy. Over 89% of those who chose to become perma-stuck in virtual reality on their own free will were elderly, handicapped or terminally ill, plus a considerable group of society dropouts including immature individuals and other misfits. In terms of economy, they’re dead wood.

After introducing the 16th amendment to the Internet and Virtual Reality Act which limited FIVR (Full Immersion Virtual Reality) exposure to four hours a day, the number of individuals permanently stuck in MMORPG (Massively Multiplayer Online Role-Playing Games) has fallen to 2.600 a year. Even though the USA and Western Europe toe the line at three hours of FIVR exposure a day, we don’t deem it necessary to follow their example, especially in apprehension of the Silicon Lobby’s reaction. But we do suggest taking some preventative measures that would diminish the flow of nationals seeking to 'go perma mode' willingly, with the eventual possibility of reducing it to zero. These are the measures we propose:

1. To introduce legal limits to authenticity levels of FIVR worlds.

2. To define permissible configuration types and top options available for FIVR capsules.

3. To arrange for regular instances of signal deterioration including pseudo accidental cutouts, every X hours.

4. To limit or ban FIVR connections to the worlds with over 40% authenticity for certain categories of nationals, such as: government functionaries, members of the military, key scientific workers and those in possession of secret clearance.

Chapter One

"A month. One month of relatively active life. I’m afraid, this is all you’ve got left," the doctor removed his glasses and rubbed his tired eyes.

I knew of course that his profession would make anyone a cynic. And still he didn’t seem to be delivering the news lightly.

The doctor shook his head, his hair gray before his time. "Yes, a month," he pursed his lips, hesitating, then blurted,

"It’ll be the question of what runs out first: your health reserves, your will to live in ever-growing agony—or your ability to finance therapy and medications. I hope you’ll excuse me for being so blatant. I’m very sorry. Normally, we don’t inform our patients in case of a Class A diagnosis. We contact their relatives, but you don’t seem to have listed any. What a shame. I don’t think that spending the next month in and out of surgeries will be worth your while. We just can’t do anything for you. An inoperable brain tumor is indeed the end of the line. Today’s medical science just isn’t good enough. I’d rather suggest you put your affairs in order. Pay off your debts. Go on holiday with your friends or someone you love."

He continued talking but his voice didn’t register any more. I stared at his hands fiddling with some paperwork. I wasn't going to die, surely! What cancer was he talking about? My life had only just started to work out!

The phrase echoed in my mind. Today’s medical science just isn’t good enough. What about the science of the future, then? Will it be good enough?

The thought struck me, giving me new hope. I sprung to my feet. The chair creaked, having heard yet another death sentence. It must have witnessed more of those than Old Sparky. I mumbled my goodbyes and headed for the door. Ignoring the elevator, I flew down the steps three at a time, ran across the crowded parking lot and slumped into my Hyundai’s seat.

I pulled the cell out of its case and started the browser. What was it that I’d heard on the radio on my way to work? The first in Moscow…We sell immortality… a chance to live forever… to see the future with your own eyes… Implanted by some marketroid team, the buzz words sat firmly in my brain, and still I couldn’t remember the name of the thing – a center or something.

My head smarted with the effort, sending colored circles dancing before my eyes. I winced and sat still, waiting for the spasm to go, then felt for the painkillers in my pocket. When had I last taken them? Was it with my breakfast at ten o’clock? If it was, I’d better make the pills last another couple of hours. The doctor had already taken me to task saying that all that constant OD-ing was ruining my liver. Had he been trying to be funny?

What was their name, dammit! Was it Chrome? Chronyl? Or… Chronos? Exactly. Chronos. I Googled their office number.

"Chronos life extension, how can I help you?" chimed a young female voice, soft and eager.

"I, er," I faltered. "I mean, hi. It’s about your cryonics program. Can I make an appointment or something?"

"Absolutely. I’m feeding you our location."

Forty minutes later, I parked up by a state-of-the-art business center. Their high-speed elevator gave me a bout of childish delight replaced by a new spasm of agony. I gave up and swallowed another pill with best wishes to my liver. It shouldn’t get any ideas about being transplanted, once I croaked, into some lucky alcoholic billionaire.

The client manager was too young and too pretty. A strategically undone button on her business blouse added to her cleavage and hindered my concentration. But despite her tender age, she spoke in a competent voice and her eyes filled with compassion and purpose as we talked.

"We’ve been in business since 1960s in the US alone. Now we’re offering a large spectrum of cryonics services in dozens of our centers all over the world. It’s our fifth year worldwide, so you’ve come at the right moment to enjoy our anniversary discounts."

"Excuse me," I butted into her pitch. "Could you please tell me about the procedure? And, er, about your price range."

"Absolutely. Once the contract is signed and the payment clears our bank, we fit you with a sensor which feeds your data to our ER team. If your condition becomes critical, the team will remain on standby twenty-four-seven. Once you’re pronounced legally deceased, they begin the cryonics procedure in order to-"

"Wait a sec," I faltered. "What do you mean, legally deceased? Are you going to wait till I die?"

The manager gave me an understanding nod. She’d obviously heard the question hundreds of times. "We can’t freeze you alive, can we? Legally, it would be murder. So first we need to obtain a proper death certificate. Following that, our team of experts will perfuse a client’s tissues with our cryoprotective solution and begin freezing his body before transporting it to our cooldown facility where it is stored under liquid hydrogen in an individual cryostat container. The body remains there for the duration of the contract – usually, until the arrival of a resuscitation technology."

She beamed, delivering the good news, as if they’d already brought me back to life. I wasn’t so impressed, though. The prospects of me waiting for myself to die didn’t sound like a promise of immortality.

"So how much would it be in total?"

The girl produced the price list. Zeroes flickered before my eyes.

"Our anniversary campaign," she raised her finger, "allows us to drop the bottom line twenty percent. The complete package will cost you seventy thousand dollars."

She saw my raised eyebrows and hurried to add, "There is an option to only have your head stored for as little as twenty-five thousand. And for just six thousand we can preserve your DNA sample which will allow the science of the future to grow your clone. Our analysts believe that it might preserve part of your personality."

I stared at her. What was she saying? All they seemed to be doing was milking terminal patients for their last buck. Having said that, wasn’t official medicine doing the same? Their job was making more money, not helping us recover.

"I… I’ll think about it."

I stood up, ending her rosy pitch of incredible generosity. For a brief moment, the girl lost her sales drive and looked straight at me as she offered me her hand. "I have a funny feeling you’ll be all right… Max. Just don’t give up. I’ll see what I can do and I’ll give you a call. I might bring the bottom line down a bit."

"Thanks," I said, looking for her name tag. "Thank you… Olga. I’ll be all right."

I gave her another smile as I let her soft palm linger in my hand. Wistfully I released my fingers, turned round and strode out of reception. Interesting girl. A dark horse. Yesterday I’d have probably tried to get to know her better. You never know, it might have worked. But today… damn this cancer!

In any case, I had to look into it further. At least this cryonics stuff gave you half a chance. I couldn’t afford to dismiss any ray of hope, however ephemeral. The alternatives were too bleak to even start to contemplate. Had I had enough money, I’d have risked it: you couldn’t take your wallet with you, anyway. But I’d never been lucky enough to see so much dough, let alone possess it.

For the last two years, I’d finally gotten my act together. I’d prized my ass off the computer chair and began looking around, learning to mix and fit in while keeping my eyes on the ball. Funnily enough, my hobby had become my career—who was it that said, Find a job you love and you'll never have to work again? Basically, I’d started a hardware repair shop. I didn’t underprice myself, but I enjoyed doing quality work and always fixed a few extra bits the customer hadn’t paid me to do. Word-of-mouth marketing had me as a new and upcoming expert and the money flow grew deeper and wider. Not that my savings account had grown any healthier: I had too much to catch up on after all the years of vegetation. I got myself a new wardrobe and a two-year-old Hyundai. I could finally afford to take a girl out or help Mom financially. All that allowed me to feel human again, but I hadn’t arrived at the savings stage yet. My little business had grown to the point where I started thinking about hiring an assistant when trouble came from the least expected place.

Anyway. Back to the drawing board. I needed money. My immediate goal was to leave Mom with as much as I could. After Dad had died in that wretched car accident, she’d been in a bad way, what with her heart and leg problems. She was a brick, was Mom – she’d even moved into Granddad’s old country house not far from Moscow. If you believed her, the country air did her good. But her miserable disability pension came nowhere near my recent assistance. Without my help, Mom would soon be living hand to mouth: clutching a few pennies by the grocer’s doors, counting them over and over as she calculated whether she had enough for some bread and a carton of milk or whether she’d have to wait and leave milk till Sunday?

My ultimate goal, however, was to find enough money for this cryonics thing. I needed a chance. I could always lie down and die if it came to that. Now where would I get hold of a hundred thousand dollar bills? Could I maybe rip off a get-rich-quick scammer or corrupt functionary? I had no qualms whatsoever about doing so, but even then you had to agree that moneybags weren’t that easy to approach these days. Without proper training, you couldn’t really penetrate their guarded residences. I was likely to get busted before I even started and spend the last weeks of my life behind bars – if their bodyguards didn’t put me to rest in a local graveyard before that.

Next. Could I win some money in a lottery? Or in a game? Chances were minimal but you can’t win if you don’t try. I made a mental note to set aside a few hundred for a casino. Let’s see if Lady Luck had the hots for me.

Now. What else? Where could you find lots of money in one place? A bank sounded about right. So should I maybe go around shoving scribbled notes to unsuspecting tellers, Put all the money in a bag—I have a gun? Wonder if they're trained to deal with that sort of emergency? Bullshit. So they’ll offer you a few handfuls of whatever they happen to have in the till, big deal. Even if you manage to escape unscathed, you’ll have to rinse and repeat the whole procedure a couple dozen times.

Besides, Mom would end up taking the money back to them. Which was where they’d fleece her for every penny she’d ever had. Having said that, why raid a bank when you can nicely apply for a loan? I was an old respected customer, successfully self-employed. All I needed to do was to bring along lots of paperwork confirming my healthy income. So that’s what I’d do, then: straight back home to pick up the papers. And the business plan I’d drafted the other day would come in handy, too.

The teller sent me directly to the manager. He was the one dealing with large loans and he turned out to be a lively gray-haired gentleman with a definite Jewish air about him. He listened to me rather skeptically and began leafing through my paperwork, pouting his lips. He must have come to a decision as he nodded.

"Very well, young man. We seem to have finally left the credit crisis behind us. The President is all for supporting small businesses and we’d be stupid not to listen to him. In your case, I believe I can see some potential. If you keep applying your head as you’ve been applying your hands, you might get something out of it in the end. A hundred thousand is a bit too tall, don’t you think? You just won’t need it so we’re not giving it to you. But twenty… say, thirty thousand – I think we could manage that. So let’s see what we can expect back from it."

The manager moved the keyboard closer and tapped away. Every now and then he’d stop and move his lips, peering at the text on the screen. Then he frowned and leaned closer to the monitor. I tensed, sensing things weren’t going as planned. The manager looked up at me. Shook his head. Then he pushed the keyboard away and sat back.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk. I have to admit I thought better of you, young man. I’m sorry about your situation, I really am. So here you are asking me for help and I’m quite prepared to give you some money like you were my own son. And all you’re doing you’re setting Jacob Finkelstein up for an unrecoverable loan? Feh! Didn’t you know that your ID card had access to your medical records? In case of interest, all one needs to do is apply for them. And our interest in you is quite understandable, don’t you think?"

The man looked quite upset. I wished the earth could swallow me whole, like when I’d wetted my pants back at the nursery school. Being caught in flagrante, red-handed… As far as crooks went, I was pretty lousy – I lacked the nerve. My cheeks burned as I rose from the creaking chair.

"I just meant to leave some money to my mother. She’s sick, you know… I’m sorry," I mumbled, avoiding his stare.

I stepped toward the exit when the manager barked, "I’m not finished with you yet!"

He waited for me to turn back to him and went on, "I can’t say I don’t sympathize with your situation. But it doesn’t mean I can allow you to defraud me. You’re blushing – that’s a good sign. So allow me to give you some advice. Every bank has access to your data and that includes gray-market dealers too. So I suggest you give them a miss. All they’ll do they’ll make sure you don’t live as long as you had hoped. Even a retailer won’t offer you a consumer credit over ten thousand rubles without checking his computer first. You know what I mean? Under ten thousand, in major retail stores. You understand?"

He looked me straight in the eye as he enunciated the last words.

Had I understood him? You bet.

"Yes," I said softly. "Under ten thousand, in major retail stores."

The man lowered his eyelids, pushed the forgotten paperwork pile across the desk toward me and nodded at the door. "You can go now. God help you, young man."

* * *

Strictly Confidential

To Security Service Curator General Alesiev V.A.

The experiment results report No 118/2

Location of the experiment: The detention room of the Federal Security Agency

Subjects: 20 detainees of various age, ethnicity and gender

Exposure world: Virtual Eden 6.51

The experiment results showed that the first incident of 'getting perma-stuck' took place after five hours of uninterrupted exposure. The last one occurred on the seventh day. The following eighteen days of virtual exposure did not bring about any further results. Seventeen of the subjects proved susceptible to the perma mode effect. Their bodies sank into a coma-like state. All attempts to resuscitate them by use of pain shocking, drugs and CPR procedures didn’t render any result.

At this stage we can conclude that the perma mode is irreversible. The FIVR-located personalities of affected individuals—the so-called 'perma players'—did not show any reactions to the termination of their respective host bodies.

Upon completion of the experiment, all bodies were buried at the FSA disposal site (lots 411-431). The FIVR server infocrystals were recycled in accordance with Procedure 719.

Chapter Two

For the next five days I was really busy. The feeling of time slipping through my fingers pushed me harder than any number of motivational coaches. Had I lived my whole life as if every day was the last, I’d have been driving a Bentley before I turned thirty.

For a start, I raked together whatever cash I had. That included collecting a couple of pretty well written-off debts. One of the debtors was reduced to hiccupping, amazed at my aggressive stance. It didn’t amount to much—about three grand give or take, of which four hundred and a whole precious day were wasted on repeat exams in a private clinic. All they did was confirm the initial diagnosis. The only difference was that their doctor insisted that I be admitted straight away for some proper care and a possible few extra weeks—or months—to live. I told him very nicely that I’d think about it, then legged it. Vultures.

I splurged five hundred more on a casino. Actually, I was on the point of winning a couple grand, but that wasn’t what I’d come there for so I kept betting on color doubling up after each loss. In theory, provided there were no limitations to the size of your bet or your wallet, you might just end up in the black if you quit in time. But my particular wallet had quit after having backed black seven times while the wheel kept throwing up just reds. The croupier suppressed a smirk. As if I didn’t know that he could come up with any number he pleased. What he didn’t know was that I was staking my life, not just my money. But it wouldn't have changed jack shit.

For three more days I was doing the rounds of the retail stores buying on credit cell phones, game consoles and other such electronic junk. In the evenings, I’d drive to the market and flog it for a third of the real price.

Now I sat in a burger joint, my aching legs stretched out under the table, my stomach reluctantly digesting whatever artery-cloggers they had on the menu. Pointless trying to lead a healthy lifestyle. I was entitled to whatever I fancied, be it food or activity. Should I smoke a cigarette? Shame really, considering how much effort I’d put into doing cold turkey only a year ago. Right. What was on my agenda for tomorrow? First thing I needed to pop by the lawyer’s and get a letter about parents not assuming responsibility for their children’s consumer credits. Just in case a bailiff paid Mom a visit after my death.

I didn’t like the way it sounded. After my death, bah. From the lawyer I had to go back home and sort through my digs. I had to decide what to give away and what to take to a boot sale. The rest was going straight to the dump. I didn’t want strangers – or Mom even, for that matter – to rummage through my underpants and dusty mementos. I also needed to go through my photos and paperwork and trash the more personal items. Then, back to my retailers to ruin their insurance statements by a few more cents.

My iPhone vibrated over the slippery table top, gradually sliding to the edge. I didn’t recognize the number so I kept watching the gadget’s suicide attempt. On the ninth beep it plunged and leapt down onto the tiles.

I caught it halfway to the floor giving a wink to the picture of a pretty young mother complete with kid who observed my actions from the phone screen. "Yes."

‘Max? Hi. This is Olga from Chronos."

I glanced at the clock. It was well past eight. "You seem to be working long hours. Be careful they don’t run you into the ground."

I heard a short polite laugh. "Not at all. I’m already finishing. You’re the last on my call list," her voice grew serious. "So, have you decided anything?"

"I’m afraid I haven’t," I shook my head as if she could see it. "It’s too expensive. No way I can afford it. Some other time, maybe? Some other life?"

"I see."

Was it my imagination or was the sympathy in her voice genuine? Or was it still her sales pitch?

"Max, I… I'm not sure you know but our company has access to our potential clients’ medical records. In case something needs checking, you understand…"

I winced. In this electronically-controlled world, privacy was quickly becoming obsolete.

"So I know all about your situation. My mom died of cancer three years ago, too," she faltered and sniffled. I could see her wiping the corner of her eye with a Kleenex trying not to smear her mascara. "This was what influenced my decision to work for Chronos. But there’s something I want you to know… Max," her voice grew stronger. "Cryonics isn’t the only solution. There’s another option, too."

I pricked up my ears. "Which is?"

"Have you ever tried playing computer games? Those online multiplayer ones?"

I winced again. "I used to. A lot. Really a lot."

"Are you a professional gamer, then? You know all about these things, do you?"

"No, I don’t," I crumpled the paper napkin and shoved it into an unfinished soft drink. "You need to earn serious money to be called a pro. You must use your skill to help push the product, or at least to farm elite items to sell, or rush newbies. I was a regular hardcore shithead, excuse my French. Spent twelve hours a day playing. I’ve pissed away my friends, my girl and my studies. Only when my Dad died in a car accident and my Mom was left on my hands handicapped for life, only then did I manage to pull myself away from the monitor. I freaked out and formatted the disks. Since then I don’t even read gaming news for fear of a relapse."

Olga sniffled again. I made a mental note not to go ballistic every five seconds. I was getting too easy to wind up. My nerves were like live wires.

"I’m sorry, Olga. I’m just tired. And it still hurts me to talk about it. So what’s that option you mentioned? What’s that got to do with gaming?"

"Have you ever heard anything about going perma mode? You haven’t. That’s funny. It’s all over the news these days. Even on television. Officially, the problem doesn’t even exist. State TV won’t touch it with a barge pole. But us – despite all our aggressive marketing tactics, our customer database has dropped seventy percent. That’s sensitive information, of course, so I haven’t told you anything-"

"Just spit it out," I butted in. "I don’t give a damn about your sensitive shit. What’s this perma stuff you’re on about?"

"Please understand, I’m not an expert. I don’t think I can explain it correctly. Look it up. It’s all over the Internet."

"I will. Thanks for the tip. I owe you one. Do you like champagne?"

"I prefer flowers."

"Agreed. Flowers and champagne," I couldn't help smiling.

I thanked her some more and mumbled a hasty goodbye. Then I jumped into my trusty Korean tin can and headed back home, the new hope forcing my foot down. In less than an hour, I was sitting in front of my computer screen taking in search results.

The Internet community was in a frenzy. Apparently, about two years ago, gaming blogs, portals and clan forums had been flooded with the first scary reports as more and more people had become stuck in a game for good. Nothing could sever the person’s connection with the game server, not even unplugging the Internet and shutting down the capsule. Later, it turned out that the person’s mind didn’t need a connection as it bled into the game world leaving its empty shell outside, devoid of identity.

No one was sure of the existence of those unlucky enough to get perma stuck (or go perma mode, or get digitized, as some had put it) within a basic game of chess or Tetris. Nor would you envy those whose mind was locked inside various tanks, fighter planes and other combat simulators. No matter how much you loved your fighting gear, getting burned alive dozens of times a day scorched inside a tank's red-hot hull had become many a gamer’s personal hell—literally.

Luckier were those perma-stuck inside full-feature worlds of multiplayer online games. Billions of square miles of their premises offered a well-developed social structure and a life virtually indistinguishable from reality. Apparently, quite a few victims were happy enough to escape there. No need to work or study, no worries about tomorrow, no staring into the mirror contemplating your flabby body and spotty (or, alternatively, wrinkled) face. Within FIVR, you were tough and strong. You were your own master. Certain population categories had come to appreciate a virtual life over their current existence.

The handicapped and terminally ill would attempt to go perma mode in the hope of obtaining new healthy bodies for themselves, however virtual. Some of the more computer-literate senior citizens took their places inside FIVR capsules looking forward to immortality, especially desirable when life is already slipping through your fingers. They were joined by those on death row. Star-crossed lovers, too, instead of hurling themselves from a cliff in one final embrace, chose a suitable world to get stuck in. Tolkien’s fans and historical reenactors with their dreams of being reborn as Elves, dwarfs and mages entered capsules in an ecstasy of anticipation. The statistics pointed at a growing suicide epidemic raging among the unlucky seventeen percent immune to the perma mode effect. They craved being digitized. The timing was fatally right.

Governments sounded the first alarms. New laws restricted the duration of full-immersion capsule time. The state monitored every game server containing even a single perma player. Official statements promised that such servers would never be disconnected.

No idea how I’d managed to miss all that hoo-hah. My fingers trembled as I kept digging deeper and deeper into the Internet. Cigarette butts floated in empty coffee cups after I’d rummaged the cupboards for a long-forsaken pack of Camel.

I met the morning by the open kitchen window, drawing on the last cigarette. My eyes watered. The coffee I’d drunk was now churning in my stomach. But everything inside me cheered at the news. This was it. This didn’t involve paying a king’s ransom for being deep-frozen like a drumstick. This was an honest-to-God hole to escape into giving the Grim Reaper the finger.

I still had a lot to do. There were technicalities to consider: which capsule would allow me to bypass the preinstalled timer restricting immersion type and duration? Numerous freshly-baked perma forum gurus recommended aiming for a week or two of full immersion, but how was I supposed to last all that time without food, water and medication? Lots of people had successfully answered those questions for themselves: all I had to do was dig for more info and process it wisely choosing the solutions that suited my particular situation. A dozen manuals and video guides were already downloading. The links to several dodgy sites that sold FIVR jailbreak chips were already sitting in my Favorites. Open browser tabs glinted with scary-looking pictures of multi-stage IV drips and saline canisters. Things had begun to cook. The technicalities proved doable, after all.

I still had to choose the world to go to. I had to decide who to play and how to do it. I had tons of sites and forums to peruse. If you set aside two weeks for the attempt itself, it left me with five to seven days to do the research. Way not enough. It was hit or miss. Time to bet on zero!

* * *

From Wikipedia:

AlterWorld is an MMOG (massively multiplayer online game) first released in May 203X.

Number of players: 48,000,000, with an increase of 1,400,000 new players each month.

Connection type: 2/3D FIVR capsule. Immersion types: full/restricted.

World size: 552,126 square miles, with an increase of 4,633 square miles each month.

New territories, NPCs, mobs and quests are generated by an AI group controlled by AI Ray31.

World administrator: AI Crimson9

Deposit and withdrawal of real funds and virtual property sales topping $42 billion a year.