The Feedback Loop (Books 4-6): Sci-fi LitRPG Series (The Feedback Loop Box Set Book 2)

by Harmon Cooper

  Chapter Four

  Deep in the heart of Texas riding the lightning like Metallica, and I’m not talking about DJ Ride the Lightning! In an unrelated note, Holo Lars, or Larsogram, recently threw a temper tantrum about DJ Death Magnetic releasing free stems of Metallica’s folktastic 1997 album, Acoustic Metal. Talk about some good coding, though; even the holograph version of the bucket-banger is a rich Jobby!

  I digress.

  Think of every simile and metaphor you’ve ever heard to describe thunder and then make them all Texas-sized and right on top of you, in the middle of an artillery barrage while a giant uses your head to pound a bass drum the size of Oklahoma. Doc’s sealed and heavily insulated RV vibrates and buzzes like a hooptie aeros with the ten-thousand-dollar sound system. I feel it in my chest, my eardrums, my DNA.

  I sit up in my bunk, remove the NV Visor and place it on a hook hanging from the wall. Off come the haptic gloves and I give my peepers a good rubbing for a moment. It’s always strange coming out of a Proxima World; I liken it to waking up from a restless night’s sleep or a prolonged nap. That sense of where the hell am I is ever present, as is a slight sense of delirium.

  You’d think I’d get used to this shit by now.

  “Is Texas always like this?” I ask as soon as my feet are on the ground. I look towards the main cabin and catch Doc taking a calm sip from his beer as Arnie drives. He dropped out of the aeroslane as soon as the storm started.

  Sophia sits in her normal spot, using her lab coat as a blanket. Another thing I’ve noticed about logging out – sometimes I’ll have a rehab chill running through me. Other times, I’ll be hotter than a two-dollar pistol.

  “No, sometimes the sun gently shines, the humidity’s about fifty percent, the temperature’s seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit and beauteous bikini babes bring you lobster kebabs and umbrella drinks whilst you sit ‘neath a beach umbrella and twiddle your tootsies in the surf.” He shakes his head in disbelief, “Of course the weather is like this all the time – this is TEXAS, smack-dab in the middle of Tornado Alley.” As if to further make his point, lightning washes the interior of the Miss Sally Jupiter with too-bright glare, followed by more Götterdämmerung thunder and the vehicle yaws in the crosswind. Good thing we have Arnie at the wheel – there’s so much rain I can hardly make out the taillights of the car in front of us. It’s a slimy rain too, the type that puddles up and stays, regardless of how hard the windshield wipers slice at it.

  “Day-um, it’s a rainin’ goats and llamas out there!” Arnie says in his good ol’ boy patois. “Whoo-hee-boy, thems some big ol’ critters too. Better get to building that Ark you keep talking about, Doc.”

  “The Ark is to keep everything out, not invite them in. Aside from you, Sally,” he coos to his service goat, “and a few choice critters back in Gun Barrel City, and Arnie and Arnette.”

  I cock an eyebrow. “What about Mrs. Doc?”

  “Pfft! Who do think decides whether or not to let me back in?”

  Arnie silently nods.

  “Can we keep our voices down for a minute?” Sophia rubs her temples.

  Doc snorts, looks to me, nods and finishes his beer. “We? What, are you French? You got a mouse in your pocket? What’s with this ‘we’? You know, Dr. Wang, it would be to everybody’s benefit if you could just maybe dial the bitchy princess back a bit, at least until we get to the motel, which won’t be long now. Can you do that for me, Doctor?”

  “Motel?” I ask. “I thought we were going to your place?”

  “Why would you think that? Did I say that?” he asks. “Well, Gun Barrel City is my place, or at least the surrounding area, but you three will be staying at a motel for the night. It ain’t too shabby; not as good as the place back in Denver, but the breakfast is better. At least the bacon is, anyway. They don’t have pancakes either; they have a waffle press instead.”

  “That’s fine by me,” I say.

  “Frances and I can order something from a drone.” Sophia closes her eyes, opens them a few seconds later.

  “Let your hair down a little,” I tell her, “I mean fro.”

  She puffs out her hair. “You know I can’t eat food like that.”

  “Not even with your old pal, Quantum?”

  “And me,” Doc says, “while I won’t be staying at the motel, I will be joining you for breakfast. Already cleared it with the owner – he sold me a pair of llamas a few years back.”

  “I’d love to see your place, Doc.”

  “No doubt. No offense Quantum, but no.”

  “When are we going back to Baltimore again?” Sophia asks.

  Doc laughs. “You and your French mouse can go back anytime; Arnie’ll be more than happy to drop you at the Greyhound station in Terrell – there’s two of ‘em.”

  She gives a heartfelt and theatrical sigh but says nothing.

  I open the fridge and reach for his last Shiner Bock. “Do you mind?” I ask him, waving the bottle in his direction.

  ‘By all means,” he says, “plenty more at the house.’

  The sky continues with the 1812 Overture as I make my way to the back of the RV. Frances is crouched in front of the skip box, checking its connection. My eyes jump from her to Luther Godsick. He’s got a blanket over him and respiratory equipment strapped to his face. With his NV visor on, it looks like he’s wearing some sort of designer pollution mask.

  “How is he?” I sit in one of the fold-down seats at the foot of the bed.

  “Fine,” she says, not making eye contact with me.

  Lightning flashes again.

  “Hopefully, we won’t lose connection,” she says. “If we do, the skipbox will try to connect remotely to the closest tower it can find. It uses a different bandwidth than a normal rig.”

  “So he’ll be all right?” I ask.

  “He should be. The skipbox can connect to a cell tower up to a thousand miles away. If that doesn’t work, it switches to a private satellite connection.”

  “Good,” I tell her, “We need to keep him alive. Can you imagine the shit we’d be in if he went into cardiac arrest or something?”

  She shakes her head. “Let’s not even go there.”

  ~*~

  Gun Barrel City doesn’t have much more than a Dairy Queen and a mom and pop tool supply shop. There’s a convenient store called Bubba’s which doubles as a supermarket flanked by a roadside ice machine that reminds me of a zamboni. Maybe there’s more to the city – hard to tell with the rain – but if there is, it ain’t much to look at and I get the feeling that’s why Doc likes it.

  “There it is,” Doc says, “The one Star Inn.”

  “That’s the name?” Sophia lays her head back on the seat rest, exposing her neck as she stares up at the ceiling. I can’t tell if she’s tired, annoyed or both, and frankly, I don’t give a damn. We’ve been caged together since we left for Colorado – it’s about time for ol’ Quantum to exit stage left before he gets snappy.

  “Sure is, darlin’. Used to be ‘The Lone Star Inn’, but the ‘L’ got blown off in the tornado of 2033, and the owner never replaced it. And get that there look off yer face. It’s clean, quiet, friendly, relatively vermin-free, passed its last health code inspection with only a minimum bribe, and it has an all-you-can-eat breakfast buffet.” Arnie pulls into the parking lot, a weathered, pot-holed, awkwardly sloped lot with ridges in the macadam. He hits a pothole bigger than a moon crater and I nearly lose my brewski. I catch it just in time.

  “Damn! Arnie, remind me to check the tires when we get to the house.”

  “No prob, Doc.”

  Me: Does that mean: Arnie, remind me to remind you to check the tires when we get to the house?

  Frances Euphoria: Maybe.

  Me: You feelin’ all right, Dollface?

  Frances Euphoria: I’m fine.

  Me: Why the short words? Why the pouty eyes?

  Frances Euphoria: I’m fine.

  Me: Sure?

  Frances Euphoria: Sure.
<
br />   The streetlamp casting a marmalade glaze on the parking lot flickers off and on, giving depth to the rain. I watch it for a moment, even after Doc has kicked open the door and told us that we’d better get inside before the rain picks up; even after Sophia stands, mumbles something about how she already hates Texas; even after Frances exits and Arnie moves to the back to keep an eye on Godsick Jr. while we check-in.

  Doc pops his head back into the RV. “You comin’ or not? ‘Cause you can’t stay here!”

  ~*~

  Knock Knock. Who’s there? Quantum. Quantum who? Wouldn’t you like to know, Bub!

  A good or bad joke would do little to cut the tension I sense as I stand in front of Frances’ door, thirty minutes after we’ve all settled into our rooms. Doc’s long gone and Rocket has been quiet on his end too, likely with his Steam gal. I’ve cleaned some of my post-dive stank off through a good ol’ hot shower and I’m not gonna lie, I’m feeling pretty dapper even though I’m still wearing yesterday’s shirt.

  The door handle clicks.

  “What’s cookin’ good-lookin’?” I ask, my eyes on the latched chain. It ain’t quite a chastity belt, but the message is clear as day.

  Frances is in a terry cloth bathrobe and boy do I wish this were a steamy start to a late-night Skinemax flick. She smells fresh as a bouquet, her short hair dark and damp and molded to her head, and her skin pinkly fresh. I’d let out a less-than-subtle ‘hubba-hubba’ if it weren’t for the cold glare she’s currently giving me.

  “Can I come in?”

  “I ordered you some new clothes,” she says, “they’ll be here later tonight and you can pick them up in the morning.”

  “Is that your way of saying no?”

  “What, that not clear? Okay – no. I feel like being alone tonight,” she says.

  “Want to hit up a Proxima World? I’m sure Ray Steampunk would be happy for the update. Rocket’s probably there too with his Proxima gal.”

  She raises an eyebrow at me. “Really? If I’m not going to let you in and haul your ashes – is that the proper Loop phrase – haul your ashes, you want to go Proxima Diving to Steam instead? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  Oh, this is really not going well.

  “ … Um … yeah. Could be fun, better than Pee-Wee’s Playhouse World, anyway. So yeah, Steam. I wouldn’t mind putting the kibosh on some marauders. Seems like a fun thing to do before catching some real world Zs.”

  “Why don’t you just come out and say it?”

  Fire in the hole! The thunder is loud enough to make me wonder if I do indeed have PTSD. “Say what?” I ask after it has settled.

  “You want to log in and check on Dolly.”

  She just read me like a book, a picture book, even. I figured there’d be no hanky-panky tonight, but I didn’t expect her to hit nail square on the head. Stings too.

  “Am I right?” she asks.

  “You aren’t wrong, but there ain’t a politician out there that would say this means that you’re right in any sense of the word. In all seriousness, you got me. Screw Steam, and yes, I’d like to hit up Tritania. Come on already, wouldn’t you be interested to see what’s happening? I’d bet my bottom dollar that Sophia is already logged in taking notes in preparation for her next PhD.”

  “Not as interested as you are, apparently, and since when do you care what Sophia’s up to?”

  “Jeez Louise, you’re taking this all the wrong way! What about the science? The discovery … um … aspect of all this.”

  “The discovery aspect?” She rolls her eyes, takes her time doing it too. “Look, I know you have feelings for her, so don’t insult my intelligence with the ‘oh, it’s for science’ bull poopy. You want to go, then go … just go, but I’m not going to act like I’m all okay with it or salve your conscience about it.”

  “She was my sigoth for two years!” I say just a wee bit too loud and whiny. I glance down the hallway to see if anyone is privy to our little hallway argument. No doors open, but I do hear a door lock.

  “Eight years is more like it.”

  “Two subjective years, we’ve been over this before.”

  Slam! goes the sound of the door right in my face.

  I raise my fist to knock, stop, and reconsider. It’s time to cut my losses and beat feet in retreat, Pete. We’ve all been cramped up together for several days now. Maybe a little break ain’t a bad idea after all.

  ~*~

  “Who is it?” I ask in my most intimidating voice.

  I am just about to settle into a dreamworld dive when I hear a knock at the door, and not your ordinary knock – this is a knock that means business. I stand next to the door with my swordstick as I recall Rollins shooting through the door like he was Ice Cube in the 2048 NWO Zombie movie.

  I unsheathe the blade.

  An envelope slips under the door; the sound of retreating footsteps in the hallway makes me breathe shallowly and stay quietly in place. Once I’m reasonably sure whoever’s gone, I reach for the letter with my swordstick’s blade. It doesn’t feel great bending over as it reminds of my age and the issues with my spine. I recall Zedic saying something to me about a surgical procedure. Nope, not gonna do it. My hardheadedness is going to be the death of me and I’m all right with that.

  Once I secure the letter, I return to my bed and open it.

  Sure, it could be a Ted Kaczynski special delivery, but it’s too light and too small for explosives. Unless it’s chock full o’ anthrax, I’ll probably be okay. I open it as soon as I’m seated on my bed; the groan that follows can probably be heard three doors down.

  Mr. Quantum Hughes,

  The United States Civil Monitoring Service has recently updated a draft resolution regarding the modification of a life chip while under the supervision of a/an:

  1) FDA Monitor;

  2) PTSD monitor;

  3) Teen Pregnancy Counselor;

  4) Involuntary Gender Reassignment Counselor;

  5) FAA Sponsor;

  6) Ethnicity Clarification Coordinator.

  As your FDA Monitor and your PTSD Monitor, you leave me no choice but to escalate your case for your own safety and well-being and the safety and well-being of those around you. Due to the fact you have blocked iNet communication access with me, you will receive another hand-delivered message in the morning outlining the next step regarding the process of case escalation.

  I look forward to working with you to resolve your psychosocial and nutritional issues.

  Yours sincerely,

  Evan

  FDA/ PTSD Monitor # 1351885

  “Mother PUS Bucket,” I mutter as I shred the letter into little, little pieces.

  If this were The Loop, I’d equip my pair of SIGs, item 60. I’d carjack an aeros taxi and make a beeline to Evan’s place of employment. It’d be all mayhem, madness, and murder he wrote by that point, and the mystery wouldn’t need Jessica Fletcher to solve it. No run and hide like a big sissy-chicken whiny-crybaby either; the coppers would find me at my favorite flophouse, sleeping like a baby on a demolition charge the size of a VolksAudi, with a smile on my kisser and the deadman switch in my fist.

  Yes officer, I’ll come quietly – KA-BOOMSKI!

  Okay, maybe I do need some help.

  Chapter Five

  I awake at the ass crack of dawn with the klieg light of a sun doing its best to burn out my rods and cones. Should have stapled shut the blinds, chased the vending machine Soy-Lentil-Sea Kelp microwave burrito with two bottles of Extra Strength Nyquil PM Plus and duct taped the pillows around my squash. I don’t need to check the weather to know that it’s already a scorcher out there. Davy Crockett could have said, You sir, can go to Hell, and I’ll go to someplace even hotter, and everyone would know where he was talking about.

  The NV Visor is my lap, a single haptic glove on my hand and a trail of flaky, dried sleepy drool down the side of my face. I try to remember logging in – all I can remember is tearing my FDA monitor’s letter to shreds, the
remnants of which are still scattered on the floor. And damn is this chair comfortable, the likely culprit for me crashing in la-la land like a rented Third-World airliner before I got the chance to dive.

  Doc: It’s 0634, you were supposed to be here at 0630.

  Me: On my way.

  A business-like knock at the door and here comes another love letter over the threshold.

  Mr. Quantum Hughes,

  The below list contains actions that you must take to de-escalate your case. Please start with first action point by registering at an FDA counseling service in your area. Please be advised that you must receive a minimum of 100 (one hundred) hours of documented counseling to move onto the next action point. You are required to use your own funds to pay for any services related to this plan, but these payments may be used as an income tax offset if you file form 1299-FU with your 2059 taxes.

  Unfortunately, I am not at liberty to provide tax advice.

  Alternatively, you can attend next week’s Coping and Proactive Leadership Forum in Washington, D.C., which will take place at the Henley Park Hotel. Doing so will waive the requirements of your action plan and allow me de-escalate your case.

  If you have any questions, do not hesitate to contact me.

  Yours sincerely,

  Evan

  FDA/PTSD Monitor #1351885

  ~*~

  “So what happens if I just keep ignoring his messages?”

  There are waffles galore, bacon, sausage, hash browns, scrambled eggs, fruit, cereal, juice and coffee. I’ve got some of everything except fruit and cereal, which just take up valuable waffle space. The thought that I may have to attend an FDA sponsored Coping and Proactive Leadership Forum is enough to put me off my feed, just a bit.

  “Don’t worry about them.” Doc stuffs an astounding quantity of waffle into his … waffle hole, and politely gestures with his fork to let me know that he’ll finish in a moment. Once he does, he throws back his coffee and sighs. “Mr. Nahasapeemapetilon always makes his coffee way too strong here, but I don’t actively dislike it.”