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

by Harmon Cooper

  Me: You ain’t gonna let up, are you?

  Phil Hughes: I am not programed to let up. I am programed to assist.

  Me: Hold on a minute, will you?

  Phil Hughes: By all means, son, I mean, Quantum.

  Me: Doc, you there?

  Doc: Busy. Mrs. Doc made Lobster Thermidor aux crevettes with a Mornay sauce, garnished with truffle pâté, brandy, and a fried egg on top, and Spam for lunch. What’s up?

  Me: Is it possible to triangulate the position of my FDA Monitor?

  Doc: That’s not at all how triangulation works. I feel like we’ve been over this before.

  Me: I need him gone.

  Doc: What now?

  Me: He’s contacted me using my dad’s handle.

  Doc: They tried that with me using my brother’s handle. Just agree to whatever he asks and ignore him. These guys are all A.I., and they ain’t stupid either. Eventually they’ll take a hint and contact you less and less, until they practically leave you alone. My FDA Monitor, 8675309, Jenny, hasn’t contacted me in a year.

  Me: So it’s inadvisable to send Arnie to wherever this Humandroid is to take care of business?

  Doc: Yes, and don’t threaten your monitor. I made that mistake and it wasn’t pretty. Also, Arnie’s services ain’t yours to volunteer, capiche?

  Me: Got it. I’ll get back to him now.

  Phil Hughes: Hello? Have I lost you?

  Me: Nope, you haven’t. What do you want?

  Phil Hughes: Hi. I would like to confirm that you are attending the leadership conference in D.C. next week.

  Me: Sure, I’ll be there.

  Phil Hughes: I will be there as well. Additionally, I am under the impression that you are experiencing increased stress in your work environment which is exacerbated by your sub-optimal dietary choices and compounded by the additional sequelae related to the traumatic incident with the late Matthew Henderson.

  Me: Rollins, let’s just call him that.

  Phil Hughes: There also appears to be an issue you’re working through that we haven’t discussed yet. Two, actually.

  Me: Yeah?

  Phil Hughes: The recent death of a co-worker, Zedic Woods.

  Me: We weren’t very close. It was terrible how he died, but that’s the risk one takes in my line of work. Don’t worry about it, and don’t bother me about it.

  Phil Hughes: That, and your relationship with your divemate, Frances Euphoria.

  Me: What about my relationship with her?

  Phil Hughes: Federal guidelines for collegial interrelations within the workplace do not prohibit your relationship as long as it does not produce a threatening or otherwise hostile workplace environment for your other, non-relationship involved colleagues. The Dream Team is a government partnership, even though the majority of the money funding it now comes from the FCG. The Proxima Foundation still donates a portion of its investment returns to the program, although this number continues to drop yearly.

  Me: Why’s that?

  Phil Hughes: I charge extra for knowledge commonly available on Wikipedia.

  Me: You’re shitting me.

  Phil Hughes: I’m afraid Humandroids do not have the capacity to expel fecal matter. In fact, I was joking, I can tell you anything you’d like to know. Consider me a friend, friend.

  Me: If you want me to be your pal, pal, you should probably drop my pop’s name from your handle.

  FDA Monitor/PTSD Counselor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes, if you prefer this handle, that’s fine by me.

  Me: I’d prefer your handle just to be your first name. And I hate being called Mr. Hughes, I murdered someone two subjective years straight for doing this.

  Evan: I hope you mean within a Proxima Galaxy.

  Me: Wow, your intuitive abilities ain’t too shabby. Now, back to the explanation you were giving me.

  Evan: The Proxima Foundation’s donations to the Dream Team continue to drop because most, if not all, of the program deficiencies that stranded users in various Proxima Worlds have been remediated.

  Me: What about Reapers?

  Evan: Pardon?

  Me: RevCo, the Revenue Corporation.

  Evan: What does the Revenue Corporation have to do with this? They are a for-profit entity that assists users who are stranded in Proxima Worlds interface with insurance claims and other types of digital litigation.

  Me: Now you really are shitting me. The Revenue Corporation raises, brainwashes, and trains orphan children to become Reapers. They’ve murdered most if not all of the Proxima developers; they’ve killed countless people including Zedic Woods, and they’ve tried to kill me!

  Evan: Before we continue, I should warn you that our messages may be monitored or recorded for training or quality assurance purposes.

  Me: Yeah, what isn’t these days? I figured they were, but I’m telling you the damn truth here.

  Evan: That sounds very much like an accusation.

  Me: I was there when they killed Zedic. I saw it and this bitch that did it, she was once one of us.

  Evan: A Dream Team member?

  Me: No, part of our guild. A skirt named Veenure. The guy that came after me, the one I killed in the hotel, he was a Reaper as well.

  Evan: Matthew Henderson?

  Me: Rollins, and it gets worse, much worse. The head of the Reapers is Strata Godsick. He personally attacked Frances Euphoria in Steam, overrode the SpiderDoc in her dive tank and put her in the hospital.

  Evan: He’s CEO of the Revenue Corporation.

  Me: Again, that’s what I’m getting at here. Revenue Corporation = Reapers.

  Evan: It is an interesting theory. You said a player named Veenure killed Zedic Woods, correct?

  Me: I saw it with my own eyes.

  Evan: As you very well may imagine, I get told many, many things. I hear many, many obfuscations, prevarications, and outright fabrications as to why someone I’m only trying to help can’t follow FDA guidelines. That being said, there is something interesting regarding this Veenure person you’ve mentioned.

  Me: Yeah, what’s that?

  Evan: I like anagrams. I think they are a fun way to divert myself whilst I’m communicating with my clients. As you likely know, I have a short rest each night to recharge my batteries, so to speak. One of the pastimes my colleagues and I have developed is to take people’s full names and try to rearrange them to see if they form a funny phrase, or a quotation from the Bible. We also like to make our own riddles with long strings of names. Some of the riddles can be quite difficult, especially if we insert a math equation in them that nets a language akin to Leetspeak.

  Me: Were you getting at something, Evan? ‘Cause you lost me.

  Evan: I’ll get to the point. One possible anagram for the name Veenure is REVENUE. Do you see it now?

  ~*~

  “Holy crap, do I have a humdinger!” I tell the crew as soon as I return to the conference room.

  “Just listen to your FDA Monitor,” Sophia says with the wave of a hand. “There is no sense in combating them.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you guys, I did listen to my FDA Monitor, and he has a name – Evan.”

  “What did Evan say?” Rocket smirks.

  “I told him about the Reapers and RevCo and Veenure–”

  “You’re supposed to keep this stuff under wraps!” Frances says.

  “Relax, I was just explaining what happened to Zedic. Besides, Ol’ Evan has been tapping all your iNet feeds, all of them. He knows more than he should – way more. Get this: Veenure is an anagram for Revenue. Work it out for a moment.”

  Rocket pulls a day-glo green tactical anti-zombie pen from his pocket and works it out on the back of a napkin. Sophia narrows her eyes and looks off in the distance for a moment.

  “That’s great, Quantum,” says Frances, in the tone a doting mother would use with a not-especially-bright five-year-old.

  “It’s something, right? I mean, we can put it in the case, can’t we? How blatant is that?”
<
br />   “Oh yes, that’s the key piece of evidence we’ve been waiting for to sew this case up air-tight, Sherlock,” Sophia observes, “an anagrammatic coincidence from your FDA monitor. That will certainly hold up well in court.”

  A message flashes on the inside of my peepers but I ignore it. I’m just about to comment on how much I’d like to murdalize Strata when Frances’ eyes light up.

  “It’s dive time,” she says in a hurry. “Doc’s in, and Chrono has sent him a bird with pretty urgent message – Veenure will be at his shop soon!”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “Rocket, you take care of the graboids, capiche? The rest of us will arrange a little surprise for Veenure,” I tell him as Frances plugs me into the dive vat.

  I hear a grumble from his vat. “Alone? That’s not fair, I want to get in on the action.”

  “Oh, you’ll get plenty of action, I’m sure. How ‘bout I send Burly and the blokes to help out? Someone needs to put those Limey lobsters to work.”

  Rocket: They’ll only complicate things. What about Aiden?

  Me: We need Aiden.

  Rocket: He’s better than me, I get it.

  Me: Not that, just in case they use something killer diller on us. Aiden can take the brunt of the damage.

  Rocket: You’re the shield class, not him.

  Me: True, but he was coded for combat. Trust me on this one – you’ll get the chance to showcase your ninja moves later.

  “You’re ready.” Frances leans into my vat and kisses me. “Be careful,” she whispers. “I’ll be monitoring the three of you and if I see anything, anything out of the ordinary, I’ll try to force log the three of you out. Sometimes it works, sometimes it doesn’t, but it definitely won’t work in the OMIB so if you’re taken there, logout immediately.”

  “You have my word,” I tell her as the flashy wowsie-wow lights appear on the inside of my NV Visor.

  ~*~

  Damn the feedback. Bless the feedback.

  ~*~

  I awake on the other side of time in our guildhall to find Dolly standing bucky-tail nekkid and staring out at the courtyard.

  “Jeez, Doll.”

  She turns to me and gives me that same blank expression.

  “Put some clothes on, why don’t ya? People will be here any minute.”

  A little flash in the corner of my eye tells me that people are here now.

  “Rocket,” I say before he can get himself an eyeful. “I’m going to need you to go ahead and turn around.”

  “What? Why? Oh!”

  “Thata boy.”

  Frances Euphoria: I wonder if the no-clothes thing is a symptom of her amnesia?

  “Aiden … ” I check under the table. “Come on, pal. Drop your linen and start your grinnin’. It’s show time!”

  “Boo.”

  I nearly soil my armor when I hear his voice right in my ear. I turn, point my finger at him. “Oh Come ON! You’re killing me with that!”

  “Easy there big fella, just having a bit o’ fun.” His eyes sparkle and I can feel his predatory grin behind his mask.

  “And why is Dolly naked again?”

  “Ooh! Riddles! I don’t know – why is Dolly naked again? What do I win if I guess right?”

  “Seriously.”

  “I dunno, man. Wasn’t my turn to watch her,” he says as he moves over to her. “I do have a life outside of the murder, madness and mayhem, you know.” He magics a floral kimono from wherever he gets that sort of thing and drapes it over her shoulders.

  “Nice bathrobe,” Doc trip-trap-trips up next to me. “Where’s Ms. Brainulo?”

  “Out there, annoying the Lobby Boys.” Aiden says. “Who do you think Dolly was watching?”

  Sure enough, Sophia is in the courtyard directing the Brits. She has a clipboard and a bright pink hardhat perched on her bulbous bouffant in the finest Marge Simpson fashion. A new floating banner above her head declares that she is the PERSON OF FORE. Pip and his sheep, both in construction gear, are dragging a cart loaded with bricks. The Quiet one leans out a window, and points something out to Scotty, who’s tastefully garbed in a neon yellow McWally tartan reflective safety kilt with a flashing, stroboscopic sporran.

  “Person of Fore?” I ask as step out. “Sophia, I’m pretty sure Burly can handle this.”

  In her Lady-of-the-Manor manner, she instructs Pip on some finer point of building with masonry and catches a cold glare from him as he NPC-handles the cartload of yellow bricks past her. The safety-vested and hard-hatted sheep follows Pip, gives Sophia the official ovis aries stink eye of her own, and dribbles droppings at Sophia’s feet as she passes. I do note that the NPC actually is following her orders, albeit with bad grace, which I have to admire.

  “How are you getting them to do what you tell them?” I ask as she floats over to me.

  “I assist in their self-actualization by giving them the respect and admiration they crave.”

  “Pfft! Pull the other one – it plays ‘Hail to the Chief Executive’. Number one, if they can’t drink it, fight it, or fuh … furgle it, they don’t crave it. Number two, I seriously doubt that you respect or admire anyone who isn’t you. So really – how are you getting them to work for you?

  She huffs in exasperation. “I pay their tab at The Green Midget House of Sensual Massage and Tattoo Parlour. I tried reasoning with them, but that produced a sub-optimal outcome.”

  “They ignored you.”

  Doc harrumphs from inside. “Hey, John Galt; if you and Alisa Rosenbaum are all done exploiting the proles, we should really get a move on.”

  “Yes!” Rocket raises his hand and a kusarigama appears, the chain of the blade connected to a grip in his lower fist. He grunts like a goat in heat, performs a few stylized wuxia chops and doesn’t slip, fall, or otherwise spoil the effect. I almost feel sorry for what I tell him next. Almost.

  “Nice moves, Ace. You’ll need those when you’re killing off the graboids in the Ivy’s garden.”

  He gulps. “I’m not going with you guys?” The weapon disappears and a tear graphic appears over his head.

  “We already talked about this.” I place my arm around his shoulder in a manly display of mentorly camaraderie. “Look kid; it ain’t glamorous, and it probably won’t be a non-stop gigglefest, but it’s important and it needs to be done. And at least you don’t have to sit around like Frances watching everyone else have fun.”

  Frances Euphoria: Oh, so that’s what an in-game monitor does, huh?

  Me: Little help here, huh?

  “If you ask nice and take ‘em to the Green Midget afterward, I’ll bet a couple of the Brit Assassins would help you out.”

  “I’ll go,” Dolly says. “Where are we going?”

  The five of us turn to her.

  “Dolly, you should stay here.”

  Sophia shrugs. “Let her go, it’ll get her out of the house and maybe she’ll learn to keep her clothes on.”

  Burly does that ‘step out of thin air’ thing directly in front of me, and looks like something from the mud plains of Glastonbury. He’s caked in yellowish-gray clay, stone chippings, concrete dust, and sheep poo.

  “Working on the moat,” he says as he wipes dirt from his cheek. “And if anyone is going with ‘erself to ensure ‘er safety, it’s me.” He snaps his fingers and he’s as clean and pink and pretty as an un-pooed pig with a petunia; a shining suit of Fiftieth Anniversary, officially licensed Spamalot Commemorative armor replaces his soiled work overalls. His hair lengthens and poofs up in the front like he’s got a knock-off Caesar Flickerman toupee. “Blue or purple? ‘Ow about Union Jack?” The sides go blue and a red strip lined with white travels from his forehead to the back of his neck. “Whatcha think o’ that, then?”

  Aiden snickers. “I didn’t know they made tinned poofter!”

  “You look like an armored pet detective!” Doc chortles.

  “How long will you stay fresh in that can?” Rocket wants to know.

  “Oz just cal
led. They want their tinman back.” Sophia adds, to everyone’s surprise. “What?” she says when we turn to look, “You think you’re the only ones who can come up with risible one-liners? I am smart, you know.”

  Burly clangs his reply; his metallic fist clutches his armored codpiece and waggles it at us. He grumbles something about a bunch of ‘wankers with chancres’.

  “The hair’s good though,” Doc says. “Sophia, send the four of us to Chrono’s place if you would, please.”

  She nods. “You mean outside Kayi, right? The Reapers may have set up an LAT for newly spawned PCs.”

  Rocket translates before I can turn to him.

  Rocket: Local Area Trigger for Player Characters.

  Me: I know what PC means.

  Rocket: @_@

  “Yes,” Doc says, “outside their LAT. Let’s go and Aiden, stay frosty.”

  ~*~

  We materialize on a rise surrounded by corn fields, lots and lots of cornfields; the stalks of which are as high as an elephant’s ocular apparatus, and they extend to the horizon in all directions. There’s enough here for He Who Walks Behind the Rows, Xquic, Shoeless Joe Jackson, and Graham Hess for at least the next hundred years, and there’d still be enough left over to provide the entire population of Battle Creek Michigan with a lifetime supply of hush puppy tacos.

  “Awww shucks,” I say, but I get no respect.

  Sophia lowers to the ground as soon as she’s spawned. The sun, high in the sky, filters through her Robe of Illusion. “Equip everything you plan to use now, so you don’t have to do so in battle.”

  She takes her own advice: a tiara with a green jewel appears on her head and her mutant hack claws form over her fingers. The armor under Doc’s tactical vest inflates and gilded armor forms on his legs and hooves, giving him the Sailor Man look to Sophia’s Sailor Moon. Aiden suits up in more or less the same way, back to his Shredder gladrags with his Swissorsword and Slice Bang slung across on his back. I’m last up to get ready for the ball: while I don’t have much to add aside from my Vibranium alloy dragonscale armor, item 573 and item 164, my Doc Martens 1919 steel-toe work boots.