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

by Harmon Cooper

  Yours in sanity,

  Harmon Cooper

  P.S. By reviewing this series, you increase the chances of it reaching other readers. You also increase the likelihood of a neuroscientist contacting me and putting me in my place or even better, telling me how this could actually work.

  I leave you with this -- would you dive to a dream world if it were possible? I think my answer may surprise you, but I’ll put that one in the next installment of the Feedback Loop’s Back of the Book Shit.

  The Mechanical Heart Preview

  The Feedback Loop Book Five

  SAMPLE

  Harmon Cooper

  Edited by George C. Hopkins

  Chapter One

  “I told you no more frickin’ cowboy stuff!” Mirror twists, rears up and nearly tosses us from her back.

  Rocket: Screenshot!

  Rocket’s doing his in-game monitor thing which mostly consists of taking screenshots of impressively hootered PCs, cool battle stuff, and me getting killed in embarrassing ways. When he’s not occupied with that, he conducts in-game research and relays critical information to us just after we need to know it.

  We, the Knights of Non Compos Mentis – Sophia Wang, Veenure, Aiden, Frances Euphoria, and yours truly – are dragon riding, flying high and looking for trouble.

  It feels good to say that.

  I slap my white rhinestone cowboy hat, item 34, against her mirrored side like T. J. Kong riding the big one down. “Yeeehaw!”

  “I said no cowboy shit!” She loops, rolls, and corkscrews to ensure I get the message, folds her wings and plummets down towards the Endless Sea.

  I get that dream-like falling sensation in my stomach and inner ear as the water rises up to meet us with astonishing speed. Mirror spears into the smooth surface in an explosion of froth and foam and bubbles, and arcs back out at the crest of an enormous wave. Veenure nearly loses her grip but Sophia saves her with some magic hold on tight spell rather than just grabbing her. Not a whole lot in the thank you department from our Dark Mage – apparently she’s still upset that Sophia cast Deafening Roar on her a few game-hours back.

  Rocket: Watch out!

  Mirror blasts straight up as a sea creature the size of the Krasniy Oktytabr launches out of the water right behind her. It’s tremendous – bigger than Sophia’s ego and easily large enough to snarf down two mirrored dragons without batting a lip and still have room for a school bus full of creatine-fueled dolphins for dessert.

  Frances screams; Sophia makes ready to do more of her show-offy magical oogly-boogly, in Thulean, of course.

  Veenure: Bortea Droga!

  Rocket: Water dragon! Holy barracuda that’s ridic! --(>o<)--

  The Bortea Droga is all anger, attitude, and snapping jaws in a tentacled mouth with teeth the size of me. Our mighty mirrored mount easily outpaces the monstrous Cthulhuesque sea nightmare. It screams and rages as it falls behind us, gives up, and casts itself back beneath the surface with the hopes of finding dinner sooner than later.

  “Hey, Mirror,” I call out. “If it’s not too much trouble, could you maybe do us all a favor and try to not get us eaten before we get to Ultima Thule.”

  “How ‘bout you do me a favor and drop the cowboy act? And next time, bring Chrono!”

  Veenure laughs. She’s in her Schoolboy Q hat with two thick purple braids sticking out like she’s Coolio or something. I don’t know where she gets her fashion sense, but it works for her. Anybody else in that get-up would look like they’re on their way to Comic-Con International.

  “Chrono didn’t get the level boost,” Sophia says. “Michnikhava droga!”

  Mirror growls, “Tell me to relax again, honey, and see what happens!”

  The damn dragon. The damn Sophia, too.

  She slaps her wings to her sides and spirals towards the continent. Sure, it’s great riding on the back of the ultimate flying pimpmobile, but I’d trade it any day for another balls-to-the-wall cab o’ death thrill ride in The Loop, the grunting, struggling driver tied up in the backseat with a crusty snot rag stuffed in his piehole as I slalom through traffic at ninety miles an hour with my hair on fire, laughing like an Arkham Asylum escapee while waving my gun out the window. Difficult to imagine that the murder, mayhem, and madness of my former skid mark of a life has led me to a fantasy world jam-packed full of spell-casting wise guys and improbably pneumatic nerd gals who parade around in impractical, uncomfortable armor, speak a snobbish, pretend language and call player characters commoners.

  Ce n’est pas magnifique, mais c’est la guerre.

  Like clockwork, the thought of The Loop brings me straight back to my number one squeeze for two subjective years. What does it mean when the memory of a dream is more precious, more tangible than the wretched existence I drag my meat-self through? What makes real real? How are the brain chemicals the NVV generates any different from those of genuine experience? Are my memories of Dolly, of the Loop any less real because of how they originate? Synchronicity, Sin City, serendipity, Dolly. How should I interpret a dream-based memory?

  Maychance the road doth waiver, the mind saver, slaver, misbehaver. From nightmare to tangibility, day dream payday, neuronal Play-Doh. Consciousness two scale: primary and secondary. NREM breakdance, minimal inhibition on fleek. PGO waves fine-tuned into something that puts me in the corner, in the spotlight, regretting my decisions.

  I think, therefore I R-E-M, regardless of the fact that everybody hertz. Once nothing is real, everything is possible – the very thing that makes us human is replicated in dreamworlds and in real life via Humandroids.

  I push those thoughts away on the back of a dragon, or inside the skull of a Steam Enforcer, or as I pummel the digital wall until my knuckles are smeared in blood – all for entertainment; virtual reality to distract myself from actual reality.

  Fuggedaboudit.

  Some artisanal, Thulean magic dragon cheese would go well with my whine right about now. Might as well embrace the suck and get on with it.

  ~*~

  Rocket: Damn that’s a lot of Yoshis!

  Mirror lowers over a herd of the kawaii-cute anthropomorphic dinosaurs. They panic and scatter as her shadow washes over them, and their cutesy booted feet kick up a ground blizzard of snow. It’s every dino for itself, and the slower, weaker ones are run over and trampled flat as their more survival oriented siblings claw them out of the way and make a beeline for the tree line.

  Mirror flares, lands, and snatches up a couple of Yoshis like Soylent McNuggets from an eco-friendly, recyclable McStarbucks Happy Meal box. They don’t even make two bites apiece.

  Frances Euphoria: That’s terrible!

  I can’t see this action as much as I can feel it – my perch on her head transmits the basso profundo crunching, munching Yoshi maceration vibration from dragon skull to Quantum butt with THX fidelity and makes my teeth rattle to boot. She swallows, dips down for more.

  Sophia cries out, “Don’t eat the Yoshis! They’re endangered!”

  She levitates off Mirror’s head and a pink bubble forms around her as she floats down to the ground. She throws up some jive voodoo jazz-hands action and bubbles take shape around the rest of the Knights and lower us to the ground. “Enough, Droga!” Sophia says as she hovers above a pair of trampled Yoshis. “You shall not pass!”

  Mirror crouches down ready to pounce, like an angry cat the size of a brontosaurus in front of a particularly annoying and self-important rodent. She clashes her mirrored teeth, grins, and spits a Yoshi boot complete with foot still in it directly at Sophia’s feet.

  “I would pay good money to see Mirror eat her,” Veenure comments.

  “I’ll double whatever you put in.” I mutter sotto voce.

  Aiden leans between us. “If you’ll take Cyber Noir credits, I’d like a piece of that too.”

  Rocket: Eat her! Eat her! Eat her!

  Sophia: I’M ON COMMS TOO, YOU KNOW!

  Rocket: ALL CAPS! ALL CAPS! ALL CAPS!

&nbs
p; Always the diplomat and peacemaker, Frances Euphoria slowly and calmly approaches Mirror with her hand extended towards the dragon’s nozzle. In a quiet, gentle, soothing-the-large-dangerous-animal voice she says, “There, there, nice dragon, good dragon.”

  Rocket: There, there? What does that even mean?

  “Easy, big girl,” I tell my favorite flying reptile.

  Mirror pulls back, gives me a bitter look. “These two are disturbing my meal, and I’m not a big girl – I’m actually quite petite for a dragon, and don’t you forget that.”

  I give a deep and heartfelt sigh. “Let the quite petite dragon eat, Sophia.” One of the Yoshis unflattens itself, looks up at me and gives me a googly eyed smile.

  “But they’re endangered!” Sophia splutters, stomps her foot, doesn’t budge.

  “Sophia, get a grip. This is a make-believe digital world. Nothing is endangered, and even if these animals are endangered, they deserve to be eaten. Just look at them. This one,” I point to the nearest Yoshi, green with red spines on its back, “is smiling at me!”

  Mirror pokes her claw into the Yoshi’s big googly eye and pops it.

  Frances turns the other way; Sophia raises her hand to her mouth as her gorge rises.

  Aiden rolls his eyes, shakes his head, and vamooses. Probably to conduct a little recon, but more likely he just doesn’t want to listen to any more of Sophia and her endless arguing. I can’t blame him; sure, he was my arch-nemesis for almost five-hundred and fifty days, but he’s got a good head on his shoulders and he’s a damn good wingman. Also, he doesn’t give me shit every chance he gets. Also, he’s not Sophia, so he definitely has that going for him.

  The wind picks up, sending sugary snow into the air.

  By the time it clears, another one of the Yoshis has righted itself and is sneaking away. Mirror sees to that by snorting silver liquid dragon snot out of her right nostril, and the Yoshi dissolves into a puddle of bubbling green goo.

  “That’s horrible, terrible, vile! Don’t you two care anything about endangered species!?” Sophia huffs. “There are only so many of these left on Ultima Thule, and they have practically been poached into extinction. Hyperboreans pay top rupee for their tongues, and you,” she points at the dragon, “you should be a whole lot more sensitive to the plight of endangered Tritanian creatures. How many mirrored dragons were left after the DRAIDS epidemic?”

  Mirror narrows her eyes and puffs a slow stream of toxic-looking burnt umber smoke that billows around Sophia, who levitates higher and does that supremely aggravating, passive-aggressive ‘cough-cough, wave-wave’ thing that non-smokers affect to indicate their disapproval and moral superiority.

  Me: DRAIDs? Jeez, Sophia – can you just give it a rest? How ‘bout we just press on to the nearest village.

  Rocket: There’s a village a few clicks – did I say that right? – away called Chachat. Apparently, it is an Eskimo word for swirling snow that drives you crazy. Chachat isn’t a village, it is a borough. All the boroughs of Ultima Thule are connected to the capital city, Athos. There are a few very small towns along the coasts, but many are abandoned and a few have less than ten residents. There’s a Thulean saying that translates too: all roads lead to Athos. I’m reading the Ultima Thule Wiki if you can’t tell!

  “Mirror, eat to your heart’s content, eat until you can’t eat any longer. I’ll give you a ring soon.”

  “A ring?” The dragon holds up a mirrored and clawed appendage. “How wonderful, especially if it’s an orc-flavored Ring Pop – the green kind. I love those!” She glowers at me. “And don’t you get me the red ones; they’re way too spicy for me.”

  “You know what I mean. I’ll call you. Knights, we’re out.” With an intake of breath for dramatic effect, Sophia opens her piehole to no doubt further demonstrate her ecologically sensitive Thulean social awareness and I turn, frown, and point my finger right in her face.

  “Enough. Don’t want to hear it; not listening anymore. If the dragon made of ones and zeroes wants to eat all the Yoshis made of ones and zeroes, let her – so what!”

  ~*~

  The Dream Team’s über-educated, bleeding-heart digital do-gooder and friend of all Yoshis has her panties most definitely in a bunch. She huffs, pouts, sighs, glowers, stomps her feet and refuses to look in my general direction as we make our way into the forest, guided by her floating map, and Aiden, who’s giving us the best Cheshire Cat impression I’ve ever seen. He’s in front of us; hanging from a tree branch; perched on a rock ahead; peeking out of a hole in the ground; disguised as an anatomically correct snowman.

  I feel the urge to speak just so someone’s running their yapper. “Who wants to give me the lowdown on what I need to know about Ultima Thule? I’m aware of the lay of the land thanks to Rocket.”

  Rocket: You’re welcome, Q Beans!

  Sophia: Please start reading the briefings.

  “You killed a Thulean at the tournament,” Veenure reminds me. “This is their continent. It has a wintery climate, modeled after Canada. The chief developer was from Ontario, and she wanted something both frozen and lush, but not cold, although it appears to be cold.”

  “That Thulean broad had it coming. She said some pretty choice words, if I recall. Called me a dirty goblin dildo, or maybe it was Gilbert Gottfried’s widow, or The Bride of Venturestein’s bastard offspring. Something like that.”

  Keep the banter going – always a lighthearted way around some unnecessary tension. Of course, Sophia bites. “Correction, she called you a Muukhai jikh makh. I don’t know where you’re getting those other ones.”

  “A filthy stupid dog,” Veenure translates, “possibly one of the worst disses in the Thulean language.”

  “You kiss your mother with that mouth?” I ask both of them.

  Nope, no response. Zero, zilch, zip – their blank expressions remind me of the fact I spent too long inside The Loop. Aiden gets it though; I hear him chuckle somewhere in the trees above us. I’m just about to comment on the detail – the Yoshi footprints in the snow, the brown pine needles, the snowdrifts surrounding the tree trunks – when Morning Assassin appears in front of me holding his Scissorsword in the ready position.

  “We’ve got company,” he says over his shoulder.

  ~*~

  Empress Thun’s Knights in White Satin get the drop on us.

  There are three in total, which gives us an immediate advantage in numbers. They’re in vaguely homoerotic armor sculpted to resemble overdeveloped male musculature, and the transverse crests on their stylized Roman Galeas are stylishly color coordinated with their capes.

  “The Empress is most displeased,” the presumptive leader announces.

  “Yeah, me too,” I tell Richard the Lionfart. “I haven’t been happy ever since I laid eyes on your little brigade of POGs and parade ground soldiers.”

  Sophia steps forward, shoulders me out of the way, and bows most humbly from the waist. “Please extend a sincere, heartfelt apology from me to the Empress. The decisions of my guild do not adequately represent my feelings. I tried to counsel them in this matter; our leader made the ultimate decision to reject the Empress’ more than generous offer.”

  Dammit, Sophia. Why don’t you just flip up his armored codpiece and hum ‘God Save The Queen’ while you’re at it? I swear she throws me under the bus every chance she gets, and I’m not talking about Doc’s Proxima Airstream – in which my body is currently ensconced in the real world – I’m talking about a monster truck SUV with spiked tires driven by a beer-fueled redneck in a ‘Heritage not Hate’ ball cap with a rattail hanging down the back of his sleeveless Confederate Battle Flag t-shirt.

  Level ninety or level thirty-five and a permanent position as the Empress’ gofer-bitches? I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – the math didn’t add up, so I went with King Coromon’s offer. Griffins, royal protocol, and Sophia’s sensibilities be damned.

  “Alrighty then, let’s cut right to the chase,” I say as I step to the clo
sest knight. I get right in his face, snort, clear my throat and expectorate a mucosal statement of opinion right between his digital eyes.

  Frances Euphoria: QUANTUM!

  Veenure: Quantum?

  Rocket: Yes, Quantum! It’s an in-house profanity we use on our private channel because, um, the feds fine us if we drop the f-bomb.

  Sophia: DON’T SPIT ON THE IMPERIAL GUARD! WHAT THE QUANTUM IS WRONG WITH YOU!?

  Rocket: TIL – all caps means you’re shouting.

  Little Sir Spat Upon removes his gauntlet, wipes my spittle from his face and flicks it back at me. Nope, he ain’t happy, but life’s tough, and then you die.

  The trumpet sounds a fanfare and a 3-D roulette wheel with black and white pockets and a silver skull-shaped ball appears between us. A legend forms as it settles, indicating that white means turn-based and black means real-time. I had almost forgotten that the fighting in Ultima Thule was either/or, and I’m all grins when the ball finally lands on black.

  ~*~

  Sophia pleads, “Please, please don’t fight with them!”

  “This again? What is it with you?” I’m just about to equip my life vest, item 578, when I remember that Doc said it only works in the tournament. No matter, I go ahead and go with my tried-est and truest Tritania weapon, a gift from Ray Steampunk. The Buster Sword, item 572, appears in my hands, and not a second too soon. Sure, it doesn’t grow to epic proportions like my … um … Bustermarm – yeah, that’s it, but it ain’t too shabby in a little hand-to-hand.

  The knight that I anointed with my salivary salutation thrusts with his frog-stabber and I parry with my buster. We’re real time now, so I activate my AA bar just as our swords connect. He disappears in a cloud of silver smoke and then there’s the wrong end of a blade protruding from my bread basket. My life bar drops 30%.