“So I can’t have two quesadillas?”
“You can, but it is highly inadvisable and I’ll have to flag your account to the FDA Monitoring Group, who will likely send you an iNet message reminding you to eat healthy.”
“You’re shitting me.”
“Unlikely sir. I do not excrete my waste products as do human beings, and I’m afraid that you represent far too large a bolus for me to pass.” His expression remains carefully neutral.
I raise my eyebrow at the droid, and just for a moment I channel the spirit of Moe Howard. “A wise guy, eh?”
“Not at all, sir, I am performing my assigned duty in the friendliest and most informative, assistive manner possible.”
“Well excellent then. If it’s not too much bother, do you think that you could get me two quesadillas extra cheese, two large beers, a side order of bacon, and a shaker of bad cholesterol? And bill the people paying for my room, the FCG. No man, machine or federal entity will tell me how many quesadillas I can enjoy. Over my dead body.”
“There is a zero-carb, organic, no saturated fat option … ”
~*~
~I hope they don’t hang you, precious, by that sweet neck. Yes, angel, I’m gonna send you over. The chances are you’ll get off with life. That means if you’re a good girl, you’ll be out in twenty years. I’ll be waiting for you. If they hang you, I’ll always remember you.
I’m on my bed watching The Maltese Falcon when I hear a knock at the door. I open it, and barely make eye contact with a different friendly, informative, assistive Humandroid hospitality team member who’s holding a stainless steel serving tray with two frosty-cold forty ounce bottles of barley pop in an ice bucket and an insulated dome covered dish. Dinner is served.
“Are both of these for you, sir?” he asks.
“What, are you the big quesadilla sheriff of the house? The head Über Sturm Quesadilla Führer of the FDA’s calorie Nazis? Yes – they’re both for me.”
“Sir, FDA guidelines … ”
“Shut up.”
“Sir, I need a verbal confirmation that you realize the risks of eating Mexican food in this quantity.”
“Risks?” I almost laugh. “All right, droid here’s your verbal confirmation – I’m aware of the risks. Now give me my food.”
“Sir, the chef regrets to inform you that a shaker of bad cholesterol is unavailable, so he included an extra side order of bacon.” He hands me the tray.
“Tell him I said thanks.”
I take the tray from him and let the door slam shut behind me. Sticky, gooey cheesy quesadillas find their way into my mouth. I munch the grilled chicken bits, cilantro, onions and bell peppers, and enjoy the flavors as they carpet bomb my taste buds. The bacon is a nice crispy addition, and it all goes especially well with the cheap beer. I reflect that Chef at the Mondegreen probably has two shakers of bad cholesterol in his kitchen. The bastard.
One brewski later and I’m feeling good, heavy, but good – the slight buzz is comforting, nerve-calming. With the flick on the tube and my belly full of Mexican food, I’m a happy camper, a man at rest. I’m about to take the first sip of my second beer when my eyes dart from the screen to the NV Visor.
A large gulp later and I’m standing, slowly making my way over to the haptic chair. I relax onto the chair, staring across the room at my bed, at the silver tray, topped with a few plastic salsa containers and the gnawed corpse of the second quesadilla. Another sip from my beer. The bottle is indeed half-full or half-empty, depending on how you look at it. Me? I’m a half-empty guy, so I go ahead and down the rest.
I relax onto the haptic chair, place the NV Visor over my face, and listen for the Brian Eno tone. Sine waves appear on the inside of the visor and dance like octopi during a tsunami. I’m familiar with what happens next. If I keep the visor on, I’ll eventually drift off and I’ll be able to select a Proxima World from my preferred list. I can dive to any world, but some worlds are exclusive, some have a membership cost and some, like The Loop, are archival worlds – dead worlds. They still exist, but they’re no longer advertised or known by the masses. This was why I never saw a human player in The Loop until I met Frances – people can’t readily find archival worlds, as there are hundreds and they are buried in the stack. Further, worlds with glitches are immediately closed by the Proxima Network, which means it takes some hacking to get into them.
Luckily, The Loop is one of my preferred worlds.
“Here goes nothing,” I say as I relax further into the haptic chair.
Chapter Ten
Feedback a blessing, a reminder. Feedback the sound I heard for months upon months; a curio, an artifact of existence, a denotation of being, a curse. A breath of digital air while staring up at a darkened cloud brings a cheek-shattering smile to my face. I’ve spawned somewhere near Three King’s Park, the mangled trees accented by lightning, shiny from the constant downpour. Riotous fiends hover around a trashcan fire, shivering, warming their paws. Peddling bootblacks or mucky vagabonds by day, perma-fried parasites with arms covered in spider bites and pants filled with ticks – psychonauts are the roaches of The Loop, if you find one, you’d damn well better know there’s another.
Home Sweet Home.
I have the notion to whip out my BFG 9000, item 100, and plasmatize the bastards, but I suppress it. There will be plenty of time to maim at a later date.
My hand comes up and a taxi lowers.
Before the NPC driver can say anything, I access my S&W .500, item 466.
“What’s the big idea, Mac?” the driver – fat, surly, unshaven, cigar-chomping – asks, as he looks down the barrel of my über-shooter.
“You’re out, I’m in,” I say motioning to the door. “Scram.”
“Fat chance. I’m not gettin’ out in this neighborhood, Mac.”
“Suit yourself.”
I pull the trigger, shattering the driver’s side window. His head splashes, makes a mess largo. “Sorry, bub,” I say as I lug his corpse out of the vehicle. “I gave you fair warning.”
As soon as he’s out, I equip my hotel towel, item 13, and wipe the blood off the inside of the front windshield. A crimsoned window never stopped me before – but being in the real world for a month has civilized me. Imagine that.
Hands on the yoke and I lift off, aiming the vehicle towards The Mondegreen Hotel. The sky opens up and I flick the windshield wipers on. Cold rain whips into the taxi through the shattered driver’s side window, soaking my clothes. I catch my own eyes in the rearview mirror and my blond hair fixes itself. A black suit appears on my body and my tie loosens. I’ve got a date with destiny and I want to look good.
I’m at the Mondegreen a few minutes later, lowering the aeros into the shit-stained street outside the hotel. Excitement ripples through me; razor-winged butterflies nearly break free from my stomach. It’s like I just had my first kiss or something. I hop up the stairs leading to the hotel and swing the doors open.
“Mr. Hughes?” Doorman Jim runs his hand along the front of his jacket, clears his throat. “I … we, weren’t expecting you. Did you make a reservation?”
“Yeah, I made a reservation,” I say, accessing my inventory list behind my back. A quick scroll and item 501, my Beretta 92 with a silencer appears in my hand.
“Mr. Hughes, please!”
“Just kidding, old pal,” I say, lowering the gun. “Also, it’s Quantum.”
“Right! Mr. Quantum, will you be … dining here tonight?”
I raise the gun again and give him a third eye for old times’ sake. Might as well toast the milquetoast.
~*~
First things first. I enter the dining room and move straight to the kitchen.
“Hello you old bastard!” I say as I kick open the door, meat cleaver in one hand and a turkey baster filled with Chernobyl reactor melt in the other (items 123 and 348, respectively). The plump chef is in front of the stove, whistling Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.
“Quantum!” he
says with a grin. “You’ve come for pancakes?”
“Not exactly … ”
“THEN YOU’VE COME TO DIE!”
Chef throws a ladle full of piping hot soup. I bullet time backwards out of its trajectory, activate advanced abilities and execute a grand jeté just as he tips the five gallons of Cream of Hot Death Soup over the spot I’ve just vacated. I land like a springbok, step into a side kick and go right on my ass as I slide in the soup.
“Ha!” he shouts, “I have you now!” He pulls big heavy pots and pans from the overhead rack and pelts me with them. I regain my feet just as he throws a handful of Thai curry powder in my face. He hammers me with right-cross, left-hook, elbow, elbow and a mean head-butt. Apparently, he’s been practicing.
“Is that all you got?” he mocks, “I thought you’d have way more game than this. I fart in your general direction!” Chef comes for me wielding a meat mallet the size of a post maul, and as he brings it up and around to cube my steak, I lunge and jam the turkey baster up his nose and into his brain, squeeze the bulb and fill his skull with fissile Ukrainian yumminess. He drops like a rock, flames shoot out of his ears and his eyes glow green, bubble, and melt.
“I’m not cleaning that up!” says the Saucier, a pencil-neck geek of a guy whom I usually ignore.
I return to the dining area feeling like a badass. That’s one thing I don’t feel like in the real world – with my cane and my slight limp, just about anyone can take me on, from a toddler in a stroller to an emphysematic grandmother in a Hoveround. In the Proxima Galaxy I feel strong, amplified, invincible, like my old self. Nothing beats it.
I plop down in the same spot I sat for years on end. I’m in the far corner of the dining room, with a wall behind me, allowing me to watch the entrance and the kitchen as well as the windows. One can never check six too often The Loop.
A light appears in front of me and Dolly materializes. She’s in a red dress, her hair in a bob, her lips the color of blood, her nails red, the diamond necklace I gave her around her neck. My heart melts as soon as I lay eyes on her.
“You … came back,” she says softly.
“You knew I was here the moment I logged in,” I remind her, just to say something.
She smiles. “I wanted to see where you’d go first, here or Barfly’s.”
I laugh just to cover the tears of joy I feel coming on, something I’ve rarely felt in a Proxima World. Everything in the dining room has a sharp gleam to it now, as if I’m in the den of an angel. “You know me too well, too well, Doll.”
“So what do ya want?” She asks, an order pad appearing in her hand. “The usual?”
“I’ve missed you,” I say, the words fumbling out of my mouth. “I can’t describe how much I missed you, but, but … I’ve missed everything about you, Dolly. Your being, your face, your eyes. Everything.”
“Really?” She drops the pad.
“Everything, seriously.”
The surroundings pixilate and we’re in my old hotel room, the same room I woke up in for two subjective years straight. On the wall is the picture of the sinking sailboat. My sheets are ruffled as they always were; a pack of cigarettes sits on the nightstand.
Dolly falls into my arms. Her weight, her aura – all are realer than anything I’ve experienced in the last month. We kiss and I feel my skin ripple with goose bumps. Another kiss and I can’t even think about undressing. Lost in the moment and feeling her lips against mine and her body pressed into my chest and her hands around the back of my neck pulling me in closer, closer.
“I missed you so much,” she says through her kisses. “More than … more than anything.”
“I’m sorry,” I say, thinking of what happened between Frances and me, thinking of how I’ve been avoiding The Loop. “I’m so sorry, Dolly. I can’t … I can’t exist without you. I’m sorry for making you wait.”
“You are my world,” she says, her eyes filling with sorrow. “I don’t care where you’re from or how different we truly are. In here, you’re my world, and we consist … ” She kisses me almost harshly, biting at my lip. “In here we are the same, we are the lightning, we are … ” More kisses. “We are one.”
~*~
I reach for my deck of Luckies on the nightstand; stick a smoky treat in my face and suck in as it ignites. My lungs fill and my simulated algorithmic nicotine receptors scream with pleasure like schoolgirls on rollercoaster. The smoke swirls and eddies against the ceiling when I blow out. Dolly is next to me, her naked body pressed into mine. She reaches up, plucks the cigarette from my lips, drags on it, coughs.
I laugh and she pulls the blanket to her chest. “What?” she asks, and smiles. “I always cough when I smoke with you.”
“I remember,” I tell her, “That’s what I’m laughing about, the memories we share and … ” I try to verbalize how I’m feeling at the moment but it’s impossible. There are simply too many emotions colliding around the room, zipping through my skull and zigzagging through my nervous system for me to say how I truly feel.
She lets the blanket drop and I pull her in closer. Holding her tight, I take another drag from the cigarette. My problems in other worlds – the real world, Steam – come to me in a series of flashes. I exhale my problems, letting them dissipate with the cloud of blue smoke in front of me.
“What are you thinking about?” she asks.
“Don’t worry about it.”
Her hand comes to my face. “You want to watch a movie or something?”
“No, I need to get out,” I say. “Get active.”
“We could go to Barfly’s … ” she suggests.
“We’ve never gone together before … ”
“That settles it then.” She stands and takes a few steps to the center of the room. Her skin is porcelain, her naked body a Renaissance sculpture. “What should I wear?” she asks, looking at me over her shoulder.
“How about nothing?” I suggest as I take in her curves.
“Quantum … ”
“What? Who’s gonna stop you? You’re the NVA Seed – you rule here. You are The Loop’s Cleopatra.” I blow her a kiss. “Wear whatever you’d like, Doll.”
“No, I want wear whatever you’d like.”
“I like you best how you are right now.”
“What are you going to wear?”
“All black.”
“Black it is then.”
A strapless black dress appears on her body. In her hand is a tiny Flapper purse and on her feet are strappy black high heels with red soles. “This okay?”
I wolf whistle. “It’s more than just okay, Doll,” and she smiles like we’re off to the Junior Prom.
~*~
No need to hail a taxi when your main squeeze is the NVA Seed.
With the snap of her fingers, we’re in front of the entrance to Barfly’s, the dive of dives usually filled with ossified lounge lizards, blasted boozehounds, card sharks and everything in between. Murky characters dip in and out of the shadows – addicts high off Riotous drooling down their fronts as they thumb their noses at passing working girls in skin-tight dresses and pleather jackets. I look up at the neon floozie in the Martini glass, her legs scissoring, electric bubbles popping over her head. One, two, three. Repeat sequence.
Croc the doorman takes one hard look at me and shakes his head.
“You got something to say?” I ask the big man with fists as large as cinder blocks.
His scowl turns into a grin. “Where ya been, Quantum? You found a better joint or something?”
“There are no better joints, Croc. Been busy.”
“Too busy to come to Barfly’s?”
“Did I forget to pay my tab or something? Why are you giving me the third degree?”
Croc’s eyes skip from Dolly’s face to mine. “I never knew … ”
Dolly says, “Quantum has been away, but he’s back now.”
“I get it,” the big man says, sizing me up. His muscles are practically bursting out of his shirt, hi
s deeply pockmarked cheeks cast shadows that point towards his chin. “It’s nice to go away, but it’s always nice to return home.”
“They say home is where the heart is.” I nod to Dolly. “Maybe they’re right.”
The big man lets us pass without patting me down. The inventory list restriction that was once in place is no longer active, so it wouldn’t matter if he patted me down anyway. As soon as we enter, I spot Cid behind the bar, grizzled and chiseled in a battered fedora, wiping something up with a yellow rag. The rest of the gin mill is pretty much the same, from the jukebox in the corner to the pool tables, one of which is covered in beer stains.
“I invited some of your friends,” Dolly says as soon as we sit down at the bar.
“My friends?”
A familiar uproar behind me sends a half-smile across my face.
“Oi, Mates! There’s the la-di-da poofter now!” a man shouts from across the room in a crap Dick Van Dyke accent. “And look at the smashing bit o’ stuff ‘e just walked in with!”
“Ya bloody great clodpoll! That’s not a bit o’ stuff, that’s ‘Erself!”
“Oh, Clucking Bell, so it is! Ever so sorry, Ma’am!”
Dolly smiles, waves, blows them a kiss.
“Bloody hell! Let him buy the next round! Am I wrang?”
“A meringue?”
“What’s a meringue got to do with anything!?”
“What’s that? Have a go?”
“Shut yer geggy!”
I turn to find the six UK Assassins playing snooker amidst a solid pile of empty mugs and sideways shot glasses. Irish Shorty, Burly, Pip, Scotty, Bucket Hat and the Quiet Man are clad in their Iraq War garb, from Scotty’s tan-brown-black kilt to Pip’s face paint.
“Next round is on me!” says Bucket Hat.
“Oi! Watch your bloody elbow, mate! You almost spilt beer on me trousers!”
“Well, keep yer bloody trews away from me beer!”
The Feedback Loop (3-Book Box Set): (Scifi LitRPG Series) Page 25
