The Feedback Loop (3-Book Box Set): (Scifi LitRPG Series)

by Harmon Cooper

  The Steam Enforcer swings to swat me like a mosquito; I dodge easily and catch a time-dilated glimpse of Dolly as she hovers in front of Great Big Steam Guy Number Two, eyes ablaze with orange fire. Glittering articulated appendages of chainsaw blades and metallic shark’s teeth erupt from her back like the chains from Lemarchand’s box.

  If this is what she used on Rollins when she stood him off while I logged out from the Loop that first time, it’s no wonder he screamed like a little girlie-girl. I’m anxious to see the fullness of this transformation, but now ain’t the time.

  She’s fine! Keep your eye on the prize! says the voice in my head, as I jet over my big metal friend, dodge another swat, and get a good look at its back. It’s got a steam pack just like mine, if mine was the size of a UPX delivery aeros.

  That’s why nothing touched it in our first little dust-up; it all makes sense, or as much sense as anything does in this crazy, clunky, faux-retro Steam world.

  Cut the steam, cut the power, cut the giant down to size!

  Well, no duh, little voice.

  I flip the ivory rocker switch on the golden Almost Universal Solvent wand and the system gurgles as it pressurizes; flick the safety forward in the trigger guard, finger on the trigger and I hose the giant steam pack down with Dirty Dave’s finest Alchemic Unpleasantness.

  The results are most gratifying.

  The Steam Enforcer melts away like a snowman in a golden shower; the damaged steam pack blasts out tremendous gouts of high pressure steam as it dissolves. Just to really spoil its day, I give its innards a good big squirt through the widening hole where the steam pack used to be.

  The Steam Enforcer locks up, wobbles, crashes face down into the deck with a cosmic KABOOM, and sends visible ripples throughout the fabric of the airship. There’s a last burst of firing, and I hear Frances holler, “Aiden, no! Don’t pursue, let them run!”

  Dolly is perched atop a humongous mound of shredded metal and broken gears, her Doc Ock accoutrements nowhere in evidence. She nonchalantly buffs her nails and then critically examines the results. I know that she’s doing it strictly for show, but Dang that gal has style. She catches my eye, gives me a coquettish grin, and daintily picks her way down from atop the heap of former Steam Enforcer.

  ~*~

  Aiden lands next to me. “That was great! Can we go again, daddy? Can we?” His grin is all teeth and fierce shining eyes, and despite our growing bromance, still makes me feel like a three-legged arthritic deer at the wolf pack potluck supper when the casseroles run out.

  The big F.E. lands next, fine as ever in her steampunk attire. She gives Dolly a pointedly neutral look, gives me a look that’s considerably less neutral, and takes Aiden’s arm as she gushes, “Oh Aiden, you were great! You got so many that I hardly had to shoot.”

  Seriously? No lecture on algorithmic brutality, or ‘NPCs are people too’, or ‘you’ve been in The Loop too long? Sheesh!’

  He blushes, and she turns to Dolly and me, “Now we get to Ray.”

  “Got any idea of what we should ask him?”

  I put eyeballs on Schloss Schteampünken. The gothic revival-style castle is directly across from us at the far end of the airfield. It’s gaudy and kitschy and I suspect that the lavish entrance is mainly for show – just a backdrop for the tourists’ souvenir postcards. The guts, the important bits, the Sanctum Sanctorum are obviously below.

  Rocket: Ray Steampunk was one of the last people to see Strata Godsick before he disappeared. He may know something we can use as leverage. Tell him who you are and who you work for.

  “Thanks, Peanut Gallery.” My eyes move from Rocket’s message to my life bar, which is pulsating blue. My advanced abilities bar is pretty much nil, but the brightened ring around it has started to replenish.

  A hand squeezes mine; it’s Dolly.

  “Good job, Doll,” I tell her, as everything else around me fades into insignificance and I focus exclusively on her.

  “You too.” His smile illuminates her from within, and my heartbeat picks up just that little bit more.

  “You have to show me that trick sometime, you know, those things that grow out of your back. I always seem to be busy when you do it.”

  She bites her lip. “It’s not exactly attractive; it’s definitely not how I want you to think of me.”

  “Are you two finished?” Frances asks, stepping in front of me, hands on hips.

  “Almost.” I take Dolly’s hand in both of mine, and in a simpering falsetto say, “Oh Dolly, you were great! You crunched up so many I hardly had to melt any!”

  Frances’ eyes narrow, Dolly barely suppresses a mirthful nose-snort.

  “Now then, you were saying … ?”

  “Hey, I’d just like to get this assignment wrapped up so I … so we can move on to something else.” And she huffs off.

  The four of us jetpack over the barbican that separates the castle from the airfield. The castle itself looks like a rusty, stylized, cast iron copy of Neuschwanstein with all the magic and fairytale cuteness hammered out of it. Onion domes shingled with tarnished scales of copper and silver and bronze top the various towers. Girning, post-industrial gargoyles spout plumes of steam at irregular intervals.

  “Do you think he went a little overboard?” I tap the end of my Slice Bang against a bollard of whirring gears that spit steam. “Just a little?”

  Aiden says, “It isn’t going to be easy getting through that door.”

  The only entrance is an arch, sealed by a massive, metal, Steam Enforcer-sized door that’s covered with Industrial Revolution bas-reliefs; there’s no corresponding cat-flap for us less heroically proportioned peons. A huge bust of James Watt gazes down upon us from a plinth atop the arch. In a surprisingly indecorous decorative touch, steam fizzles from his ears. Frances Euphoria sends her weapons back to inventory and approaches the door unarmed.

  “Careful,” I call over to her. “It may be booby-trapped.”

  She ignores me and knocks twice. The sound is reverberant, huge. If he’s in there, he’s sure to have heard it.

  I activate my jetpack and steam my way over to the door. I throw a few pirouettes in as I fly, just because. Sure, I could walk, but jetpacking is just so excellent! I land next to Frances and hammer on the door with the butt of the Slice Bang. “Hey Steampunk, open the door in the name of the law, you bastard!” I shout. “We know you’re in there!”

  Frances looks at me, rolls her eyes and shakes her head. “Really? Really? That’s how you’re going to start a conversation?”

  “Well,” I tell her under my breath, “he is a bastard. Only a bastard would make a steampunk world with so many damned rules and live in an airship above the place in Olympian splendor like some sort of God made flesh. Just saying.”

  “I have to agree with Quantum.” Aiden says.

  “What’s the problem?” Dolly asks. “The only thing the Almost Universal Solvent won’t dissolve is gold; that door’s not gold, so dissolve us an entrance if you want in, Mr. Hughes.”

  “That’s not a bad idea, Doll.”

  I give the door the old your name in the snow treatment with my superior golden wand. The AUS works like … well, magic and dissolves a whopping great hole in the door – and the floor underneath. A half-turn of the nozzle and I get mist instead of a heavy stream. I melt us a nice round hole in the door about ten feet away from my first attempt, without damaging the floor as much.

  “Watch out going through,” says I. “You probably don’t want to get any of that stuff on you.”

  ~*~

  The huge circular foyer is empty aside from a low pentagrammatic platform; a single shaft of light illuminates the large golden speaking tube exactly in the star’s center. A tremendous gear and crystal chandelier is suspended from the vaulted ceiling high above us and doesn’t provide much illumination nor dispel the shadows in the distance. Our footsteps echo and rebound; the whole place feels like a trap, an ambush.

  Aiden says, “I’ll check fo
r another way out,” as he engages his stealth mode and becomes dim and insubstantial.

  “The speaking tube’s the only thing in here; that’s gotta be it.” Frances Euphoria walks steps up to the platform, and as she enters the beam of light, nothing happens.

  I ready everything just in case.

  “It’s a speaking tube; I’ll speak to it and see what happens. She leans over it in that legs straight, bend from the waist with the back arched pin-up pose and brushes a strand of hair out of her face. “Ummm … hello?”

  “HELLO.”

  The voice comes from the corners of the room, loud and booming. Frances’ eyes dart from Dolly to me.

  “Go on,” I tell her.

  “We are here to see Ray Steampunk,” she says.

  “RAY STEAMPUNK?”

  The thunderous voice causes digital dust to fall from the ceiling.

  “Yes,” she says into the pipe, “Ray Steampunk.”

  “WHAT DO YOU WANT WITH RAY STEAMPUNK?”

  “We are members of the DREAM Team – Dream Recovery Extraction and Management Team funded by the FCG.”

  “THE DREAM TEAM?”

  “Yes.”

  “SILLY NAME.”

  “See, I told you.” I scoot in next to Frances and lean over the golden pipe, placing my hand over the opening.

  “You’re the one who came up with the name,” she whispers.

  “I’m pretty sure that was Godsick.”

  “I thought you forgot everything,” she says.

  “We can discuss this later.” I remove my hand from the pipe opening and say, “Quit being such a reclusive little shitbird and come out here and talk to us already, Ray.” Frances hits me and I continue. “We’re here for very important reasons, and we don’t have all day.”

  The floor rattles and hums and the sound of cranking gears fills the room. Aiden appears on my right, and Dolly isn’t far behind.

  The platform smoothly drops below floor level, descending around the speaking tube which remains in place like a fixed spindle.

  “Weapons up, face outward, stay frosty,” I say aloud. “Who knows what will happen next.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  The platform grinds to a halt; a tiny, star-shaped patch of illumination high above us shows just how far we’ve descended. A portion of the wall slides open; Aiden goes first, his Gatling gun arm leads. Frances follows him in with her retro submachine gun; Dolly puts her hand on my shoulder. “You next,” she whispers, “I’ll cover our back trail.” We move through a hallway now, the walls of which are adorned with oil paintings of generals in ornate blue or gray uniforms, generals in red coats and white helmets, generals in field gray and spiked Prussian helmets. There are wall-mounted candles every yard or so, and the hallway is defined by teardrop shaped pools of light.

  “Rocket, where are we?”

  Rocket: In-game GPS has been disabled. You’re likely in the airship somewhere, or you’ve been teleported somewhere else …

  Aiden turns to me to say something. His mouth opens, but no words come out.

  “What?” I ask.

  He tries to speak again, and again nada.

  “Dolly?”

  She puts her hand over her mouth and shakes her head no; points to her ears and gives a thumbs up.

  I turn to Frances. “What’s gotten into them?”

  Frances says, “I don’t have a clue – I’ve never seen this before.”

  “Are you guys okay otherwise?” I ask, and get a thumbs up from them both. “Might as well press on.”

  The hallway brightens with each step forward, as if the sun were resting at its end, waiting to blind us. As soon as I breach the threshold of the door, my life bar drops to a quarter full and my advanced abilities bar disappears completely.

  “WELCOME.”

  ~*~

  I size up His Lordship and I’m not impressed.

  Ray Steampunk’s throne is deliberately designed to astonish and confound; to overawe and convey the very quintessential steampunkyness of his whole extravaganza. I’m at the point now where I’m all Oh, look Honey! It’s yet another damn thing made of whirling gears and rusted metal and pipes that spouts steam!

  Gimme a frickin’ break – seriously.

  His most Serene and Majestic Steaminess is garbed in gilded armor with a string of gears and dials and gauges across the front of his chest. His left arm is completely mechanical, accented with polished silver, the hand of which ends in an ornate leather gauntlet. A golden indicator above his head signifies that he is much, much more than just another player. His eyes are pressed shut, as if he’s meditating.

  “Ready to talk, Your Highness?” I ask the Geared and Gilded Goomba.

  “Mr. Steampunk,” says Frances as she puts the elbow in my short ribs, “we apologize for this intrusion, but it’s of the utmost importance that we talk with you.”

  “So it would seem. Yours was a most direct and unusual approach of which I most highly disapprove. However, you are here now, so state your business.” I can hear his voice coming from him, but I’ve yet to see his lips move. Perks of being a developer I suppose.

  “How about we cut the small talk and get down to business, Ray?”

  Dolly tugs on my sleeve, points to Steampunk with an open hand, then puts that hand on her chest and nods yes. She points to Steampunk again, puts her hand on my chest and shakes her head no.

  “Yeah, he’s the NVA Seed like you and not just a player like me – I get it, Doll.”

  She silently sighs, puts her face in her hand like she’s got a headache.

  “What is it then?” Not quite so quietly this time.

  “Enough,” Steampunk says.

  “We’ve come to speak with you about Strata Godsick,” diplomat Frances says. “You were his last known contact.”

  “Was I indeed?”

  “Yes, sir. We want info about Strata Godsick,” Frances says, “whatever you can tell us. You know about his illegal and unethical activities. His Reapers kill people in Proxima Worlds; the people they kill there also really die in the real world, and his corporation collects their insurance money. Further, he’s imprisoned and enslaved hundreds upon hundreds of people in various Proxima Worlds and uses them as his cannon fodder. If a human player kills them, they die in real life. We have to stop to this.”

  “This is none of my concern,” he says.

  “What?” I demand, fists clenched. “Are you truly so distanced and disconnected here in your fantasy dream world? Real deaths in the real world mean nothing to you?”

  “No. Why should they? Would my death mean anything to them?”

  Frances says, “Please, Mr. Steampunk. Information. That’s all we’re asking for.”

  He thinks for a moment. “I will give you the information you seek, but you must first resolve an issue that requires immediate attention.”

  “As long as it doesn’t involve grails or broomsticks.”

  He ignores me and continues, “The Reapers have aligned themselves with the Boilerplate Army–”

  “–See! It does concern you.”

  He opens his eyes – cold eyes, dead eyes, round, black soulless doll’s eyes – and locks me in his gaze. I don’t want to, but I look away first.

  “I am unconcerned about the Reapers per se. It is their alliance with the Boilerplate Army that disconcerts me, and the metastasizing chaos and destruction they have unleashed upon my realm. Left unchecked, it will destroy all that I have wrought here, and I will not have that. I want this war to end.”

  “Oh c’mon – you’re the Head Honcho, The Big Cheese, The Deus ex Machina – can’t you just work a little algorithmic magic with the ones and zeroes and fix your problem right up, Your Most Pluperfect Retro-Techness? Ow! Dammit, Frances!”

  Frances pinched me, hard. Just like my … just like my mother used to do when she thought I was acting the fool.

  “It is my policy to act as the man behind the curtain rather than as the visible Hand of God, save i
n direst need. It is less disruptive, and provides a better experience for the participants. I prefer more subtle and mundane interventions.”

  Frances snorts at subtle.

  “Ah, I got it. You want us to fight.”

  “No, I want you to resolve an issue in exchange for the information you seek. If you choose not to do so, log out now and you will be blocked from re-entering my domain.”

  Rocket: The man can bargain.

  “I can see that,” I say under my breath.

  “We’ll do it – we agree!” Frances says.

  “Very well,” says His Most Awesome Rattle-and-Clankness. “I have gifts you will find useful. Equip your mutant hacks and approach me.”

  Frances’ arm morphs into her giant double barrel shootin’ iron; I access the golden ax and it melts up my arm and forms my Blast-O-Matic.

  Hello Quantum.

  Not now, little voice in my head – busy.

  We stand before His August Majesty, and Himself leans forward and touches a fingertip to the muzzle of our weapons. There’s a flash behind my eyes, my mouth tastes metallic, a jolt of lightning juice runs down my spine, and my testicles try to retreat up into my body cavity. My hack gun smokes and steams like it was carved from dry ice.

  “I have significantly upgraded your weapons,” he intones. “Steam under very high compression draws heat from its surroundings once it is released to expand. Everything it touches will freeze.”

  I twist my hack, admiring the upgrade. “So it’s like a Mr. Freeze gun or something?”

  “No, it is an actual Mr. Freeze gun – specifically.”

  “Huh?”

  Rocket: Damn … he hooked you up! Freeze something, blast it with the Gramogun and ZOWIE! Ever seen a video of an opera singer shattering glass with her voice? That’s what you can do now!

  “Not bad,” I say, examining the ice blue ring around my hack’s barrel.

  “One last item,” says our beneficent host. “Your player status indicators are now golden instead of blue; there are no limitations on your inventory items – you may use any of them without life force penalty. All who see you will know that you are my emissaries.”