Cyber Noir Redux: (Book Six) (The Feedback Loop 6)

by Harmon Cooper

“Sophia didn’t eat any of it. Rocket had half a slice.”

  “Well, that’s his loss. Besides, now that my FDA monitor is my friend, I’m pretty sure I can eat whatever I want.”

  I blink my eyes shut to find a message from Evan regarding my caloric intake and the leadership conference in D.C. next week. Maybe we aren’t bestest buds after all. I quickly move the message to the trash.

  “Note to self,” says Frances, “eating German chocolate cake causes Quantum to have nightmares about German clowns. I’ll make sure this goes in your file. Also, just for the record, did he have a Hitler mustache?”

  “No, he looked like a cross between Evil Bozo and John Wayne Gacy in his clown getup.”

  “Who?”

  “Googleface it, but do so during daylight hours. You have been warned.” I relax onto the pillow and stare up at the fan for a moment. It’s controllable via iNet, as are most things in Frances’ home. It’s also one more thing I still haven’t figured out how to do with the magic iNet. Some things are better left as mysteries, I suppose.

  Frances scoots closer to me. “Put your arm around me … there.” She yawns. “It’s almost four; let’s at least try to sleep for three more hours, then I’ll cook breakfast.”

  “Pancakes, sausage, grits, buttermilk biscuits, bacon, scrambled eggs, coffee with heavy whip for creamer, and what am I missing? Beer, that’s it! Sound good to you?”

  “Ick,” she says, “that sounds like a heart attack on wheels.”

  “Add a banana and I call it a balanced diet.”

  “I’m just going to have cereal, but I’ll make you some scrambled egg whites if you want.”

  “No scrambled egg yellows?”

  “Not in my America.”

  I laugh. “That was good Frances, real good. Good night.”

  ~*~

  I awake on the not-other side of time. The seductive aroma of freshly brewed coffee lifts me out of bed and gently wafts me nose-first into the kitchen. Just kidding. My knees and ankles feel like they’ve got rust crammed in them, and there’s no position I can move into that doesn’t upset my back. With considerable subvocalized ‘ow-ow-ow-ing’ I get my tootsies on the floor only to remember that my Killer Kombat Kane is in the other room.

  “All right guys, it’s all you.” I tell my man-gams.

  My increasing gimpness disconcerts me, but it’s still better than having robot parts. Yeah, you can’t tell they’re robotic parts just from casual observation, and sure they’ll make you pain-free and put you back at a hundred percent mobility, but there’s just not enough track record yet. The way my luck runs, I’d be the one whose replacements go all Skynet at the worst possible moment. All the sudden, I’d be kicking my own ass or worse, prostrating to the nearest bum I encounter. What happens when those two legs go kaputz while the owner is pushing a baby stroller up a hill? I’m not saying I’ll have some anklebiters, but you never know. Yeah, unlikely scenarios, says the thought-editor in my head, and I hate to be an anti-machinista, but I’ll keep my fastly deteriorating limbs, thank you very much.

  “You coming?” Frances calls out. “What’s taking you so long?”

  “No, just breathing hard,” I tell her, and I actually do breathe hard as I hobble my gimpy ass out of her bedroom like the thousand-year-old man.

  “Well, hurry up! Your gourmet breakfast is ready.”

  “All right already.” To the living room I go, where I catch Frances in a turquoise robe with a Hello Kitty graphic on the back. Add a pair of matching slippers and socks and it’s safe to say that Frances has gone commercial, Tokyo-style.

  “New duds?”

  “Duds? Oh, you mean clothes.” She does a little spin. “This is a robe I used to wear a couple years ago. I was cold this morning, so I thought I’d put it on.”

  “Coffee, coffee, coffee,” I say as I fill up a cup with what tastes like warm brown crayon water. I wince, add a shit-ton of Sweet and Equal Stevia Monk Fruit sugar substitute and try again. Now it’s sweet warm brown crayon water.

  Could be worse.

  “It’s half-caf, is that okay? Did I make it strong enough?”

  “It’s fine, and regarding your robe: since when does Kitty White wear an NV Visor?”

  “Kitty White? Oh, you mean Hello Kitty. See! I’m catching on. As for her NV Visor, I had this one custom-made.” She points at a carton next to the coffee pot. “Fairtrade fat free vanilla all-cash creamer, if you want some.”

  “All-cash?” I ask I sit at the table.

  “Short for almond cashew.”

  “I’m good,” I tell her. “We have any of that German chocolate cake left?”

  She runs her hand along the side of her short hair, trying to smooth it out. “You really like having these evil Nazi clown dreams, don’t you?”

  “As long as they aren’t evil Nazi clown wet dreams, I’m good.”

  “Ewwww.” She slides me an unappealing plate of unseasoned egg whites from which she has apparently microwaved all the moisture, flavor, and nutrition. “I think I overcooked them a little, sorry!”

  A little? I swallow that phrase and go with, “Got anything to go on them?”

  “There’s some of that barbeque sauce you made last night.”

  “That’ll do.”

  She places an I Can’t Believe It’s Not Margarine-Butter-Substitute container full of sauce on the table alongside the German chocolate cake.

  “You are truly a princess among commoners.”

  “I am, it’s true.” She smiles and pours the faux imitation almost-milk over a bowl of non-GMO, sugar-free, halal, kosher, vegan, karma-infused, vitamin-enhanced, cruelty-free, organic, fair trade, ethically sourced cereal, the box of which proudly proclaims its culturally sensitive eco-friendliness on almost every square inch of its exterior surface so that all may revel in its PC wholesomeness.

  A message flashes on my iNet screen.

  Doc: You up?

  Me: That’s a rather personal question. Please tell me that you’re having a better breakfast than severely over-microwaved egg whites and weak half-caf coffee with German chocolate cake.

  Doc: The cake sounds good; the egg whites less so. Why are you eating egg whites anyway?

  Me: FE ‘cooked’ ‘em for me.

  Doc: Ah. I recommend tabasco sauce. Apply it directly to your tongue and shitcan the egg whites. Here at Mrs. Doc’s Phorusrhacid Sanctuary and Home of The Great Big Omelet, your old pal Arnie made a full English breakfast – streaky bacon, genuine bangers, fried mushrooms and tomatoes, eggs in frames, fried bread and orange marmalade, baked beans, Spam, and he even whipped up both the white and black pudding! Gotta love that. And English Breakfast tea of course, because you know what the Brits say about coffee.

  Me: ?

  Doc: The only people who drink coffee are Yanks and poofters. Anyhoo – I verified the intel I relayed to you yesterday; Veenure – Victoria G. Mays – is indeed Strata’s daughter.

  Me: So I can tell the team now?

  Doc: Sure, let the cat out of the bag, but keep the Sphere Global LLC stuff under wraps though.

  Me: The what?

  Doc: The Revenue Corporation’s shell company that partially sponsors the Dream Team and ironically enough, the same one that funded Zedic’s purchase of a 500K life insurance policy. It’s mostly for morale reasons – Sophia was close to Zedic, as was Rocket. Aside from that, sometimes it’s better for things to remain a need-to-know basis.

  Me: Got it. Mum’s the word.

  Doc: So, I’ll see you in an hour or so at the guild?

  Me: I will be there or be square!

  Doc: Also, what happened last night?

  Me: ???

  Doc: You logged into The Loop.

  His statement catches me by surprise; Frances looks up from her cereal in time to see it register on my mug.

  “What is it?”

  “Nothing, just chatting with Doc.”

  “What’s he saying?”

  “I’ll brief everyone this mor
ning.”

  Me: I had to know.

  Doc: You had to know what? Briefly explain to me how diving into a previously glitched and severely source code compromised Proxima World was a good idea?

  Me: I was collecting data on the effects of an incomplete detonation of a Source Code Bomb. Strictly research purposes.

  Doc: Okay, I’m going to throw the bullshit card. I know you’re looking for Dolly like she was, so I’ll say it.

  Me: That’s not the reason I was there, honest.

  Doc: Yeah, but it’s an underlying theme. The Dolly persona you knew is gone, and statistical probability indicates that even if that particular data package still exists in any sort of retrievable configuration– which it likely doesn’t – it’ll be so highly corrupted as to be unstable, unsafe, and unrecognizable.

  Me: I don’t appreciate the fact that you’re tracking me.

  Doc: Ha! Don’t appreciate the fact? Well boo-frickin’-hoo, Princess. We’ve been hacked, cracked, jacked and smacked around like red-headed stepchildren. We’ve had a death, a near-death, and a serious breach of operational security. You kids are all good at the Proxima stuff, but you know Jack Diddly about how to handle this stuff out here in the RW. So yeah, I keep track of you guys, just in case something else bad happens.

  Me: What about the other guys?

  Doc: What about ‘em? None of your business, as long as they’re not engaging in potentially dangerous or mission compromising activities.

  Me: And Rocket and his Steam girlfriend?

  Doc: Man, you just hear what you want to hear and disregard the rest, don’tcha? I refer you to my former statement about nunya bidness. But you’re getting me off-track. Speaking as a friend, I mean this in the nicest and most supportive way possible: you need to man up and accept the fact that Dolly’s dead, gone, not coming back, and that diving to Cyber Noir is dangerous, disheartening, and highly counterproductive. I would strongly suggest that you count your real world blessings, starting with the real girl who really overcooked your real breakfast.

  Me: You speak wisdom, Master Po.

  “Are you going to eat your eggs?”

  “Sorry,” I tell Frances, “Doc is briefing me.”

  “About what?”

  “I’ll let you know at the meeting.”

  Doc: Not lecturing you here, Mr. Legendary Quantum Hughes, but I’ve been at this shit since back when it was simply VR and people were still awake while they dove.

  Me: I just wanted to see what became of it.

  Doc: Have already said my piece about you diving there again. That said, what was going on in there? I wasn’t able to tap your in-game feed because the Source Code Bomb laces itself to the targeted Proxima world and disrupts shit big time. Sophia can give you a very thorough explanation of what happens and why, complete with charts, graphs, and tons of math, all in a condescending tone of voice that would make a lesser man want to choke the shit out of her, but the short version is that the SCB alters or impairs world functionality and in-world internal consistency and continuity. It can also modify, lock out, or permanently delete external tools and options on your dashboard.

  Me: The world was hazy-crazy topsy-turvy; it was like a mild mescaline nightmare. Also, there’s a cat-salt using killer clown who calls himself Nicky the Wig and says he’s taken over as the NVA Seed. I don’t know how true that is, but the couple of NPCs I talked to seem to think he’s running the place.

  Doc: He’s not the NVA Seed, but he may be … shit how would I even describe this? Dolly prevented the Source Code Bomb from detonating while you and your crew were still in-world, but after youse guys boogied it subsumed her but only incompletely deployed, which is why there was still something recognizable for you to spawn into. So there’s probably still an echo – a faint resonance – of Dolly as NVA seed that this NPC Nicky the Wig is picking up on. Never forget that Proxima worlds are the things of dreams and that all NVA Seeds can access information stored in a diver’s subconscious. It’s even totally possible for an NVA Seed to access a person’s nightmares, or a collective group of nightmares. Now, there are safeguards in place that are supposed to prevent this, but there’s no telling what did or didn’t get corrupted or deleted, and any sufficiently self-aware higher-order NPC like Aiden, for instance, could step in as an ersatz NVA Seed and theoretically root around in the former NVA Seed’s locked data – especially if the safeguards are damaged.

  Me: So it could harvest and weaponize the phobias and nightmares of anyone who has ever logged into its world?

  Doc: You are a ‘go’ at this station.

  Me: But I’m not afraid of clowns.

  Doc: That doesn’t mean that someone else who’d been to Cyber Noir before the glitch wasn’t. The NVA Seed stores a lot of info. Remember our individual puzzles the Sage of Gotha had for us? How do you think it came up with them?

  Me: By reading our diaries?

  Doc: Now you’re catching on. All right, pretend to finish your breakfast and I’ll special order some breakfast burritos to the DT offices. Rocket will stash them in the same place.

  Me: Janitor’s closet?

  Doc: Yeah – that would fall under the heading of ‘same place’.

  Me: Before you go, I have to know … since you have zompocaphobia or whatever it is, where do you actually go when you log in for leisure?

  Doc: Sometimes a man’s just gotta go where the legs are long, the hooters are oversized, the Dreamhouses are Malibu, and the life in plastic’s just fantastic.

  Me: Huh?

  Doc: GoogleFace it, Ken.

  Chapter Three

  Doc did me a solid. As soon as I hit the front door at the Dream Team’s Fortress of Rescuetude, I make a beeline for the treeline so to speak, right to the janitor’s closet where three steaming hot, foil-wrapped breakfast burritos deluxe in an EBAYmazon logoed eco-foam insulated takeout box await to break my fast. Now this – this is breakfast: soft warm flour tortillas, fluffy scrambled eggs, sautéed onions and green peppers, sausage and bacon, three kinds of cheese, and crispy fried potato, all generously salted and peppered and slathered in fire roasted chipotle salsa. Extra-strength double caf espressachino to go with would be good; cold beer would be even gooder, but the lack of either of these beverages in no way detracts from my gurgitational gratification.

  “Can’t beat that with a Brooklyn Crusher.” I crumple up the foil from the final burrito.

  Rocket: Doc had me meet the delivery drone and stash the merchandise in the usual location. Did you find them?

  Me: Do you see me in the conference room?

  Rocket: Nope! Just me and the dames in here waiting for your stinking kiester.ᕕ(ᐛ)ᕗ

  Me: You and the dames?

  Rocket: That’s what you’d say, right?

  Me: Touché. The stinking kiester part, maybe not so much.

  Rocket: But it sounded gansta, right?

  Me: Any other questions?

  Rocket: So did you find the stuff okay?

  Me: Where else would I possibly be in this tiny little office?

  Rocket: I thought you might be powdering your nose or meating your beat or something.

  Me: Ha! nice one. No, I found ‘em just fine, and they are, without a shadow of a doubt, scrum-diddly-umptious. Thanks for making the pick up again.

  Rocket: Gotcha covered, Q-Ness.

  I slip out of the broom closet, avail myself of hand sanitizer station on the wall, give my burrito hole and digits a fair and mighty cleansing, and nonchalantly waltz into the conference room. Sophia has her head on the table, eyes closed, mouth open and a spiffy drool puddle a buildin’. She’s in her Look at me! I’m a SCIENTIST! white lab coat, and her Asian fro looks like a hoo-raw’s nest. I turn to Frances, who has both hands clasped around a cup of coffee and is talking to Rocket about his girlfriend. “You should just tell her about it,” she says as I stroll over to my seat. “It’s the best way.”

  “She’s right, kid, your old lady deserves to know that you violated the tr
ust of your relationship by participating in that cyber-orgy and that you have a Proxima STI with no known cure.

  “That’s not what we’re talking about!” Rocket finishes his Bull Bean energy drink and tosses it over his shoulder. It misses the trashcan by a mile and splatters onto the wall.

  I read his shirt aloud. “Weakened by the weekend, I like it. Not bad, Rocket, not bad.”

  He grins at me. “Really, you like it?”

  “It’s clever, that’s for sure,” says the big Euphoria. I give her a wink and she crosses her eyes at me.

  Me: That’s not very cute.

  Frances Euphoria: Neither is your creepy wink.

  Sophia bolts up from the table, glances at the three of us, and sits back down again. “Sorry!” she yawns and stretches her arms over her head. “I had a breakthrough last night!”

  “So that’s why you were sleeping when I came in,” Rocket says.

  Her eyes dart left and right. “Why didn’t you wake me up? I still have prep work that needs to be done!”

  “Easy,” I tell her, “there’ll be time for it later. Let’s get the briefing done and get diving.”

  “You don’t understand what it is I’ve been working on, do you?” she asks, her voice tinged with anger. “Didn’t you read the message I sent you?”

  “Science-y stuff; I get it.”

  She runs her hand through her fro. “Not just science-y stuff! Frances, you didn’t tell him?”

  Frances sets her cup down on the table. “Um, it didn’t come up? Sor-reee … ”

  “He’s staying with you! It should have come up!”

  “We talk about other things,” I tell her. “Like the weather, sports, third world dictators, common malapropisms, global warming and global cooling, um … ”

  “The latest Proxima gear trends,” Frances chimes in, “traffic, food, Doc and Rocket.”

  Rocket crosses his hands over his chest and bats his eyes at us. “You two talk about me? Really? What do you talk about – C’mon, tell.”

  “It’s the best talk, the very, very, very best,” I assure him. “The absolute best, let me tell you, folks, believe me.”

  “Is that supposed to be some kind of impression? Whatever. We have too much to talk about and not a lot of time.” Sophia raises her finger to bite her nail and stops. “All right, I’ll start from the top.”