Reapers and Repercussions: (Book Four) (Sci-Fi LitRPG Series) (The Feedback Loop 4)

by Reapers

  “The hotel wanted to press charges against you for having a weapon on their premises, and the cops wanted to confiscate your cane, but Solon pointed out that the hotel was criminally negligent when they gave your assailant access to your room, and he’d file suit against everybody and revoke the hotel’s government contract.”

  “Solon’s a damn good lawyer.”

  “He is. The hotel’s lawyers quickly agreed with him and so your cane is safe. A drone should be delivering it to the office any moment now.”

  “It’s a swordstick.”

  “Whatevs … if you hadn’t had that with you … ”

  “I get it, Sponge Boob Trigger Pants would have murdalized me. I’d be American Swiss cheese.”

  Frances half-smiles.

  “Oh, and you can thank you for the swordstick. You’re the one that bought it for me.”

  She nods.

  “What about the kid?” I ask. I almost call him an assassin, but about the only thing he has in common with an actual assassin are the first three letters of the noun.

  “That wasn’t just any teenager, that was … ” Frances bites her lip.

  “Well?”

  “A guy named Matthew Henderson.”

  “Who? Should I know this person?”

  “Rollins.”

  “Rollins the Reaper?” I suddenly recall the beefcaked gothic John Cena in his skull mask pumping his muscles and posturing. The thought comes and I open my mouth to let it out: “Strata sent him.”

  “We don’t know that.”

  “That’s how he got the gun.”

  She bites her lip. “Again, we don’t know that. The police are investigating, but the receiver was 3-D printed, so no serial number, and all the other components are over the counter sales to anybody so there’s no way to trace it.”

  “It has to be Strata’s doing. How else would Rollins get in and spoof the hotel’s security system or whatever if not for some high level hackery? Rollins may be a wowsie-wow gamer, but all the time he spends in the Proxima Galaxy probably means he doesn’t have the time to be a wowsie-wow hacker.”

  “That’s where money comes in.”

  “Spent … ” Frances looks down.

  “Huh?”

  “The amount of time he spent in the Proxima Galaxy. Rollins … uh, Matthew is dead. You killed him.”

  Chapter Three

  “I offed Rollins in the real world?”

  Frances nods, squeezes my hand. “You were protecting yourself, Quantum. Nobody blames you.”

  “Too bad if they do, and pardon me if I’m not all boo-hoo about it. Any blowback from his parents?”

  “No parents. Rollins – I mean Matthew, lived at a foster home that’s maintained by the Revenue Corporation, which supposedly mentors teens with troubled pasts into tomorrow’s tech leaders. They have locations in San Francisco, Austin and Pittsburgh. Matthew stayed at the Pittsburgh location.”

  “RevCo has orphanages?”

  “Yes, and they usually employ the orphans after they’ve graduated from college.”

  “Employ the poor little orphans? That’s BULLSHIT! They’re running Reaper farms! Reaper training facilities! Nothing but! Has nobody ever looked into this?”

  “I actually have no idea.” Frances blinks, grimaces. “I’m having Rocket do a little public database research. He’ll get back to me shortly.”

  “Are you telling me that you never thought of this angle?”

  “Hey, there’s no need to get that kind of tone with me! We were unaware of this program until just now. The nonprofit funding the initiative isn’t directly related to the Revenue Corporation. Like most big companies, they donate a percentage of their yearly profits to various charitable organizations, sometimes organizations run by off shore companies that are registered again by other off shore companies. Regardless of their intent, we never thought to, um … go through their charitable donations. Hey! Don’t give me that face.”

  “What kind of team am I running here?”

  “We’re short staffed! We haven’t been able to afford a full-time research analyst for … since about a year after you were in your digital coma. We do the best with the staff and equipment we have.”

  “I get it, I get it,” I say, breathing deeply. “You aren’t the enemy here. The enemy is clear – Strata Godsick.”

  That bastard. I remember the conversation I had with the head of the Revenue Corporation back in The Loop, how he turned Dolly against me and dropped the source code bomb that destroyed my home away from home. To think that Strata exploits orphans and turns them into Reapers and gets a tax deduction for it? That really deep-fries my ass!

  “What time is it?” I ask.

  “It’s six in the morning.”

  “Good, when do we get started today?”

  Frances Euphoria laughs. “You’re hardly in any condition to dive.”

  “What are you talking about? I’m in tip-top shape!”

  Her Dream Team uniform top pulls tight when she crosses her arms under her juggies. We haven’t made whoopee since last week, just before all the shit went down on the digital side of things, and boy do I miss it right about now. Not her fault – she’s been trying to have a reason to visit my hotel since the incident, but I’ve been pushing her away. Amazing what guilt would do; the thought of betraying Dolly still stings.

  “The doctor said you can’t dive, at least for a day but he recommended three days.”

  “Can’t dive? It’s Monday; it’s my job.”

  “Yeah, and it’s my job to look after you.” She bends forward, kisses me on the cheek. “Keep this between us.”

  “What do I look like, some sort of squealer to you?”

  Frances comes in again for another kiss. “You can’t dive with us, but you can monitor the action.”

  “You mean like Rocket? I’m not an in-game monitor!”

  “Well, you will be today. After that, we’ll meet with Doc. He’s driving up from Texas right now.”

  “He didn’t fly?”

  “He never flies, nor will he take hyperloops,” she says as she moves away from me. “Doc likes to keep to the ground. He also has a service animal which the airports and airlines always give him trouble about. Frances stands, gives me the Princess Di wave. “I’m going to run home to clean up a bit. You’ll be staying at my place until we find you safer housing.”

  Well that answers my question on the possibility of future boinkage.

  “Also, because you’re an FCG employee who’s experienced traumatic stress, you’ve been assigned a PTSD Counselor under provisions of the Federal Employee Mental Wellness Statutes.”

  “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  “Sorry, them’s the rules. That’s how you’d say it, right?”

  “Right,” I grumble.

  “The good news is that you already have an FDA Monitor who is qualified to administer PTSD counseling, he’ll be taking over that role as well. So no worries there.”

  “You mean Evan?”

  “Who?”

  “My FDA Monitor.”

  She nods. “That’s the one.”

  “Ah, hell. Rollins should have just finished the job.”

  “That’s horrible! Don’t say things like that, okay? Look, I’ll be back in an hour or two and get you signed out. We’ll head to the office together.” She turns as soon as reaches the door. “Oh, and they’ll serve you some breakfast soon.”

  “Pancakes?”

  “Hardly. I saw the menu on the way in. Today’s breakfast is a couple of slices of cantaloupe, a scrambled egg white, a nonfat sugar-free fair trade mocha and maple syrup-flavored reduced fat Jell-O.”

  “Give me a break … ” But by the time I can groan, she’s already out the door.

  ~*~

  Me: I ain’t talking.

  FDA Monitor/PTSD Counselor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes, it’s Evan. It seems that you’ve had a troubling night, from a possible excessive calorie incident to the attack in the hotel room
. As I said previously, I’ve reviewed all the current information available, and would like to hear about the incident from your perspective. Please start at the beginning.

  Me: If you’ve reviewed my iNet feed, you have my perspective.

  FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. All that provides is the objective first person ocular data, and not your subjective thoughts and feeling and emotions. And please be advised that failure to comply with my requests for counselling may resort in escalating your case.

  Me: Go ahead, make my day.

  FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. While Dirty Harry quotes may feel appropriate, there are better ways to explore your feelings.

  Me: I’m telling you now isn’t the time! I’m trying to eat the no doubt FDA approved pretend food here at the hospital. Now, unless you want me to dig my life chip out with the Dixie Cup spoon that came with this revolting collection of swill, you’ll leave me alone. Capiche?

  FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. I have no problem scheduling a talk later in the day. However, I must warn you, that I will be monitoring you through your own iNet feed and all the WOOPA surveillance feeds in your vicinity as part of a forty-eight hour suicide watch.

  Me: Great. I’ll be sure to commit suicide on Thursday.

  FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. I’ve now changed your monitoring time to seventy-two hours.

  Me: I was joking.

  FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. I was too.

  Me: You’re a real smart ass, you know that?

  FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. It’s better than being a dumbass.

  Me: Are you viewing my iNet feed now?

  FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. Yes, I am.

  “Damn droid.” I lift my free hand to my face, and raise high the digitus impudicus.

  ~*~

  “Zedic, Rocket, Frances and … ” My brain is too fuzzy to place the Asian dame sitting in the conference room at the Dream Team Headquarters. Feels nice saying that – headquarters – if only the place looked less like the back office of a failed industrial park and more like the GoogleFace offices. Yeah, I get the fact that the Federal Corporate Government has better places to spend taxpayer dollars. Hell the third – or fourth – war in the Middle East is heating up right now, and you can’t forget the never-ending shenanigans in Africa, or keeping an eye on our post-Soviet buddies. Still, we could really use a bit of remodeling over here. No need to call an Iris Apfel bot; a WalMacy’s Mainstays interior decorator would do wonders.

  “Q Daddy!” Rocket says, breaking my thought. “Glad to see the taxi got you here safely!”

  Movement behind me; I turn to let Frances walk past, looking curvy, cute and clean cut in her Dream Team duds. She sits, smiles up at me.

  “Hi, I’m Sophia Wang.”

  I return my attention to the Daughter of the Orient. The final member of the Dream Team, Zedic’s partner, stands and takes my hand in a surprisingly firm grip. She’s got fierce, feline features, and moves with tightly controlled grace of a predator on the prowl. A Harriet Tubman says this gal don’t own hat one; she’s coiffed with a bulbous bouffant that would give Angela Davis, Elsa Lanchester, and Macy Gray screaming hair envy. She’s in a standard Dream Team outfit and a white lab coat, a pair of glasses tucked into her front pocket.

  “Quantum Hughes,” she says as she stops in mid-shake, tilts her head and shoots me a quizzical look.

  “Can I help you?”

  “I just thought you’d be taller.”

  “Let’s just say everything that’s on our minds, then.”

  Zedic snorts his McStarbucks red velvet moccachino latte out of his nose and nearly tips himself over backward. He sits beneath a framed schematic of an NV Visor, his feet on the table. Even spattered with his trendy overpriced morning beverage, he’s cooler than the Pole formerly known as North before climate change, and he looks like a 20s hipster in his acid wash jean jacket with stylishly excised sleeves. Rocket is next to him in a t-shirt that reads I’m with stupid and has arrows pointing in all directions.

  “I’ve read your case history dozens, no hundreds of times!” she says. “Part of the research I did for my PhD in Neuronal Physics involved assisting Frances with monitoring and charting your physiological changes. It was sort of a side project of mine.”

  Right out of the gate I’m not getting warm fuzzy feelings about this broad, and her enthusiasm about me as Science Fair Project ain’t helping much. “You were there?”

  “Many times! I helped with your hygiene and physical therapy, too!”

  “Um … ”

  “You’re looking a lot healthier, by the way.” She’s at least a head taller than me not counting her mondo hairdo, and the way-too-familiar manner in which she pokes me in the breadbasket ain’t making me any more comfortable. “At least ten pounds, just by the looks of it. Please, I’d like to weigh you.”

  “Look, Sophia … ”

  Frances Euphoria: Just go with her for a moment. She’s part of the team and yes, she can be a bit exhausting, but trust me – you really want to keep Sophia on your side.

  Me: Anything for a quiet life.

  Frances Euphoria: Do it for me?

  Me: Fine, fine.

  “Well?” She peeks her head back in the room. “Are you coming or not?”

  “Yeah, yeah, yeah – just maintain a firm grip on your equines.”

  I follow Sophia down the hall, past Frances’ office into an even smaller office.

  “Not everyone gets an office around here,” she explains as she flicks on the light. “You should have an office, but we only have space for two offices and because of the fact I am doing some post-doc research with a few colleagues at Caltech, Frances thought it would be better if I had a space. Besides … ” She turns to me and the innocent look on her face quickly changes. “I told them I wouldn’t work for the Team if I couldn’t have an office. You do realize I could make about five times the salary in the private sector or through some type of joint university-government project, don’t you?”

  I just sigh and look at her.

  “I’m talking six digits here, and a high six digits at that. I could probably get a job at Proxima, or maybe one of their subsidiary developers like RockStar or Square Enix.”

  “No one’s stopping you … ”

  She pouts for a moment, clearly ready to argue. I shut my eyes rapidly to see another message from Frances.

  Frances Euphoria: Play nice. She can be a bit overbearing.

  “Great.” I smile as widely as much as my headache and rapidly eroding patience will let me. “So this is your office?”

  “I already told you it was.”

  While the office is small, the space is well utilized. There’s a single desk in the far left corner of the room beneath a large holoscreen showing science-y stuff, which I’m assuming refreshes after a certain amount of time. To the right, beneath a large window covered by black drapes, is a sleek couch straight from Ikea. Directly next to the door, across from her desk, is a table filled with science gear. Everything is labeled, and as soon as she opens one of the drawers, I see that she has labeled everything in there as well.

  “Nice office.”

  “It would be nicer if it were about three times this size,” she says with a shrug. “It works though, and I’ve also taken a corner in the main room to keep some of the larger gear I may need. You’ve seen it.”

  “I haven’t.”

  “Don’t you look around?”

  “Not as much as I should.”

  “Ah! Here it is,” she says, placing a paper-thin sheet of glass held up by four tiny knob-legs on the floor. “Step on this.”

  “And break it?”

  “Motoglass. Good luck breaking it with your less-than-full strength feet.”

  Me: I feel like she’s disembiggening me.

  Frances Euphoria: That’s just how she is.

  Like a good boy, I do as I’m told. Even with her slight dis at my stomping power, I step onto
the plate of glass as delicately as possible.

  “Seventy-seven kilos,” she says. “Note: Hughes, Quantum, file 309, current date, seventy-seven kilos. Comment: Subject five kilos under, expected to gain a predicted ten to fifteen kilos over the rest of the summer at current caloric consumption rate. Set reminder for one month to check projected weight.”

  “Kilos?”

  Sophia nods like a doctor examining an annoying patient. Her eye liner is about three times thicker than Frances’, giving her the retro Amy Winehouse look. There are a few small zits under her cheekbones which are covered by some type of foundation.

  “What?” she asks, shrinking away from me.

  “Just looking at you.”

  “Well don’t. I’ve had enough people doing that lately.”

  I recall what Zedic mentioned last week about her family constantly trying to marry her off to guys from China, or Taiwan – I can’t quite remember where in Asia, but I know it’s some place I’ll never visit.

  “What were you saying about my weight?” I ask.

  “You’re still underweight, but you’ll get fatter. Especially if you keep up your current eating habits. I was just updating your medical file. You have an FCG Monitor, correct?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll forward him your information.”

  “Do not.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Do. Not. That FCG monitor has been on my ass since last night. You do know what happened last night, right?”

  “Yes, you were assaulted.”

  “And I’m here right now.”

  “Yes, in my office.” She clears her throat, places her hands at her sides, suddenly less sure of herself. “Um … What’s your point?”

  I try to hang onto my temper, but despite my best efforts and intentions, I find myself speaking to her in what my mother used to call my outdoor voice.

  “I’m here right now after little or no sleep, if you don’t count the hours that I was unconscious from head trauma, and the last thing I need is Evan, my goddamn FDA Monitor, who is now also my PTSD counselor, getting any more information on me. Do not send anything to him – anything! Any information about me in any way, shape, form or description is personal, private, confidential, and not for release. So, is there anything about this that you’re not clear on?”