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

by Reapers

  “Breathe, Sophia, slow deep breaths,” Doc says over his shoulder. “Dammit, if you’re going to have a seizure, do it outside.” With surprising gentleness, Doc calls, “Sally, honey, c’mere good girl.”

  Sally the goat looks up from her bedding.

  “Come here sweetie,” he says, his eyes focused on the action on the screen. The thermal images have separated, two going upstairs and two heading towards the kitchen.

  The goat stands, walks over to Doc and puts her head in his lap. “Ma-a-a-h,” she says.

  “That’s my good smart girl. Go sit with the mean lady, sweetie.”

  Sally moves over, leans up against Sophia and puts her head in her lap.

  “Pet the goat, it’ll help,” he says. “Decoy, Bovidae, four Zulu inside, over.”

  “Bovidae, Decoy, copy.”

  “I can’t look, I can’t look, I can’t look,” she says. But even with her head pressed into my shoulder now, she reaches out and rests her hand on Sally’s knobby skull.

  Arnie’s voice this time. “Bovidae, Metal Man, subject secure.”

  Rocket lets out a nervous sigh into his mic. “They need to get out of there!”

  “Decoy, this is Bovidae, subject secure, move into position, over.” Doc says.

  “Bovidae, Decoy, currently at alpha, bravo, two, niner, six, niner. Moving into position, over,” our decoy driver says.

  “Decoy, Bovidae, they have company, engage when in position, over.”

  “Bovidae, Decoy, will engage, over.”

  Doc opens his vests and reaches for one of his pieces. He thinks otherwise, returns his hand to his mouse. Reaches inside his vest again and places his gun on the desk.

  “Easy, Doc,” I tell him.

  “If Strata’s security detail follows them here, I’ll provide cover.” he says, watching as two heat signatures move towards the hallway outside the underground bunker. “Rocket, cut the lights in thirty seconds. The hallway is windowless, it’ll provide some concealment.” he says, almost as an afterthought. “Metal Man, Bovidae, prepare for midnight, over.”

  “Bovidae, Metal Man, roger that.” Arnie whispers something to Frances and the white balance on her iNet visual increases.

  “I can help,” I say, “give me a piece.”

  “You want to help? Stay put and shut up,” he says. “When’s the last time you fired a real firearm?”

  Sophia wails. “Please, no guns!”

  “We really need to get you people some training,” Doc says as he squeezes his fists together. “Really.”

  “I’ve been trained,” she says into my shoulder, “same as Frances.”

  “Retrained,” Doc clarifies. “I know we don’t normally have real life tactical situations, but Frances is the only one of you divers who’s worth a flip in the field. No offense. Rocket, where’s my distraction?”

  Rocket says, “I’ll play with the automated sliding doors in the kitchen.”

  “Good!” Doc says. “Make it loud!”

  The two heat signatures turn back into the kitchen, presumably to investigate the sound of the screen doors opening and shutting.

  “Metal Man, Bovidae, two Zulu distracted, go, go, GO!”

  Arnie moves into the hallway first, provides cover as Frances leads the hover stretcher out. A quick switch to Frances’ white balance heavy feed and I see that she has a piece in one hand, the other hand on a lit up green bar attached to the hover stretcher. I also see Luther, his pale form slathered in vat goo.

  ~*~

  Doc gulps. “Those two are heading back towards the hallway, the other two are upstairs protecting Strata.”

  We arrive at the same conclusion.

  “There may be more outside,” we say at the same time.

  “Yup. Rocket, can you pull camera feeds from any drone devices or street surveillance equipment in the neighborhood? Anything out of the ordinary.”

  “Working on it, Doc!”

  They continue down the hallway in the opposite direction. A quick glance at a schematic over my own iNet feed and I see that the hallway actually forms a triangle, both ends leading towards the entry. Arnie and Frances’ feed show them approaching a large convex security mirror.

  They turn the corner into the entry way, and without pausing or breaking stride Arnie fires two quick bursts from his inhibitor into the mirror and the two approaching figures collapse to the ground.

  “That’s some mighty fine shootin’, Tex!” I shout. “What are the odds of that connecting?”

  Doc keeps his eyes on the screen as he says, “Odds of a human? One in a million. Odds of an advanced cyborg with combat AI upgrades that can process multiple ballistic problems in a fraction of a second? Better. Significantly better. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again – we’re being replaced.”

  “They’re out!” Sophia relaxes a little as she watches Frances and Arnie move towards the entrance of the house. She moves away from me, shoots me a glance that says keep this between us, and settles back on her side of the bench.

  “Bovidae, Decoy, Roger. Metal Man, Decoy, initiate operation switcheroo, do you copy?”

  “Decoy, Metal Man, copy.”

  Allen the decoy stops at Strata’s gate, waiting for Rocket to open it. The gate clicks open and he pulls up the driveway, parks next to Arnie and Frances’ camouflaged vehicle.

  Shots fired, the reports coming from Allen’s feed. Before Doc can say anything, Allen presses his thumb on a garage door opener taped to his steering column.

  “Why aren’t the bullets causing more damage?” I ask.

  “Allen’s vehicle is coated in a special nanometal, the same stuff the President has on his Stryker. Again, friends in low places, it helps in my line of work. Here they come now.”

  Doc could either be referring to Frances and Arnie or the hundreds upon hundreds of baseball-sized drones that spray out of the back of the van. The drones hit the air, the majority form a protective barrier around Frances and Arnie.

  “Where are the others going?” I ask, noticing via Frances’ feed that a few of the drones are hot-tailing it away.

  “Sniper hunting.”

  The drones are in constant motion, and create a protective globe around them. Several take hits and go down; several others return fire with directed energy weapons. Still others spray out a silvery-gray reflective mist.

  Frances’ feed on the left, Arnie’s in the middle, Allen’s on the right, Sophia next to me biting her nails, one of Doc’s shooters on his desk – talk about a way to blaze through Hump Day. My heart sinks as I watch Frances’ feed move amidst gunfire; I want her out, I want her safe, I want her to know how I really feel.

  I can’t imagine losing another person I love.

  Me: You have to get out of there. I love you. Sorry for this message. Be safe, dammit.

  Frances and Arnie load Strata’s kid into the back, the drones cast a protective shadow over them. Once they’ve secured the stretcher, Frances stays with it and Arnie makes his way to the front of the vehicle. I can hear shouting now, but the glittery mist prevents me from seeing anything but Frances and Arnie’s silhouettes.

  “Bovidae, Metal Man, ready to cruise, over.”

  “Decoy, Bovidae, get the hell out of there, copy?”

  “Bovidae, Decoy, copy.”

  “Thanks pal, I owe you one.”

  “You owe me more than one,” Allen says as he starts up his van.

  Doc clears his throat, takes just about the deepest breath I’ve heard anyone take. “Damn, I wish I still smoked. Rocket, destroy all recorded since 0100 this morning. Initiate server fire program. Frances and Arnie are en route.”

  Epilogue

  Thunderstorms galore as we speed towards the Colorado-Kansas border. We did it, and boy did we do it by the hair of our chinny chin chins, the skin of our teeth, the thickness of a whisker, and several other clichéd expressions for ‘just barely’. I’ve got mad respect for Arnie at the moment – who would have thought a Humandroid could
perform that well in dick-in-the-dirt, live fire scenario? It almost makes me want to change my mind about their species – species? – as a whole. But Doc’s statement that they’re replacing us is what partially fuels my distrust. It’s hard to be friends with a future enemy. I wish I had known then what I know now about Strata.

  No time to admire the scenery, no time to sit back and pat myself on the back for the damn good job we did, no time to rib Sophia and suck a little face with Frances. We’re moving like fugitives in the RV, Arnie driving and Doc riding shotgun, Frances and Sophia seeing to Luther Godsick.

  Rocket: Qpapi69, this is Romeo Oscar Charlie Kilo Echo Tango, confirm current location, over.

  Me: Not now, and don’t get me started on how far away you are from Romeo. You damn well know our location. Tensions are high. I want us to stay off this communication line for now.

  Rocket: Hey, just trying to lighten the mood! Besides, no one can intercept this line. There’s advanced encryption, then there’s the private channel we use to communicate. You don’t pay me the big bucks for nothing.

  Me: What do we pay you again?

  Rocket: I’m a federal employee. My benefits far outweigh my pay, but at least my job won’t be automated anytime soon. Sucks to be just about everyone else.

  Me: This conversation can happen another time. How are Zedic’s vitals?

  Rocket: He’s fine.

  Me: Keep watching him, and take a break while you’re at it. You’ve earned it.

  I hate to crowd around them again, but I’ve never been good at curbing my curiosity. I head to the back of the RV and I stop in front of my bed loaded with dreamworld gear. I place my hand on my bunk, have the notion to crawl in and try to log into The Loop. What would I find? Would it look the same as the OMIB in Tritania?

  And Dolly – would I find her or some echo of her?

  I raise my hand to scroll through my inventory list. No such luck – there is only one item in my RW inventory list worth using, my commando survival cane. I’ve got to stop doing that, seriously.

  The thought comes to me with my hand still in the air.

  Me: Say, what would happen if I used Dolly’s NVA Seed in Tritania?

  Rocket: Shit, I never thought of that!

  Me: Language, kid.

  Rocket: You say shit all the time!

  Me: But I never drop the f-bomb.

  Rocket: I noticed that. Anyway, I don’t know, for those kinds of questions, you should turn to Sophia or maybe Doc, but Sophia would probably know more than him. Doc is old school, he was around for the test trials and he’s an expert when it comes to making weapons that bend the rules of the game-time continuum. Sophia’s knowledge has more of an academic, philosophical twist to it. Both could make millions if they worked for the Proxima Company.

  Me: Not just them, you too.

  Rocket: Do you mean it?

  Me: I do. Great job today and in general.

  Rocket: Here’s a screenshot of me blushing.

  A picture quickly loads of Rocket giving me the thumbs up, his cheeks bright red, clearly photoshopped, and not very good photoshop work at that. This is followed by another screenshot where his features have been replaced by with moving graphics.

  Me: I never pictured you with cat eyes.

  “He’s stable!” I hear Doc say from the backroom.

  ~*~

  The kid isn’t my enemy, I remind myself as I look down at Luther Godsick’s partially covered face. His features trigger a memory of his father – same pointed nose, same arrogant curl to the lips. Still, the kid isn’t my enemy.

  Frances wipes her brow. I can see the fatigue in her eyes – she’s been through a lot today. Sophia, now in her lab coat, stands in the far corner of the room next to the rig interface. She clutches a handheld device that displays a series of squiggly lines on screen.

  Me: You should get some rest.

  Frances Euphoria: Yeah, I should, but I’m still feeling the adrenaline.

  Me: Sorry about earlier.

  Frances Euphoria: What do you mean?

  Me: I try not to use the L word lightly.

  Frances Euphoria: Did you mean it?

  Me: Of course I did.

  She gives me a soft smile.

  “I was worried there for a moment.” Doc is at the door now. He wipes a film of perspiration from his brow. “I really need to get the A/C checked.”

  “You’ve earned it,” I hand Doc a cold Shiner Bock and crack one open myself. We cheers, hold eye contact for a moment as we nod.

  “Don’t spill any on him,” Sophia says without looking up from her device.

  Arnie steers the RV into a different lane, causing all of us to shift right. Doc and I both prevent any spillage by taking big chugs of our bottles.

  “Ahhh,” I say as that familiar taste spreads down my throat. “Is there anything else like an ice cold beer after a long day?”

  “There is,” Doc says. “But a beer will do.”

  “Where are you?” Frances spots a bit of vat goo on Luther’s knee and wipes it with a yellow rag. As Doc predicted, Luther’s muscle tone and general physical condition have been kept up by the big bucks, high-speed, low-drag, top o’ the line dive tank daddy’s illicit money provided.

  “It would be weird to go through puberty while in a digital coma,” I say.

  Doc nods. “I’m sure his advanced vat had something for that too.”

  “You mean a jack-off machine?”

  “There’s a technical name for it – Urge Relief Apparatus, URA. It was invented by the Japanese to take care of their aging population and mentally disabled who’ve grown into adulthood.”

  Sophia says, “Well, he won’t have anything like that anymore. Besides, there is debate as to if that is necessary or not.”

  “It’s necessary for someone his age,” Doc says. “You think there’s a lot of goo in a vat as it is … ”

  I laugh; the ladies, not so much. I guess boys will be boys, no matter how old they get. Frances moves past me with a bucket filled with soiled towels. “Any place in particular that I can put these?” she asks over her shoulder.

  “Just place them in the closet beneath the sink; we won’t be doing any laundry until we get home.”

  “That’s like ten hours from now,” says Sophia. She blinks her eyes shut, checks iNet data and says, “ten hours and fifteen minutes.”

  “Not quite,” says Doc. He too moves past me to the doorway; I merge to the right corner of the room to clear space at the entrance. My eyes return to Luther – he’s so innocuous lying on the specially made dive stretcher with his NV Visor on. I was him, for two subjective years, eight if you can actually count, that was me. Asleep and awake at the same time, living death, coma-d man walking.

  “Arnie,” Doc says once he’s in the hallway. “Let’s hit the air, three minutes.”

  Sophia calls after him. “This thing is an aeros?”

  Doc peeks his head back in the room. “Of course it is. You didn’t really think we were going to get away in a ground vehicle, did you? Cuts travel time in half if we use the long-distance travel lane.”

  “I thought you hated traveling by air.”

  “I do,” he winks at me, “but sometimes a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. Everyone secure for flight.”

  An alarm sounds off and two seats drop from the walls. Sophia sits down, directly across from me, and buckles her seatbelt.

  “Where are you going?” I ask Doc.

  “I’m diving,” he says as he finishes his beer. “I can’t stand flying.”

  “Which world?”

  “Dead City; it’s the most realistic Zompac world in the Proxima Galaxy.”

  “Have fun.”

  “Always do.”

  I’m reminded of a quote as gravity drops – Nothing behind me, everything ahead of me, as is ever so on the road. My only issue with the famous Kerouac quote is the fact that it doesn’t have an afterthought. If it did, it would go something like this: But n
o matter how far I travel, the past is always a step ahead, waiting for me to catch up. Another glance at Luther Godsick, pale and plugged into a porto-rig like some sort of appliance, confirms this.

  My past is coming full circle and there’s nothing I can do to stop it.

  The End

  The Feedback Loop Book Five, The Mechanical Heart, will be out in October.

  PRE-ORDER the book here and have it delivered directly to your device on release day.

  Back of the Book Shit

  Dear Reader,

  I’ll get into the behind the scenes details of Reapers and Repercussions in a moment. Since you’ve just finished the fourth book – congrats, by the way – I figured some Reaper jokes written by George C. Hopkins, editor extraordinaire, will get you in the mood for the next Feedback Loop book, out in October 2016.

  Reaper Ha-Has.

  The Dream Team conference room, 0346, Saturday morning, amidst a welter of empty pizza boxes, taco wrappers, and forty ounce malt liquor cans. “ … so the Reaper says May I push in your stool?” Everybody groans. “Okay, I got one,” says Francis. “How many Reapers does it take to screw in a light bulb?” “None!” says Zedic. “They can’t because their balls haven’t dropped yet!” She snorts beer out her nose. “Okay, then - how many Reapers does it take to change a light bulb?”

  “I don’t know, how many?” “No fewer than thirty, and if the light bulb resists, they all wet their pants and log out!” -- “What’s the difference between a Catfish and a Reaper?” ”One’s a cold-blooded, slimy, scum-sucking bottom-dweller … and the other one’s a fish!” -- “How many Reapers does it take to shingle a roof?”

  “It depends on how thin you slice ‘em.” -- “Your avatar is confronted by a warband made up of an Ebola Nazi, Evil Space Trump, a Hillary Sanders Zombie Ninja, and a Reaper. You only have three rounds for your weapon. Who do you shoot?” “The evil, filthy, flatulent, baby-smacking Reaper - all three times!” -- “Why is it illegal for a dog to bite a Reaper?” “Cruelty to animals!” -- “Knock-knock.”

  “Who’s there?” “Not a Reaper, because they’re all too busy wanking and watching anime barnyard porn in their mother’s basement!” -- “A Reaper, a Rabbi, and a RepubCorp Lobbyist go into the gender-neutral restroom at the BHO International Airport in Wasilla, only to discover that all the stalls are out of order … ” “I know this one,” Q says as he lifts his head from the empty pizza box in front of him, a bite-marked crust stuck to his cheek. He opens one eye and blearily peers over the Great Wall of empty forty-ouncers he built around the pizza box. “They shoot the Reaper, all three times.”