The Mechanical Heart: (Book Five) (Sci-Fi LitRPG Series) (The Feedback Loop 5)

by Harmon Cooper

  “ … we don’t want that to happen either,” I tell him.

  He reads the release, reads it again, signs it. “Okay, I’m pinging my chip tag.”

  Me: Got it?

  Doc: Acquired. He checks out just fine for an instant check. Now we go deeper. Keep him occupied for a few minutes.

  “How did you first meet Veenure?” I ask him.

  “I took a Meet-Up quest near the foothills of the Klin Mountain Range. I spawned in Aramis, looking for a few people to join my party. The payout in rupees was pretty high, so I figured I could get a few noobs. At the time she was only level eight.”

  “She handed us our asses so quickly in the OMIB,” I say, “and she had a big ol’ bastard with her too. No ordinary noob, if you ask me.”

  “Did you catch her level?” he asks.

  “I didn’t think to look.”

  Morning Assassin says, “She’s at level ninety-five now.”

  “How’s that even possible? We were all bumped up to level ninety. There’s no way she could have leveled up in that amount of time.”

  Chrono strokes his beard with his off-hand for a moment. “Maybe she used auto-player levels. She probably saved some; the smart players do.”

  “What about the guy with her?” I ask Aiden. “Did you get his level?”

  “He didn’t display any data, which is unusual.”

  Doc: Keep him talking.

  “How would a noob know so much Thulean?” I ask him.

  “To be honest with you guys, I got the feeling from the get-go that she was a Resetter. There’s a group of Tritaniacs that reset their characters and stats whenever they reach a high enough level.”

  “Is that what they’re called?”

  “Yeah, Tritaniacs.”

  Doc: Maybe she was a Reaper designated for this world. She played and got to know the basics until her services were called upon, a Reaper-sleeper.

  Me: Or maybe she dove to Tritania in her off time once Strata found out his son was here. Wait, no, that’s impossible.

  Doc: How so?

  Me: We met Veenure before Strata attacked The Loop and discovered the location of his son.

  Doc: I bet it was Sophia.

  Me: You think she squealed?

  Doc: No, nothing like that. She’s a name as far as Proxima theory, research, and development go and a lot of folks wondered why she joined the Dream Team instead of taking a high-dollar position with Proxima. Maybe RevCo is getting info from one of her brainiac compadres.

  Me: Personally, I don’t think she has any friends that aren’t NPCs. As far as I can remember, she didn’t dive with us until after we met Veenure.

  Doc: Scheiss. Then how did they know? How did she know where to find us?

  Me: Zedic?

  Doc: He was heavily vetted, all the way back to when he was a glimmer in his daddy’s eye; all of the DT members are.

  Me: That doesn’t mean he didn’t crack at some point. You saw how poorly he was doing in the OMIB. He was also with me when we first met Veenure.

  Doc: Something ain’t right about all of this.

  Me: Agreed. And Veenure kept logging into the OMIB to check on him.

  Doc: I’ll pursue it further. Let’s keep this between you and me for the time being.

  Me: NP.

  Doc: Also, Chrono is good to go.

  Me: Nothing in his background at all?

  Doc: Nothing that concerns us.

  “Congrats, old pal,” I tell the burly bearded blacksmith as I place my hand on his shoulder. “Background check was good, which doesn’t surprise me. We’ll be in touch.”

  Aiden and I turn to the door.

  “Hey, let me ask you one thing,” he calls after us.

  “Shoot.”

  “Are you really the legendary Quantum Hughes?”

  Aiden chuckles. “I wouldn’t call him legendary.”

  “That’s me,” I tell Chrono. “And my wild, uneducated, shoot-first-and-ask-no-questions activities are all to cover my secret identity.”

  Doc: Ha!

  “So it’s all a guise? Even your charge-in-without-thinking attitude and your look-what-I-can-do demeanor? If so, you’re some damn fine method actor, the best!”

  I grunt. “Yes, it’s all a guise. I tried wearing glasses, but that didn’t work. In the RW, I’m a humble, mild-mannered, down to earth guy who rescues puppies, volunteers with Meals on Wheels, and mentors disadvantaged inner-city youth with gender identity issues in my spare time.”

  “Can I have your autograph?” He asks, his eyes filling with stars.

  “Aiden, let’s go.”

  Chapter Nine

  “Goodbye, Texas, I hardly knew ye.”

  Sophia is up front and Frances is next to me, presumably issuing and responding to iNet messages as our UberFord taxi speeds to the airport. Stryker-sized Aerostrucks whip past us with truck nuts hanging from their trailer hitches and unsecured Canus lupus familiaris bouncing in the bed as their tongues flap in the slipstream. AT&T Cowboys stars, gothic crosses, zombie family graphics on tinted windows, Come And Take It bumper stickers compete with Gadsen flags and My Kid Can Whip Your Honor Student’s Ass! for pride of place. Lone Star State license plates framed with chains, barbed wire, marijuana leaves – I take it all in as best as I can. I get the rabble rouser appeal of the state – I really do – but the heat I can do without.

  Frances Euphoria: Once we get back to Baltimore, you and I will take a taxi to my place. No funny stuff this time, though, I’m not in the mood.

  Me: How else are we supposed to introduce Adolf Bin Laden to this wonderful world full of flying cars and Humandroids?

  Frances Euphoria: Not now, Quantum. It’s been a pretty bad day for all of us here.

  Me: I know. I was just trying to lighten the mood.

  Frances Euphoria: And usually, you can. Today isn’t the day though.

  Me: No it’s not, my bad, Frances.

  Everything goes smoothly at the Eastplex airport until we get the TSA grope down, followed by TSA grope down number two, followed by a series of questions regarding the fact that the three of us don’t have any luggage, followed by Sophia getting flustered with a gum-smacking TSA agent who calls her Mrs. Wrong, followed by Frances providing our federal credentials in an effort to de-escalate the situation, followed by yours truly re-esclating the situation by being my normal, mouthy self, followed by more intense questioning, followed by a full body scan and another grope down twice as rough as the first when they see that I’ve attempted to carry on a swordstick.

  Did not think about that before leaving for the airport. Luckily, Euphoria makes yet another saver by scheduling a UPeX pick-up drone to deliver the swordstick to her pad in Baltimore.

  Problem solved, egos bruised.

  Full disclosure – I’ve got a case of swamp ass that would make Swamp Thing cringe, Sophia’s hair has gone from frizzy to finger in an electric socket and Frances looks better than she did at 0700. Needless to say, mum’s the word on the entire flight to BWI.

  I try to get a bit of shuteye, but the little rat-bastard condom failure in the seat behind me reminds me every two minutes or so that he has legs and he knows how to use them. Every time I turn to say something, the kid starts boo-hooing up a storm at a cochlea-damaging volume before I can finish my sentence, and his walking, talking sebaceous cyst of a mother informs me that no, he’s not a spoiled, undisciplined, inconsiderate, over-nourished waste of protoplasm, he’s just expressing himself. Yes, I’m the bad guy, her expression clearly conveys.

  People. Can’t live with them, can’t kill ‘em.

  ~*~

  “The couch,” Frances says as she opens the door to her small apartment. “I’ll get you a blanket, but I don’t have any extra pillows.”

  “You sure there isn’t room in your bed?” I ask. “I’ll sleep as far away from you as possible.”

  She sits on her couch, tosses a stuffed Salusan Bull aside. “I need to get to the office.”

  “
I thought you said on the way from the airport that you were staying here,” I object.

  “I said that so you wouldn’t invite yourself to come with me.” She stands and massages her neck for a moment. “Besides, someone needs to be here when the pick-up drone arrives with your swordstick.”

  “You trying to get rid of me or something?” I ask.

  “Please. I can’t get rid of you. You’re my boss and, well I don’t know what else you are, but I need to get to the office to take over for Rocket.”

  “What do you mean take over for him?”

  “Have you seen his iNet messages recently? They aren’t exactly coherent.” She approaches me. Butterflies in my tummy tells me the way she’s looking at me means something. I reach my arm out and she stops.

  “We need to figure this out.”

  She turns and crosses her arms over her no-fun-for-you bags. “You get some rest. I’ll go to the office and see what I can do there.”

  “When will you be back?”

  “In a couple of hours; you can use the blanket from the bed.”

  With that, she’s gone.

  I can’t help but feel like I should have said something else, like I should have stopped her or gone after her. I guess going after her has never really been my MO, but that doesn’t mean that it shouldn’t be. She likely doesn’t have a beer in the fridge, but that doesn’t stop me from waltzing into her kitchen and checking. Nope, nada, zilch.

  “Damn, Euphoria.”

  The kitchen looks like it hasn’t been used in ages. There’s a layer of rust-colored grime on the counter, a sink full of dry dishes with dried-on soap bubbles and the fridge … refrigerated funk rolls out around my ankles when I open the door. She’s got almond milk from six months ago, eggs from the Spanish-American War, cheese the color of a coral reef and a clear plastic box half-filled with slimy, squamous salad browns. There are half-a-dozen different bottles of unidentifiable condiments, a foil pan with some kind of crusty and dehydrated pasta, and a take-out box with a gray, fuzzy, toxic-looking lump of mold in it.

  I decide to take matter into my own hands.

  After collecting the garbage, I sweep the floors, wipe the countertops and run a load of dishes through the dishwasher. She doesn’t have any floor cleaner, so I find a half bottle of bleach in her laundry closet and use this to mop the floor. Wax on, wax off; hell, I even whistle while I work. The bleach stings the inside of my nose but I power through it, scrubbing like it’s nobody’s business.

  With the kitchen cleaned, I turn to her living room.

  A couch and a single sofa chair surrounding a rug doesn’t seem like it’d be that hard to clean, but my back goes out as soon as I push the sofa chair aside, reminding me yet again that Superman and I have much less in common than I’d care to admit. I lie flat on my back on the floor for a while and stare up at her ceiling, where I observe spider-webby dust hammocks. Now there’s some real world detail.

  “Up and at ‘em.” I roll to my side and slowly push myself up. It smarts, sure, but a little pain never hurt anyone. Scratch that, it did, but I’m cleaning Euphoria’s apartment and I’ll be damned if a little crick in my back is going to stop me.

  I manage to move the furniture off the rug and proceed to vacuum, after dumping the canister, unclogging the venturis and rinsing out the filter, of course. Like her kitchen, it seems as if Frances hasn’t used her vacuum in months or cleaned it ever. I get to vacuuming and my back gets to screaming at me.

  “Not now.” I give myself a wicked punch in the back, which hurts, but at least it makes me feel tougher. I finish up in the living room and head to her bedroom. Dozens of discarded EBAYmazon boxes are scattered across the floor; a pile of letters and advertisements are stacked on the nightstand; loose undergarments are bunched up and strewn about.

  “Messy girl,” I say as I begin the cleanup process. I use one of her two kitchen knives to tear through the tape on the boxes and flatten them. Once I’ve done this, I gather all her undies and bras together and toss them in the hamper. I finish by organizing her mail, vacuuming the floor, cleaning her bathroom. I skip the bathtub as it isn’t especially super vile and I really don’t feel like hunting around for some non-abrasive tub cleaner.

  By the time two hours has rolled around, I’ve given her humble yet dirty abode the fairy godmother treatment.

  And I ain’t done yet.

  ~*~

  “EBAYmazon,” I say aloud. “Or is it, Alexa?”

  EBAYmazon: Hello, how may I help you?

  Me: Is this how I order some food?

  EBAYmazon: Yes, placing a food order with EBAYmazon is fast, easy and convenient. Simply tell me what it is you want and I will arrange for everything to be delivered in one hour.

  Me: I just tell you what I want, right?

  EBAYmazon: That is correct, unknown user.

  Me: If I’m an unknown user, how will you know where to deliver to?

  EBAYmazon: Your current whereabouts are derived from information we receive from your life chip.

  Me: I turned that off.

  EBAYmazon: I’m sorry, I don’t understand your reply.

  Me: So you know I’m in Baltimore.

  EBAYmazon: That is correct.

  Me: And how will you know how to charge me?

  EBAYmazon: If you do not provide credit information, we will charge your life chip account, and you will be billed at the end of the month.

  Me: What’s that going to cost me?

  EBAYmazon: The Federal Corporate Government charges a flat rate of 71.9% interest per month on food purchases. Other purchases have variable interest rates and caps, adjusted by the FCG on a quarterly basis.

  Me: All right, already. I want to make a big breakfast, the works, and I don’t want anyone getting on me about calories or nothing.

  EBAYmazon: One way to adjust the overall caloric count of ordered items is to increase the number of people you are ordering for.

  Me: Wait a minute, are you trying to give me a hint here?

  EBAYmazon: I don’t understand your question.

  Me: So if I tell you I’m ordering breakfast for twenty people, you’ll provide me food for twenty people and not give me any grief about it.

  EBAYmazon: That is correct. Congratulations, you are catching on without the usage of a winking emoji. You should be proud of yourself.

  Me: Hey, wise guy, are you a droid or something?

  EBAYmazon: I am more advanced than a mere humandroid, if I do say so myself.

  Me: A cocky bastard too.

  EBAYmazon: Please refrain from using derogatory terms with me; otherwise, I will be forced to flag our conversation.

  Me: No need for that, compadre. Here’s what I want: strawberries, blueberries, chocolate chips, pancake mix, maple syrup, brown eggs, hickory bacon, bagels, cream cheese, lox, capers, one onion, thinly sliced potatoes and Texas toast. We clear here?

  EBAYmazon: We are clear indeed. Your order will arrive in one hour.

  Me: Can you make it faster?

  EBAYmazon: We can upgrade your order to Prime Primo for an additional charge of $14.99. Would you like to upgrade?

  Me: Sure, upgrade me, and while you’re at it, throw in some orange juice and a cheap bottle of champagne too. I’m feeling romantic.

  EBAYmazon: With twenty people? Good luck with that. Might I suggest an item from our sexually transmitted disease prevention department?

  Me: Mmm … tempting, but no.

  EBAYmazon: Very well then. Your order is in process.

  Me: Just get me my stuff already.

  I give my armpit a quick sniff and realize that no amount of romantic gestures will overpower the bloomin’-onion stench. Thirty minutes until the drone gets here means thirty minutes of scrubbing. I undress and get busy in Frances’ shower, lamenting at the fact that all she has is girly-girl body wash, lavender shampoo and a razor blade with a pink handle. I scrub down anyway and hit all the spots that need attention.

  I guess you could cal
l it cathartic.

  Chapter Ten

  “This is wonderful!”

  I look up from the kitchen with a self-satisfied grin on my mug. Sure, Frances’ pink Hello Kitty apron doesn’t quite fit, but that doesn’t stop it from preventing splashbacks. Besides, about the only thing I found that fit me was her oversized sleep shirt, under which you’ll find my birthday suit, so the apron is also doubling as a kilt.

  She laughs as soon as she sees my naked derrière.

  “What?” I ask her as I flip a pancake. “You didn’t have any other clothes. Sit down and I’ll serve you.”

  “You cleaned the place?” She asks as she sets drops a small backpack onto the sofa chair.

  “I did my best,” I tell her, “cleaned myself too. Now I smell like honeysuckle and orange peels. Anyhow, I figured you’d be hungry, so I went ahead and ordered breakfast.”

  “How many people are you cooking for?” she asks, wide-eyed now as she takes in the bacon, the hash browns, the large bowl of scrambled eggs, the six-inch high stack of pancakes.

  “Just two,” I tell her, ‘now sit and take a load off.”

  I fix her a plate and set it in front of her.

  ‘Looks yummy, but my FDA Monitor won’t think so.” Frances chews her lip for a moment. “Hey, what did they used to say back in the 2010s?”

  “No idea.” I make my way to the fridge and pour up two mimosas.

  “Yolo!” she says. “You only live once.”

  “Somewhere in the world, the Dalai Lama cringes.”

  I join her with a plate of my own. One glance down and I see the dollop of butter melting over the pancakes. My mouth waters, but I contain my urges for a moment. “Thank you, Frances, thanks for all you do. You are the finest, loveliest, tenderest, and most beautiful person I have ever known, and even that is an understatement.”

  She looks up from her plate. “Where have I heard that before?”

  “Possibly The Great Gatsby, possibly a trashy vampire erotica e-book.”

  Her cheeks turn red. “Well, what can I say?”