He goes for the first option.
Still cursing under his breath, and keeping a watchful eye on me, the Saucier begins chopping up onions, bacon, and cheese. I’ll give credit where credit’s due: he's helpful in the kitchen.
I like people that are helpful, but I don't like the way he keeps looking at me holding that knife of his, so as soon as he's done with the prep work I bring him down with one of Raphael’s sais, item 335. It’s a quick takedown too, because I’ve been practicing on the rooftop.
I have all the Ninja Turtle weapons in my list: Michelangelo's nunchucks, item 444; Leonardo's swords, item 178; Donatello's staff, item 295 – but it’s Raphael’s sais that I like the most.
Good for skewering.
“Jim,” I call out as I enter the lobby.
“Y-y-yes …Mr. Hughes.”
“Quantum, Jim, call me Quantum.”
“Right, Mr. Quantum.”
“Dammit, Jim, I need a cafe au lait and I don’t know how to make one. So instead of acting like a nancy boy, get your ass in the kitchen, and show me how to be a barista.”
Whodathunkit? Jim turns out to be a pretty good barista, adept at latte art. Hell, he shows me how to pour the fleur-de-lys into the top of the milk, as well as how to make a heart, a flower, a peace sign, and a smiley face.
Not bad at all!
For Dolly, I go with the heart, and for Jim (once he’s finished), I go for the walk-in freezer.
I drag him in, hang him from a meat hook, and leave him to freeze to death. Then, I feel like an ass for treating him so poorly after he helped me, so I invite him to sit down in the eating area and I actually serve him breakfast.
“Good?” I ask, as I sit across from him.
“Um, not bad, Mr. Quantum,” he says, his hand shaky as he forks scrambled eggs into his mouth.
“Thanks, Jim,” I tell him. “Don’t forget to leave a tip.”
I don't know where the time went, but I look down at my watch, item 151, and realize that it's five minutes till eight.
How it took me an hour and a half to kill a couple of people and whip together a classic American breakfast is beyond me, but it might be due to the fact that I spent a little too long cutting up the potatoes for hash browns.
So that's it, five minutes left.
And rather than go wake Dolly and tell her to come eat her breakfast without me, that everything is going to change in five minutes, that this is the last five minutes I have in the Loop before the clock resets, I take the stairs to the rooftop.
I stare out over the unforgiving city of stain and sin, step to the edge of the parapet, spread my arms wide, think of that Tom Petty song, turn, and fall backward into the streets below.
C'est la vie.
Chapter Seven
“You daydreaming out here, or trying to get a tan?” Frances asks as she approaches my bench.
I pop my peepers open to see Ms. Euphoria in all her glory, a grin on her face as she gives me a onceover. Twice.
“Yeah, yeah, just lazy ol’ me out here catching some Zs. Look, I’m going to be honest with you, Frances.”
“Okay?”
“I got this itching feeling that we’re in the wrong place at the right time, if you catch my drift.”
“I don’t.”
“I got this feeling that we’re barking up the wrong tree, if you smell what the Rock is cooking.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Well, hold on, let me explain. What I’m trying to say here is all the action is in Colorado, is it not?”
“There’s action here too…”
“Well, that’s good and all, but I got this itching feeling that we’re supposed to be there.” I use my commando cane to right myself. “So itching, in fact, that I plan to scratch this itch and order you to snag us some tickets.”
Frances raises an eyebrow at me. “Order me?”
“Yeah, I’m the boss around here, right?”
“I’ll allow it,” she says with a thin smile on her face.
“Good, let’s get to Colorado then. I’m sick of Baltimore anyway. The place is two hops and a skip away from the Loop. And besides, who doesn’t like a little company-funded trip?”
“Our new budget doesn’t come until next fiscal year.”
“Better reason to spend it now! I’ll alert the troops and let them know we’re coming.”
“Doc isn’t going to like this.”
“He’ll get over it,” I say as I fire up iNet.
Me: What’s up, Doc?
Doc: Hanging out with Arnie, Evan, and Dr. Wang.
Me: Aiden still there?
Doc: Who’s asking?
Me: His 8:05 appointment. I’ll cut to the chase. I’ve instructed Frances to get us tickets to Colorado.
Doc: You’re kidding.
Me: Serious as a tiger attack in Stamford, Connecticut.
Doc: You a Nutmegger now?
Me: Is that what they call someone from Connecticut?
Doc: Pretty sure. Anyway, regarding your trip to Colorado, I thought we already went over this.
Me: I know you ain’t happy about it, and that you had other plans for us here, but I want to be together for all this. And I’m not talking about some kumbaya shit. I want to see the look on Strata’s face when we pull him out of his McMansion, and slap some cuffs on his candy ass.
Doc: You’re not coming to his mansion.
Me: Okay, but we’ll at least come to Colorado.
Doc: Fine. Come.
Me: You’re angry at me.
Doc: No, I’m not angry at you.
Me: Yes, you are.
Doc: I’d tell you if I was angry at you.
Me: Well, you’re disappointed.
Doc: Since when did you care if I was disappointed or not?
Me: I guess you’re right.
Doc: Of course I’m right.
Me: So are you disappointed?
Doc: I’d tell you if I was disappointed.
Me: Are you?
Doc: I’ve already accepted the fact that you’re bringing your trigger-happy ass to Colorado. Try not to get put in the cargo hold on the plane this time, but at least keep Rocket there in Maryland.
Me: The kid definitely ain’t coming. We need some hardcore in-game monitoring, which he does best without distraction.
Doc: Good. So are we done here?
Me: Not unless you want to talk some more about your feelings.
Doc: …
Me: I’ll take that as a no.
“See?” I tell Our Lady of the Guadaloop. “Doc is onboard. All it took was a little patented Quantum persuasion tactics.”
Frances goes from skeptical to excited. “Really? We’re going to Colorado?”
“First class, baby.”
~*~
Fast forward two hours and we find ourselves at the Baltimore-Washington Airport, waiting in line to get frisked.
Imagine that.
“Getting old ain’t what it used to be,” I tell Frances, who has a single carry-on with two days’ worth of clothes for Us Trulies.
If we need any more than that, she’ll hit up EBAYmazon, a company that was too big for its britches even before the merger. She’s also made me dress for the equation. Luckily, my usual is pretty easy to pull off: black jeans, black collared shirt, Boba Fetts on my tootsies. I’ll need a new pair in a month or so, and I can see they’re wearing more on the right, from my limp, but they still look pretty damn good.
“You feeling old?” she asks, a twinkle in her eyes.
“There ain’t a day that goes by that I don’t feel like I’m knocking on the door of forty,” I tell her, that familiar sting in my lower back.
“That’s because you are.”
I snort because it’s true. The TSA guy, a big one clearly in need of an FDA Monitor, tells me to take off my Boba Fetts and I oblige. I’d give the beefy Millennial hell, but the poor old guy must be pushing sixty and he’s still at the airport, disgruntled as ever.
Once Frances starts helping me get my shoes off, I get this embarrassed feeling that makes me want to compress into myself, forcing me to look around and make sure no one is making fun of His Gimpiness.
Of course, no one is, but that doesn’t mean a few people ain’t looking at me funny. I scowl for the hell of it, which causes Frances to laugh as she comes back up, one hand holding my shoes and the other pinching her nose.
“Is it really that bad?”
“You should change your socks more often.”
“She’s right,” the TSA guy says, a look of disgust on his face. “There’s also a way to pre-check due to a recent change in ADA rules.”
ADA rules?
I’m just about to put him in his place when I think otherwise, remembering what it was like to ride in the cargo hold in Evan’s keister.
“Yeah, yeah, laugh it up, everyone. I have stinky feet. Sue me.”
We make it through the security check after a not-so-nice pat down from a not-so-nice TSA employee named Pat, and make our way to our gate.
I take a seat on a leather chair that smells of sweaty farts, and Frances returns moments later with some socks and some coffee from Krunkin’ Kronuts.
“What? No Kronut?”
“You don’t need that.”
“I’m trying to support the American economy here, dammit,” I say, a bit too loud. An ankle biter sitting on his ma’s lap looks over at me, frowns, starts crying. “See?” I tell Euphoria. “He sees an injustice and he responds. Real American, right there.”
“Because he wants sugary foods that have no nutritional value?”
“There’s flour in there. Pretty sure that’s healthy, and if you get the cream-filled kronut, hell, you have your serving of calcium too.”
“Agree to disagree?”
“I always do.”
The flight is like all flights – cramped, a little freaky on the take-off, sans hotbody stewardesses, sans good food, and Frances won’t let me order a beer.
The big meanie.
We didn’t end up getting first class tickets, but at least Ms. Euphoria is able to get me a spot near the wing with a little extra leg room. And boy do I need that leg room.
Apparently, flights used to have good food way before I was born. By my birth year, 2020 if I’m not mistaken, everyone was about bare minimum flights, and airline companies were about squeezing as many tushies as they could into the cabin.
So goodbye snacks and other assorted yummy treats. Hello, a single package of stale cookies and a soda if you feel like forking over ten dollars. Free coffee, though, and at least I get to sit next to Euphoria.
“You can use my shoulder as a headrest,” I offer.
“I’m not tired.”
“You can use it anyway.”
“Again, I’m not tired.”
“Can I use yours then?”
The kid sitting behind me kicks my seat, sending a splash of pain up my spine.
“Hey!”
“Please don’t yell at my son,” the woman behind me says. “It is dissembiggening.”
I raise an eyebrow at Frances and she laughs.
“And please don’t laugh,” says the woman. “It’s rude.”
“You know what’s rude, lady?” I say, swiveling around. “What’s rude is having a little twerp like the future convict you got and letting him act however he wants on a plane full of civilized adults.”
The woman gasps. “Twerp?” She escalates the situation immediately as she presses the button that calls the flight attendant, mashing it repeatedly.
“Kid is kicking my seat, lady got mad after I shouted,” I tell the broad in the United American Delta duds before she reaches me. “I didn’t do nothing. I got an alibi, you know.”
“You just said you shouted.”
“I’m not his alibi,” Frances says quickly.
“Yeah, I shouted, but nothing else. And what’s wrong with raising one’s voice? Last I checked, it’s a free country.”
“Okay, sir,” the flight attendant starts to say, her eyes drilling holes through the back of my head.
“We’re with the FCG.” Frances pulls out her ID badge. “We apologize for any inconvenience.”
The flight attendant takes the badge and examines it for a moment.
“Dream Extraction and Management Team? The Dream Team, huh?” She waves a man over, clearly some type of air marshal with his high and tight haircut and his serious Team America personality. The air marshal looks Frances’ ID badge over, looks to me, asks to see mine, and I do what anyone with any amount of sense would do in my situation.
“I’m going to need to see yours as well,” I tell him. “Go ahead and slide it over. You know you want to.”
“Quantum…”
“What? He can’t just ask to see mine without showing me his. And that came out wrong; you know what I mean.”
The air marshal begrudgingly produces his ID, shows me, and is just about to pocket it when I ask to see it again.
He does it again, and finally, I slip my own ID over. The air marshal grimaces as he sees that I too am a federal agent of sorts, checks the back of my ID, and hands it back to me.
“Glad we could all get acquainted here,” I say, a shit-eating grin on my face. “Any chance I could get another bag of cookies?”
“Behave, Quantum.”
“I’m trying, Frances, believe you me.”
Shit could have escalated at that point if not for the fact that the color suddenly drains from Frances’ face.
“What is it?” I ask, my hand instinctively going to hers.
“Polynya.”
“What about Polynya?”
“It’s under attack,” she says.
“Under attack?” asks the air marshal.
“Back to your seat, officer, I’ve got it from here. What’s under attack, Frances? Polynya?”
“Porthos, the capital city.”
“Shit, they’re striking back, aren’t they. Say!” I call to the flight attendant, who speaks in a soothing voice to the angry mother behind me. “Is this plane equipped with Proxima gear?”
“Excuse me? Can’t you see I’m talking here?”
“Answer the question. Yes or no?”
“Quantum,” Frances says, her hand now on my shoulder.
“No,” the flight attendant finally says, “and if there are any more outbursts from you, I’ll alert the captain and we’ll be forced to make an emergency landing.”
“That’s right,” the air marshal says. “I’m this close to arresting you.”
He shows me how close he is with his fingers.
“That’s pretty close,” I tell him, always one to poke the pig. “And all this over problem child behind me?”
“Sir!”
“My kid is a good boy. Yes, you are, Bobby,” says the helicopter mom behind me. “Don’t listen to the mean man.”
“Quantum,” Frances says, digging her nails into my arm.
“Damn, Frances, ease up a bit, why don’t you?”
“Do not get us kicked off this plane.”
~*~
We land after a couple more incidents involving Bobby the kid from hell. I try to keep my cool, but I’m pretty riled up after we get off the plane – not riled up enough though not to give the air marshal, the mother, Bobby and the flight attendant another patented ‘go fuck yourself’ grin.
There’s a war going on in Polynya and Yours Truly wants nothing more than to be part of that battle.
That’s what matters now.
With this in mind, and with Frances leading the way, we make our way to arrivals, where we get in separate vehicles, as per Doc’s instructions.
Rocket: Update for Q-Momo. Doc, Aiden, Sophia, Chrono are already fighting. Frances will see to transferring your body via a skipbox once you arrive at your destination. I’m running in-game. Point is, we need you!
Me: Q-Momo?
Rocket: A �
�momo’ is a Tibetan word for dumpling. Nepalese also use this word.
Me: Thanks for the geography lesson.
Rocket: Glad I could help. Your taxi is equipped with a Proxima rig courtesy of Doc.
Me: Where is it?
Rocket: In the backseat.
Me: I’m in the backseat.
Rocket: Look around.
The aeros taxi lifts into the air just as I locate the visor, which is under my seat. Not too hard to get to either. I simply scoot to the right, pop the seat open, and boom!
It’s Proxima time.
The visor goes over my dome and I sit back and relax, letting Brian Eno’s weird-ass ambient choon signal that my dive is imminent.
I’m already thinking about what I should equip when I spawn in the middle of a battle, fires raging to my left, gutted buildings emerging from the smoke before me.
I don’t normally thank God for game mechanics, but the Empress/Sage/Proxima developers/whoever the hell is in charge here has done the Dream Team a solid by allowing us to wage war in real time, without the clunky turn-based battle BS that made me despise Tritania upon first visit.
So it is with a grin on my face that I equip item 198, my hand-held M134 minigun; item 122, my roll of duct tape; item 192, my frisbee; and item 80, a frag grenade.
Sure, it ain’t practical, but that never stopped me before.
“What the hell are you doing?” the War Faun cries over to me. He’s gone with two machine guns under his arms, pumping lead at a troupe of skull-faced goombahs who are scrambling toward us. I can see what’s left of the city of Porthos all around us. Looking real bad, but it could be worse, and I’ve been known to increase collateral damage.
“Watch and learn, Doc.”
While Doc provides cover fire, I quickly duct tape the frag grenade to the bottom of the frisbee. The weight is off, but this is just the opening act.
Sophia appears over my shoulder and to the right, wearing the translucent robe she was decked out in back in the Waringtla Tournament. Her eyes blaze white as she brings a Reaperized steam mech down, blasts to the top of it, and blows the clamshell off, giant magical hands aiding her in her attack.
Apotheosis Boom (The Feedback Loop Book 8) Page 9