He takes a small applicator out of a pouch on his belt, delicately swabs it in the blood – my blood, holds the applicator in thumb and pointer finger and dilates his pupils again as he reads it.”
My eyes narrow. “What’s the big idea?”
The Humandroid officer flatly states, “Adjusting for your weight, stomach contents, and metabolic rate, your blood alcohol concentration in parts per million indicates you have consumed more than three beers. You are well above the legal limit, sir.”
“Oh, you’re frickin’ CSI Baltimore now? Well, there’s nothing wrong with that is there? I’m not operating an aeros, ground vehicle, or heavy equipment; I’m not on a hoverboard, Imperial speeder bike or unicycle. I don’t even have a hayburner or nothing.”
He produces a small Ziploc bag, places the swab inside, and secures the bag in his bat-utility belt. “Very well, Mr. Quantum. Do tell me what happened in Paddy’s Pub.”
“Okay, so maybe I had six beers. The point is, I saw these two goons across the bar looking at me funny, gowed-up on pollutes.”
“Describe the men.”
“Buff, slicked back hair, dangly earrings, fake tan, maybe Italian, Puerto Rican, Greek, Martian, Joey from Friends – who knows. I got no idea what the filth were doing here in Baltimore.”
“And were they drinking?”
“Are you listening to me? They were using pollutes.”
Pollutes are the name for designer inhalants dispensed by pollution masks, which were developed in the 2040s. They’ve become quite popular in the eight years I was marooned in The Loop, although personally I don’t see what all the fuss is about. Who wants to sit around like an aardvark with a rhinovirus snuffling in designer gasses when you can marinate your brain cells in good ‘ol EtOH like God intended? What the hell is wrong with people these days anyway? I’m not saying eel juice is for everyone, but it beats sitting around in neo-plague masks sucking down dope.
“So the two men were using pollutes?” the Humandroid asks.
“Do I need to spell it out for you?”
“And then what happened?”
“One of them took off his mask and asked me if I was looking at him funny.”
“And how did you reply?”
“I don’t remember.”
“What do you remember?”
I scowled at the droid, but the change in my facial expression didn’t seem to register with him. “I remember one of them asking if I’d like to take it outside. Well, I obliged, and I got one good one in with my cane before he overpowered me.”
“I see. So you state that you committed the initial assault, and the subsequent physical injuries you received were a direct result of that individual acting in lawful self-defense. Does that accurately describe what happened?” he asks.
“I … wait, what?” My eyes move from the officer’s perfectly sculpted face to a streetlamp in the distance. Don’t give yourself away, Quantum.
“Does that accurately describe what happened?”
“I don’t remember.”
This is turning not good way too fast. I stand, wobbly, but at least I’m on my feet. Leaning my weight on my aluminum cane helps some, but not much. I’m not the biggest fan of my new walking buddy, but it’s better than a wheelchair. “Look, Mark9 Patrol Officer Unit 2315, Can we just forget about the whole thing? I’ve got to get going.”
“Do you desire to make an official statement?”
“No, I’d like to go back to my hotel.”
“I’ll escort you, Mr. Hughes.”
“Quantum, call me Quantum.”
~*~
The hotel I’m staying at in Baltimore isn’t far from the gin mill, just a couple of blocks. It’s an elaborate affair, with a half-donut driveway and an expansive lobby. Too much room for me; I prefer something a little cozier, something a little more disheveled, something like The Mondegreen Hotel in The Loop.
“You should receive medical attention,” Mark9 Patrol Officer suggests once we arrive at the hotel. “I can summon emergency services if you desire.”
I shake my head. “No meat wagons. I’ve seen enough sawbones over the last month to last me a lifetime. I’ve been poked, prodded, picked over and examined … ”
“So your life chip data states,” he says.
“Life chip data?” The bottom drops out of my stomach. “I didn’t authorize a … a damn life chip!”
“It was likely inserted it during one of your surgical procedures, as lifechip evasion is a federal offense. The life chip allows the Federal Corporate Government to better administer to its citizens’ needs. Yours indicates that you’ve recently had corrective spinal surgery and that you were in a digital coma for eight years.”
I tap the tip of my cane against the polished marble floor. A looker walks by with a pair of getaway sticks worthy of a pinup mag. I shoot her a toothy grin and she ignores me. My thoughts return to the fact that I’ve been chipped like a shelter puppy – now I’m traceable, trackable, watchable and blackmailable.
Thanks a lot, Frances Euphoria. She’s the one who signed off on my medical procedures. My fists tighten as I turn away from the droid.
“If I have a life chip,” I say through gritted teeth, “why did you ask me my name back there?”
“It is standard procedure to ask a citizen their name during a field interview. It helps to establish a friendlier officer-citizen interaction. Studies have shown that an estimated–”
“Whatever, copper, I’ve got it from here.”
I’m in the elevator a minute later, heading to my floor. Fuming doesn’t begin to describe my disposition. In the past thirty minutes, I’ve had my ass royally handed to me and been told that there is now a CPU called a life chip installed in my head that can be used for God-knows-what. This on top of the fact that I have to give witness testimony tomorrow has my blood boiling.
As soon as I’m in my hotel room I pick up the phone and call the number Frances Euphoria gave me.
“Dammit, Frances,” I say instead of hello.
“Quantum?” she chuckles to herself. “Ah that’s right; you’re calling on a landline. I haven’t received a call on a landline in ages.”
“Did you know that a life chip was installed in my head?”
“Yes,” she says, yawning. “Why?”
“I told you I didn’t want one! I just got my ass kicked and the droid police officer tells me all these things about me based solely on the data of my life chip. It gave me the creeps.”
“Ass kicked? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine. The life chip–”
“Everyone in America has a life chip,” she says. “It’s federal law. I was planning on showing you how to use it tomorrow, after your witness testimony.”
“So it’s active?”
“Your life chip is active, but it can’t connect to iNet or anything.”
“iNet?” I mouth the words again. “Oh, yeah, internet inside my eyelids, the thing that everyone uses. Great, that’s the last thing I need…”
“It’s quite useful, much more convenient than Wi-Fi. Don’t act like you haven’t seen people using it before. You’ve been out of the recovery ward for a week now.”
“I was at my dad’s place; he doesn’t use this shit.”
“Yes, he does – everyone has one.”
The thought of my dad reminded me why I was drinking at the dive bar in the first place. My mom died two weeks before I logged out of The Loop. The woman who had named me and raised me and cared for me was gone. I couldn’t help but feel bitter about it. Two weeks before I woke up.
As Frances tells me about tomorrow’s plans, my eyes settle on the Proxima VE rig set up in the room. There’s an NV visor and even a reclining haptic chair.
“I have to go Frances,” I say.
“Do you want me to come over or not? I’m about twenty minutes away, at the office.”
“Are you sleeping there now?”
“No, I’m talking to you using nineteenth cen
tury technology now. I’m coming over, Quantum. Stay put.”
“Well if you do, bring some first-aid supplies and a bottle of Jack.”
~*~
I know better than to put the Neuronal Visualization Visor on. I haven’t been to a Proxima World since I finally logged out, but here I am, relaxing in the haptic chair and ready to visit The Loop. As soon as the visor comes over my eyes I hear a soft dinging sound created by Brian Eno, signaling the network is ready to take me.
“What are you doing?” I ask aloud.
Of course no one answers. Who would answer?
“I’m coming Dolly, I’m coming back for you.”
Dolly, the NVA Seed with whom I had a relationship with for damn near a decade – I’ve thought about her every day since returning to the real world, the world that just treated me to a good ol’ fashioned, East Coast-style ‘Welcome Back, Moron!’ ass-kicking, now with thirty percent more bruises and contusions. Despite that, I’d love to somehow show her this world, to take her on a stroll through a park, hold her hand, feed some fat pigeons, catch a flick afterwards. Normal things.
Our time together comes to me in a series of flashes. Funny how memories do that. Breaking into the room next to mine to watch old movies, the hours we spent lying on my bed listening to the storm outside, the time she tried to kill me, the time she saved me, the time she morphed into something otherworldly once the Reapers arrived.
I can see her now, standing in front of me in a tight red dress, her hair in a bob, her lips crimson, chewing gum as she curls into my lap, relaxes into my grip, moves her face towards mine.
“Not real,” I remind myself. “Not real.” The Loop is nothing more than a glorified video game. VE equals virtual entertainment.
Entertainment, Quantum.
The NV Visor dings again – a reminder to log in.
Dolly’s image is replaced by Morning Assassin – Aiden; the many times we killed each other and how we became friends during those last few Loop days. I see his sharp features, his dark eyes. I imagine him breaking into my hotel room here in Baltimore, imagine myself springing forward to greet him with a kick to the throat using my advanced abilities. Yes! My finger comes up and I access my inventory list and select a bull whip, item 201, or a stick of dynamite, item 339, or my nail gun, item 31, or my Kalashnikov, item 422.
We die together, laughing our heads off. We die together.
I realize then that I can’t do it, I can’t log in. I know better, I remember what happened last time; I remember what it’s like being stuck and the feedback …
The feedback.
I can’t imagine anything more disheartening than hearing the feedback – Satan’s fingernails on a chalkboard the size of Nebraska, rabid weasels with chainsaw jaws consuming your childhood home, millions of laughing bats with vampire teeth death-spiraling behind your eyes, Stalin forcing Chernobyl reactor-melt up your nose with your Nana’s antique turkey baster. The NV Visor falls to my chest. Damn the feedback.
I can’t do it… not yet, anyway.
Chapter Two
Frances knocks at my door.
“It’s open.”
“No it isn’t,” she calls from outside the door.
“Dammit.”
I pull myself out of the haptic chair and make my way to the door, my trusty aluminum cane at my side. As soon as I open it Frances says, “This isn’t The Loop; I can’t simply kick down the … ” She takes in my appearance; her dark brown eyes fill with concern. “Geez! What happened to you?”
“Gravity experiment went awry.”
“Quantum!”
“Tripped and face-planted on CementBob SquarePants.”
“Quan-tum!”
“The spirit of Sonny Liston yet to come took umbrage at my jocose verbiage.” That one’s a little closer to the truth.
“What does that even mean?” she huffs. “Your face … ”
“Did you bring some first-aid stuff or not?” I ask, waving her concern away.
“Quantum, who did you get in a fight with? You’re in no condition to go around fighting.”
I shrug as I make my way to the bed. Sitting on the end of the bed sends jolts of electric fire up and down my newly repaired spine. I wince, take a deep breath. What I wouldn’t give to find the shitbirds who did this to me and rub them out. There are plenty of ways to put the curse on someone: item 78, my poisonous dart gun or item 163, my baseball bat covered in rusty nails and razor-wire. The list is endless.
“You really are hopeless,” she says in the kindest way possible.
Frances with her boy haircut; Frances whom I saved years ago and who returned to rescue me; Frances with her red hair in The Loop; Frances with her mutant hack – the woman has been part of my life for a long time now, whether I know how to acknowledge it or not.
Like a sister, like a mother, like a lover, she plops down next to me and immediately goes to work on my face. The proximity between us produces a strange sensation in my stomach. I’m still adjusting to human attraction, the butterflies fluttering in the tummy thing. That’s not the only emotion I’ve found troubling in the real world – joy and regret can be equally taxing.
Frances dons a pair of non-latex hypoallergenic exam gloves, tears open a sanitizing wipe and lays it on the mouse under my eye. “Hold still. This is antiseptic and anesthetic. Just let it sit for a minute.” She looks at me, shakes her head. “I can’t believe you were out there fighting! You’re no better than a grizzly old cat that prowls around looking for trouble.”
“What can I say? Some guys were looking at me funny, or I was looking at them funny, or something. Either way, we took it outside and this is the result.”
“Did you even get a hit in?”
“Of course I … ”
“It’s okay,” she says as she cleans me off. “It’s okay if you didn’t.”
“I did! With my cane,” I say, pointing at the damned thing. It’s on the floor, lying on its side. “Look I was drunk, am drunk,” I tell her. “I thought … I thought I was at Barfly’s in Devil’s Alley. It must have been the adrenaline. I kept trying to access my inventory list.”
“You have to remember that this isn’t a Proxima World. There are real-life consequences here. Now you have to make a statement to the F-BIIG tomorrow looking like some fight club reject.”
“Then put some makeup on me, Frances. Get me all dolled up.”
“I can search on iNet for a way to conceal bruises … ”
“Thanks for reminding me!” I say, glaring at her. “I didn’t want this life chip in me and now … now … ”
She finishes cleaning my face off. “Everyone has a life chip. Get over it. FYI: most people in America don’t use phones any longer, although they still exist. We–”
“We?”
“The Dream Team.”
Dream Recovery Extraction and Management … It’s the team I formed to recover people from glitched Proxima Worlds, worlds that they can’t log out from. I can barely remember those times, the early days if you will. It is even harder to believe that I formed the team with the leader of the Revenue Corporation and the Reapers, Strata Godsick. Why has he turned criminal? No one knows. No one.
“We use iNet to communicate. You need to be logged in to receive e-mails, et cetera from us, which is another reason that you need a life chip,” she says.
“I’m still not happy about the fact that you installed a life chip without my permission. It’s a violation of … of my civil liberties!”
Frances’ hands come up. “Quantum, it’s federal law. The only reason it wasn’t installed while you were in a digital coma is that you were wearing an NV Visor – removing it would have left you in an actual coma. Everyone has a life chip. They really aren’t that bad.”
“That’s what most oppressed people say.”
“Do you want me to show you how to use iNet or not?”
I give her the dirtiest look I can and she laughs.
“Is that the best you can d
o?”
“Yes,” I say, my scowl turning into a smile.
“So, are you ready to get with the times or what?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” I say, yawning.
“Good. Most people’s life chips are automatic. However, with people new to the technology, there is a manual way to turn one on. Close your eyes. I’m going to press behind your ear and you are going to see something appear on your eyelids. Once you do, move your finger and click the logon button.”
“My finger?”
“There’s a subcutaneous sensor in both your pointer fingers.”
“They installed that too?”
“It’s the best way to use iNet. There is new tech coming which allows a person to operate it without using their finger, but most people like the tactile aspect of it.”
I do as instructed. Frances’ hand comes to the back of my ear and a logon button appears on my eyelids, over the bridge of my nose. “Holy hell … ”
I blink my eyes open. There is a subtle trace of the word still hanging in the air, likely due to my drunkenness.
“Close your eyes again and log in,” she says.
“By using my finger?”
“Exactly.”
“Which finger?” I ask with a grin.
“Just do it … ”
My eyes shut and I drop my pointer finger onto my knee. A cursor appears. I quickly move it to the logon button and click it.
“We’ve already set up a GoogleFace message box for you. There are other apps you can use, but it is best not to rush that.”
“This is almost like … ”
“Yes, it is almost like accessing a list in a Proxima World. Although you can’t change your appearance with this, nor can you select a weapon. Don’t forget that.”
I open my inbox and find a general message to the Dream Team. From there I move to the upper right corner and find an internet search bar. “And it only works with my eyes closed?”
“Yes, unless you have modded eyes, which are popular but pricey. I’ll send you a message now. Accept it.”
You have a message from Frances Euphoria. Accept?
The Feedback Loop (3-Book Box Set): (Scifi LitRPG Series) Page 16