Agent O’Brian bites, leaning on his elbows. The veteran’s eyes meet mine and he doesn’t like what he sees. “We’re recording now, Mr. Hughes, remember that.”
“What are you recording with?” I ask just to be coy.
Of course I can see the B-drone hovering behind the two men. I tip my hat to it, and am just about to flip it the bird when O’Brian smacks his gums.
“Probably not the B-drone you’re acting the fool in front of, Mr. Hughes.”
Nothing like giving a couple of snoopers hell. It was something I did at least twice a week back when I was stuck in The Loop. The NPC detectives never could take a joke. The sticks up their asses were prodigious in their length and stiffness.
“Look, Mr. Hughes, we just need your statement. This can be as easy and as civil as you want to make it. How do you want it – polite and friendly or difficult and unpleasant?”
“Which would you prefer?” I ask.
Frances Euphoria enters with coffee. I blink my eyes shut and notice a red indicator flashing on my eyelids. My finger drops to my leg and I quickly scroll to the message.
Frances: Behave yourself. Breakfast will be here soon. The badge thing was a scream, though.
Me: I’m playing nice, don’t worry.
Frances: Seriously, behave.
Frances sets the coffee down in front of me. “Milk, sugar?” she asks the agents.
“No thanks,” grunts O’Brian. “I take it just like I like my women – hot, black, and not too sweet.”
Everybody who’s not him rolls their eyes.
“Black for me, please,” says Reynolds.
“I’ll have some cream,” I tell her.
She sets the coffees down in front of us, but somehow accidentally gives O’Brian the McStarbuck’s Drive-Thru treatment with his, right in his lap as he leers at her. He curses, scrapes his chair back, grabs at his crotch to get the steaming hot wet spot away from his wedding tackle.
“Oh, dear – I’m ever so sorry, how clumsy of me. I’ll be right back with some paper towels.” Frances gushes in patent insincerity. She never brings them.
O’Brian gingerly reclaims his seat and the agents continue once she’s left. O’Brian is up to the plate again, trying his damndest to hit a homer, dampened dangly bits and all. “So you were in a dive vat when the men … ”
“Reapers … ”
“Reapers?” Agent O’Brian gives his younger colleague the buddy punch as he laughs. “A little early for Halloween, don’t cha think?” he finally says.
“They are field agents for the Revenue Corporation,” I tell him. My eyes drop to my coffee, watching the cream swirl and settle.
“What makes you think that?” he asks.
“Think?” I take a sip of my coffee. The cream has cooled it slightly, but it’s still very hot. “I know they work for the Revenue Corporation. There’s no thinking involved. Do a little research and you’ll get the picture – Reapers work in the Proxima Galaxy for the Revenue Corporation. They’re techie bastards that hit a lick off of people trapped in digital comas. They’ve done some vile, dirty, evil things – from imprisoning people in VE dreamworlds to coming after them in real life, like they did me. We’re not talking rocket science here, fellas. Put one and two together and get three.”
“The evidence we’ve collected indicates that the suspects were simply trying to steal NV Visors, haptic suits, any of the high-dollar VE gear from the Digital Coma Ward. Nothing we have in any way even remotely links them to the Revenue Corporation,” Agent O’Brian says. “Or … Reapers.”
“You actually expect me to believe that baloney? Do you actually believe that?”
“I know that. We’ve already interviewed the suspects.”
“Well if I agreed with you, we’d both be wrong.”
“Excuse me?” Agent O’Brian asks, his jowls wobbling in irritation.
“Any more questions gents?”
Agent Reynolds asks, “You killed one of the men in self-defense, did you not?”
“No. I didn’t kill anybody. The poor unfortunate tech thief got stunned and went face-down in the vat goo.” I tell Mr. Junior G-man, thinking of the ponytailed button man I actually did drown – but I’m not going to fess that up to these schmoes. I did what I had to do; anyone with a teaspoon of sense would have done the same thing.
O’Brian picks up where he left off. “Unfortunately, that’s where your story differs from those of the two suspects we’ve got in custody. They claim that you attacked them before they could do anything. Now it might have been self-defense at some point, but according to them, you’re the one who started it.”
I almost snort coffee out my nose, and I struggle mightily to not give them the satisfaction of seeing me do so. Their whole attitude is really starting to torque my jaws.
“Really? Really? Okay, I’m guessing that the F-BIIG has to have certain minimum intelligence standards, and I’m even willing to concede that the two of you probably sort-of meet them, so you have to be aware of just how stupid that fatuous, lame-brained, dumbass statement makes you sound. I’d been floating in that vat in Zero-G for eight years with all the bone mass loss and muscle tissue atrophy that that entails. I was so weak I couldn’t even pick my ass, never mind pick a fight. I couldn’t lift a finger to defend myself when that guy held my face under to drown me! So, number one: No, I didn’t start anything. Number two: I didn’t kill him; he was in the process of killing me. Number three: Tango Fox Bravo that he drowned while he was drowning me, but somehow I just can’t get all boo-hoo over it.”
O’Brian looks to Agent Reynolds as his nostrils flare. “No need to take that tone, Mr. Hughes. That’s why we’re here, so you can tell your … story.”
“Not a story; that’s what happened.”
“What about last night?” O’Brian asks. “Who started that fight then, huh?”
“Last night? What’s your angle? I thought this was about what happened in Cincinnati.”
“It is, but according to the statement you gave Mark9 Patrol Officer Unit 2315 last night, you started the fight, you took the first swing. I can play it back for you if you’d like.”
“Last night?”
“Yes, last night! Do you need me to refresh your memory? If you can start a fight at a bar for no apparent reason, how are we supposed to believe that you weren’t the one to initiate the attack back in the digital coma ward? How?” he snarls.
He ain’t the only one who’s peeved. “You know, you really do put the special in Special Agent, Special Agent O’Brian. You’re comparing pigs and poodles here.” They both bristle at that as I take another swing from my cup of Joe. “Let me refer you to my previous statement about my physical incapacity when I woke up in the dive tank, or do you need me to refresh your memory?” I lean to the side and wave at the B-drone, “Yoo-Hoo! Heh-Lo-oh! Still recording, right? And – and my condition was well documented in my medical records. So, that dog don’t hunt, you got nothin’ Elliot Ness, drop it and move on!”
I’m standing now, way too angry to keep my seat, and I bang my cane on the floor to punctuate each point.
He stands up too. “Yeah, I see your cane,” he says. “Poor crippled vat junkie. Well, don’t expect any pity from me. You’re like that because you choose to be that way; there are better ways to handle your condition now. A cane is a twentieth century solution. If you’ve got problems getting around, get some replacement parts.”
Breathe in, breathe out.
“That’s not what I’m getting at, agents. What I’m suggesting is this: Do you two really think a handicapped guy like me could take on those four guys? And look at what happened with the Guidos at the bar last night. I got in one swing with my cane, and then the big guy stuck it up my ass for me. You’ve got all the WOOPA video and Frances Euphoria’s testimony. Are there any more questions or can I get to work?”
Reynolds stands, opens a small metal box, the B-drone lands in it and shuts itself down.
“We’ll be
back,” Agent O’Brian says as Reynolds pockets the B-drone box. “We’ll be back.”
~*~
The blue meanies shuffle out after vowing to return. I sit, relax into the chair and slowly, carefully put my feet up on the table and my hands behind my head. My stomach grumbles, I belch and taste soy butter, asparagus, pine nuts, coconut, spinach, raisins and fiber at the back of my throat. It is not any better the second time around. A hungry goat with no taste buds might find that combination extra-yummy, but it doesn’t particularly blow my skirt up.
Frances enters with a stack of stainless steel insulated take-out boxes. “Geez, Quantum, that could have gone better.”
“Hey, I’m not the one that dumped coffee in Deputy Dawg’s lap.”
She sighs, “I’m sorry, but he was just such a racist, sexist pig. He’s probably a homophobe, too, and a closet non-recycler.”
“Enough about the minions of Truth, Justice and the Corporate American way. That for me?” I ask.
“It is, but first, I want to give you a quick tour of the premises. Also, how are you feeling?”
“Ravenous. No more gerbil food for me, please. It tastes like hay, algae, peat moss, and dirty socks when it repeats.”
“Eeww. No, I mean about your injuries from yesterday. We should get you checked out.
“I’m here now. So give me a tour, let me eat and then we can get started with whatever it is you need from me. I won’t be staying in a hotel forever, will I?”
“No, we’re just waiting for the funds to put you in Government Employee Housing not far from here. It should come this week.”
“Good.”
I bring my feet down from the table and slowly stand, putting my weight on my cane. “It’s weird … sometimes I feel, oh what’s the word? Lithe? That’s it. Sometimes I feel lithe and sometimes I feel like I’m trapped in the body of an old man. It’s a real dilemma.”
“It’s psychological. You aren’t that old,” she says, her hand dropping to my arm. I look from her hand to her face. Damn, Frances is beautiful and I hope there’s someone out there telling her so. We make eye contact for a second longer than I’m comfortable with.
“A tour of the facilities,” I say just to speak.
“Yes, follow me. You were too tired last night to look around.”
We step out of the Conference Room and into a narrow hallway. On the right are Frances’ office and the unisex restroom. We move left until we come into a circular room with attached offices. Six dive vats sit like sarcophagi in the center of the room, two in each row. They are much smaller than the vats back in the coma ward – no feeding tubes and no exercise gear. On the front-facing wall is a large holoscreen showing two video feeds, both monitored by a Dream Team employee.
“Are they diving?” I ask, even though I already know the answer to the question. A black man is half-submerged in a dive vat at the front of the row. Next to him is a woman with her hair tucked into a swimming cap and an NV Visor covering most of her face. The visor resembles a streamlined motorcycle helmet, a contraption that covers everything except a person’s mouth and chin. Due to the fact that a person in a dive vat is partially submerged, they also use breathing apparatus.
“Zedic Woods,” Frances says gesturing towards the man, “and his divemate, Sophia Wang. The man at the controls is Rocket.”
“Rocket? Nice.”
“Thanks. My full name is Rudraksh Vilas Paswan,” he says in unaccented idiomatic Standard American English. He can’t be over nineteen, Indian or Pakistani, with a lanky body and a shirt too big for his frame. On his head is a NV Visor with the optical interface flipped up. “Parents were born in India, immigrated here. I was born here hence my nickname, Rocket. I discovered early that if it’s more complicated than Bubba or Cooter, most Americans can’t pronounce it.”
“What was it again?” I ask.
“Rudraksh.”
Before I can say anything, he’s back at the control desk wearing his headset and typing something on a flat pane of glass with light up letters.
“What’s he doing?”
“Communicating,” he says.
“With whom?”
He doesn’t respond.
A red light blinks on my eyelids and I open the message.
Frances: Rocket has a touch of Asperger’s syndrome. He’s great at his job, but if he seems impersonal, don’t let it get to you.
“Duly noted,” I say.
“What’s that?” Rocket asks. “Sorry, just tweaking something here … ”
I hear a sound that reminds me of a rabbit thumping its hind leg. I look down to see Rocket’s foot tapping excitedly against the floor.
“Rocket,” Frances says, “can you join us in the Conference Room? Quantum is going to eat and I want you to brief him on Steam.”
“Steam?” I ask.
“The steampunk world we’ll be diving to later today,” Rocket says over his shoulder. “It’s called Steam. Everything is … steam-y there, steampunk themed.”
“Steam-y? What about my tour of the office?”
“Whaddya think you just had, big guy? This is it,” Frances says.
~*~
“Steam is a VE dreamworld created by a Proxima developer named Ray Steampunk.”
Rocket is eating from a package of sunflower seeds, his dark eyes wide with excitement, his foot tapping on the ground.
“Real name?” I ask with a mouthful of pancakes.
“He changed his name to Ray Steampunk in the forties, taking his named from an anime called Steamboy.”
“Steampunk being?”
“Surely you can’t be serious – you don’t know what steampunk is?” Frances says.
“I am serious … and don’t call me Shirley. So what’s steampunk?”
She represses a snort. “It’s a sci-fi subgenre, similar to Cyber Noir. It is noted for its usage of steam-powered things and the clothing style. Think high tech in a Victorian setting.”
“The whole concept sounds stupid.” Rocket says, “It doesn’t make sense to me either. Why would people want to use future tech in a world that resembles the nineteenth century? But it looks cool, real cool. Confession: my ex was really into Steampunk.” He licks his lips. “You two should have seen the stuff she’d wear! Hot as jalapeños, I’m telling you. Sorry, Frances.”
She chuckles. “It’s fine.”
I glance down at my syrup-covered pancake. Only one left – I’d better savor it. Looking at the lone pancake reminds me of something.
“Frances, what about my beer? You promised.”
“I promised?”
“I want a beer too.” Rocket spits a shell from one of the sunflower seeds in his hand and neatly lines it up with the others on the table.
“You’re too young to have a beer.”
I clear my throat. “Listen you two. I’m just going to come right out with it – I don’t know if I’m ready to dive yet. I’ve been thinking about it, hell, I tried to dive last night but couldn’t do it. A beer will help.”
Frances steps away from the table. “There’s a six-pack in the fridge. I’ll get you a beer.”
“What do you mean you’re not ready?” Rocket asks after she has left.
“You know what happened to me, don’t you?”
“Yes, trapped in Cyber Noir. Everyone around here knows!” He spits another sunflower seed shell into his hand. “But you have to look past that.”
“Well, that’s rather frank.”
“Who’s Frank?”
“Forget about it.”
“We got something big here, something huge.”
“In Steam?”
“Yes,” he says elatedly. “The last Proxima Developer we freed from a glitch told us about this world, and about Ray Steampunk, the developer who made Steam. He’s trapped in there, you know.”
“Ray is trapped in the world he created?” I ask, sawing into my last pancake.
“As far as we can tell, yes. He hasn’t logged out since 2054.”
“And the world is inhabited by NPCs?”
“Both NPCs and real players. It’s a massive world, easily ten times the size of Cyber Noir.”
“And I’m supposed to find him?”
“Yes, not just you, Frances too. It shouldn’t be hard. He’s the NVA Seed of the place. The God of Steam, if you will. He’s everywhere, like North Korean Tourism Propaganda iNet pop-ups.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll be running support,” he says as he empties a few more seeds into his mouth. “I’ve also picked up some new gear for you. Some steampunk gear. There are rules in Steam – you have to keep it world appropriate. Don’t worry – I’ve got you covered.”
“Frances said something a while back about some new mutant hacks. What’s the status on those?” I ask, recalling our conversation in my hospital room.
“Almost ready.”
“She said they were already ready … ”
“They were … but then we ran into a slight glitch.”
“We?”
“Our CWO, cyber-warfare operative. He’s helping me hack and mod. Hack and mod, hack and mod … ” he says, crumpling his bag of seeds.
“Well, keep me posted.”
Frances returns with a beer and a half-grin.
“Anything bigger than that?” I ask, looking at the frosty bottle.
“Later,” she says, “later.”
~*~
I can’t believe I’m doing this. In a dive vat now, my body partially submerged in the silicone substance. Frances Euphoria is in the vat next to me and Rocket is zipping around us, making sure everything is connected and that we’re good to go. The oxygen mouthpiece is in place between my teeth; I bite down to secure it and breathe in rubbery tasting air.
Frances: We’ll spawn together in the same place. Once we’re suited up in the gear that Rocket has engineered, we can begin our search.
Me: I need another cold one.
Frances: Later.
The Brian Eno tone sounds off and I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that I’ll soon be in a Proxima World. Butterflies and shit – no one can see me now, so my frown and grimace are just for sheer esthetic effect. Once more into the breach, dear friends, once more ...
The Feedback Loop (3-Book Box Set): (Scifi LitRPG Series) Page 18