The Feedback Loop (3-Book Box Set): (Scifi LitRPG Series)

by Harmon Cooper

  We’re at the top of a hill now, which gives us a nice view of the city on the horizon. From what I can see from this distance, Locus is heavily inspired by medieval architecture. A few zeppelins float over the city and smoke stacks jut out of every nook and cranny, filling the air with steam and smoke. The digital city rests in valley between two enormous mountains. A gigantic airship floats above the mountain on the right. It looks like a French loaf that’s been sliced along its length – rounded underneath and the flat top of which is also clearly a landing strip.

  “He lives in the airship above Clockpunch Mountain … ” the man says. “There.”

  “We really need to see Ray Steampunk,” I tell the driver again, ‘really, really need to; matter of life and death need to.”

  “You can see him tonight on the zeppelin.” The man nods at the sky. “But that’s about as close as you’re going to get.”

  “On the zeppelin?”

  “Yes, he gives a nightly talk, which is broadcast by the zeppelins all around Steam.”

  “How does he broadcast his Fireside Chat without electricity?”

  The man laughs. “You really are a newbie, aren’t you?”

  ~*~

  “The Wells Verne Market is named after some famous authors,” the man shouts over his noisy retro-tech land kraft wagen. More people are on the street now, carrying wares with them or mingling with other players.

  A woman in a Little House on the Prairie dress and coal scuttle bonnet shuffles in front of our vehicle clutching a leash that is attached to a spiked collar around the neck of a man decked out in a leather Gimp costume, and who has a water boiler strapped to his back, puffing out little clouds of green-tinted steam. A broad in a tight skirt stands on the side of the street with her head cocked to the left, speaking to a man dressed in the gray wool, brass buttons and gold braid of a fantasy Confederate officer, stylishly accoutered with a mechanical left leg crafted from spinning and whirring gears. I’m still getting used to the steampunk attire; the freak count is high.

  “Airship to Imperium,” a man with his head shaved and an old school necktie shouts, “from there to Victoria. Airship to Imperium, from there to Victoria!”

  “Victoria?” I ask.

  “It’s the name for a graveyard of Lovecraftian monsters,” the driver explains.

  “Love who?”

  “Named after H.P. Lovecraft,” he says as he rumbles to a stop. He disengages the flywheel and repeats the two-handed ballet of levers and hand wheels. His engine spits, hisses, vents steam and clatters to a halt.

  “Well, here we are. The Wells Verne Market.”

  “Thanks for the ride,” Frances says as she steps down from his vehicle. “It was very kind of you.”

  A steam-powered traction engine rolls by, its engine chuffing and chugging, its dual exhausts coughing up little puffs of smoke. The driver’s a chrome dome with a vulture’s face, a parish-pick ax for a beak.

  “Yeah, thanks,” I tell him.

  “Not a problem. There’s a steam repair point to the left of the entrance. You could also visit the alchemists” section of the market, if you’d prefer that route.”

  “That route?”

  He says, “Potions. It’s good to have a few just in case you’re injured and there isn’t a steam repair point nearby. They’ve saved my life numerous times, especially in the areas outside of Imperium, near the Laputa Castle Ruins.”

  “We’ll be sure to grab some,” Frances says.

  “I have one more question for you.”

  “What’s that?” he asks me.

  “Have you ever heard of any Reapers coming into this world?”

  “Reapers?” The driver’s tongue presses against the inside of his cheek.

  “Yes, Reapers, from a murder guild.”

  “It’s funny you mention that.” His hand comes up to access his inventory list. Before I can react, I find myself staring down the barrel of a saber pistol.

  Chapter Five

  “You’re barking up the wrong tree, pal,” I tell the driver with my hand behind my back. I’ve accessed my inventory list like this before – a quick scroll and tap. I’ve got my list memorized: he’ll be dead before he ever gets a round off.

  “Your player stats indicate that you may be Marauders,” he says as he thumbs back the hammer with a click-click-click-click. “Asking about Reapers confirms it. On our way to the market, admin sent out a message about possible Reapers coming from the same direction you two came in from.”

  “You’ve got the wrong idea … ”

  A large, official looking Federal Corporate Government Eagle-Infinity-Dollar logo materializes in front of Frances, overwritten with text in letters of blue neon fire:

  *****WARNING! WARNING! WARNING!*****

  YOUR PLAYER ID has been logged and recorded. YOU are interfering with an on-going FEDERAL CORPORATE INVESTIGATION conducted by Dream Recovery Extraction and Management Team member ID # 0023. You are ordered to cease and desist your interference forthwith, or you may be liable for arrest, prosecution, fines not to exceed $150,000, imprisonment for up to FIVE YEARS, and PERMANENT iNet disenfranchisement.

  *****WARNING! WARNING! WARNING!*****

  “A fine? Prison? iNet disenfranchisement?” the man lowers his weapon. “Are you serious?”

  Frances smiles like a rabid shark with a chainsaw. “We are Federal Corporate Agents conducting an Official Federal Corporate Investigation; we are not Reapers.”

  You can hear her capitalize Federal Corporate Agents and Official Federal Corporate Investigation.

  “In accordance with Title 867, Section 5309 US CODE, I order you to cease your interference.”

  The man’s body shimmers, fades, dematerializes. He’s gone, along with his clunky Little Pickup Truck That Could.

  “Is that true?” I ask Frances. “Can we really do all that?”

  She snorts, laughs. “No, of course not. Rocket made all of that up and did the graphic, and it works every time! If we ever do get called on it, it contains the weasel phrase may be liable.”

  “So it’s all hogwash?”

  “Hogwash?”

  “Horsefeathers … ”

  She doesn’t get it.

  “Applesauce ... ” I continue, “Balderdash. Bunkum. Malarkey. Ummmm … BS.”

  Frances loses her confused expression. “Oh, okay, yes, it is BS, but it’s a great, fairly unobtrusive, non-violent solution. We’re in a public space, so it’s better not to draw too much attention to ourselves.”

  One glance around and I know she’s right – not many people saw our little exchange. The crowd of steampunkers is the same as it was before the man drew his weapon, freaks and geeks, fanboys and cellar-dwellers aplenty.

  “I wish we could have interrogated him,” I say. “I have plenty of items in my inventory list that are great for interrogating. I can work wonders with my turkey baster filled with Chernobyl reactor melt.”

  “A turkey baster filled with what?” Frances winces.

  “You heard me.”

  “You really are a sick man.”

  “I’m simply a product of my environment.”

  “Right … Let’s get you repaired.”

  We advance into the market, the corners of which are anchored by small clock towers with brass gramophone horns on their roofs. True to the driver’s words, the steam repair point is on the left, consisting of a giant water tank with a small, gauge-covered stand affixed to it. A few players stand around the tank with hoses connected into their forearms. I roll up the sleeve on my jacket, and sho ‘nuff, there’s a small entry port about the size of a dime where my basilic vein should be.

  “Just plug her in?” I ask Frances.

  “Just plug it in.”

  I take my place next to an older woman wearing a single goggle over her left eye, which is tied to her head like an eye patch. The blue lens is lined with golden spikes sticking out of the leather.

  “How long does it take?” I ask Frances. My l
ife bar lights up in my ocular display as soon as I stick the steam nozzle in my arm.

  The woman with the eye patch answers, “Just a minute or so.”

  “Not bad.”

  “They have backpacks that can do this as well, called Steam Packs,” the woman explains. “Equip and if you’re injured, just plug the nozzle in and steam up. There are modded ones as well, which constantly refill your life bar. The cheapest packs cost about two hundred shillings apiece.”

  “Steam up. I’ll have to get one of those. They sell them here?”

  “Yeah, over there.”

  I wink at Frances. “Why don’t you be a doll and go buy us a couple.”

  “A doll?” she asks skeptically.

  “What? Don’t like doll? Would you rather be a Generic Joe – America’s Corporate Fighting Person?”

  She sticks her tongue out at me. “I think you have me confused with someone else.”

  The woman with the eye patch yanks the nozzle out of her arm. She returns it to the docking station and hobbles away. “You two are made for each other,” she calls over her shoulder.

  “Like guns ‘n’ ammo, huh?”

  “More like oil and water.” Frances reaches out and touches my cheek.

  “Do I need to shave or something?” I ask.

  Her hand comes back and she slaps me lightly. “That’s for calling me doll.”

  “Noted,” I tell her, watching a man crank a crowbar-sized lever at the bottom of the nearest clock tower.

  “What’s happening?” I ask as I finish steaming up.

  “Remember what the driver told us,” Frances Euphoria nods at the zeppelin above the market, “about Ray Steampunk giving a daily speech?”

  “Let’s see what the fat cat has to say.”

  ~*~

  Men rappel from the zeppelin, landing in the center of the market. Once they’re grounded, coiled wire drops from the craft and the men connect the cables to a plug on the four clock towers. They raise their thumbs and a light flicks on inside the zeppelin.

  “How’s it powered?” I ask aloud.

  With her Leaks on, Frances scans the bottom of the zeppelin. “There are people inside pedaling stationary bikes,” she finally says.

  “So they are creating power to … light up the inside of the zeppelin?”

  “Yes, but let’s not forget we are in a VE dreamworld – everything is an illusion.”

  “Tell me about it … ”

  A shadowy man appears on the side of the zeppelin’s massive body. He walks towards the center of the craft, his body increasing in size as it’s projected onto the side of the zeppelin. Steampunkers in the market cheer and clap.

  “It’s him!” someone shouts.

  A crackling noise comes out of the speaker horns that surround the Wells Verne Market.

  “Hello, people of Steam,” the man says. “For you newcomers, allow me to welcome you most humbly to this, the best planet in the Proxima Galaxy! I am your host, Ray Steampunk, and I’m the developer of this world.”

  The crowd hoots and hollers, claps, whistles, and rattles their gears like they’ve just seen a magician pull a candy-throwing stripper out of a top hat.

  “For those of you that have contacted administrators about the Boilerplate Army massing on the city limits of Morlock, know that we’ve dispatched a fleet of our best Air Enforcers to deal with the issue. If you wish to assist us in the defense of the realm, you can access sign-on information through the mission tab on your avatar’s landing page. For today only, we’ve raised the enlistment bonus to two thousand shillings, but this drops back down to a thousand come tomorrow, so be sure to sign up today.”

  A few people in the crowd dematerialize as they access their avatar’s landing page and join the war against whomever. Names have never been my forte, especially not artsy-craftsy, fancy-pantsy steampunk ones. Give me a couple of good stomping grounds like Devil’s Alley, The Pier or possibly The Badlands and I’m good to go.

  The silhouette of Ray Steampunk gestures like he’s about to poke God in the ass. “It has come to my attention that a pair of Reapers have entered our world,” he says, his pointer finger up in the air now. “For those of you unfamiliar with the Reapers, it is my unpleasant duty to enlighten you. As their name implies, Reapers are death-bringers, murderers, destroyers of souls; vile, hateful mercenaries who rape and kill and slaughter for profit, across the Proxima galaxy without regard to the commonly held rules of basic human decency, sportsman-like fair play, good fellowship and player solidarity. They shamelessly, mercilessly ensnare players inside a world, hold them as slaves and use them to do their foul bidding. Moreover, these Reapers indiscriminately use proscribed weapons that will kill the human player in the real world, a true death, a death from which there is no respawning.”

  Like they’re reading from a script, the crowd makes the usual, stereotyped crowd noises of horrified shock and disbelief. Quivering hands are raised to mouths; wrists to foreheads. Women swoon in fright, as do some men. Players and NPCs both suspiciously eye their neighbors, rest hands upon sword hilts and holstered pistols; many, many suddenly retrieve large and powerful weapons from their inventory.

  I look to Frances. “Reapers are here? Looks like Christmas came early.”

  She removes her goggles, scans the crowd. “Get ready to log out.”

  “Huh?”

  Ray Steampunk continues. “For more information on Reapers, check out the bulletin post in the announcements tab of your avatar’s landing page. The dastardly pair in question unmistakably identified themselves as Reapers through their base and cowardly actions. In an unprovoked attack they cruelly slew the beloved Mister Masked Conductor Man and without warning destroyed one of our scout aircraft. Fortunately, in his last full measure of devotion, the heroic pilot managed to far-speak his warning, and confirmed that one of them was indeed wearing a Reaper’s skull mask! The system administrator sent an immediate all-points warning – check your inbox if you haven’t already. The two Reapers are reported to be in the Wells Verne Market area, on the outskirts of Locus.”

  “Ah, shit.”

  The crowd noise picks up; friends band together, stand back-to-back. The rattle and clink of weapons nervously handled grows more pronounced. It’s just a matter of time before some dumbass lets one go and precipitates a bloodbath.

  “Based on their login details, we have identified them as Quantum Hughes and Frances Euphoria. I repeat, Quantum Hughes and Frances Euphoria are the two Reapers in question. Their indicators will appear red in the next few moments. Do not engage unless you are at level forty-five or higher and only do so at your own risk. For those in the market, get to a safe place or log out. Air Enforcers will be there momentarily. That’s it for now. Have a wonderful evening and don’t forget to join in the war against the Boilerplate Army. Until we meet again, I bid you adieu.”

  The light inside the zeppelin turns off.

  “Ummm … ”

  Frances Euphoria’s indicator strobes red; it’s really, really noticeable.

  “Looks like we’re about to have company.”

  “Log out!” Her hand is in front of her now, seconds away from pressing the logout button.

  “Fat chance, Frances. It’s been a while since I had a true knock-down, drag out fight.” Well no, I said that wrong; it’s been a while since I had a true knock-down, drag out fight in which my ass was not the one getting kicked.

  ~*~

  Frances’ FCG message appears in front of her:

  *****WARNING! WARNING! WARNING!*****

  YOUR PLAYER ID has been logged and recorded. YOU are interfering with an on-going FEDERAL CORPORATE INVESTIGATION conducted by Dream Recovery Extraction and Management Team member ID # 0023. You are ordered to cease and desist your interference forthwith, or you may be liable for arrest, prosecution, fines not to exceed $150,000, imprisonment for up to FIVE YEARS, and PERMANENT iNet disenfranchisement.

  *****WARNING! WARNING! WARNING!*****

  A
Grizzly Adams of a man snorts his disparagement and strides right through the message as he flexes his two steamed-out arms. Gears whir as an unnecessarily large Gatling gun forms on each arm.

  I’m in the air before the man can plug us. My inventory list comes up and item 554 – my mutant hack ax – appears. I slice through both of his Gats and enough steam pours out of him to strip gang tags off a boxcar. He shrieks, logs out, disappears.

  “Mutant hack!” Someone screams. “Mutant hack!” The crowd surrounding us thins as the faint-hearts and lightweights log out. The few steampunkers that remain all take a large step back.

  My life bar glows in my display, indicating that I’m using an illegal weapon. I disregard the warning. Inspired by the saber pistol, the top barrel of my hack morphs into scimitar. Did I tell it to do that or did it do it on its own? No time to process the thought.

  “Quantum!” Frances yells, her arm in the ready position.

  “What?”

  She doesn’t have time to say much else.

  The old woman with the eye patch from earlier springs on Frances from behind, and latches on like a backpack full of ugly. She clamps one hand over Frances’ mouth, and an ugly green stain spreads outward from the point of contact.

  Rocket: Alchemist! Stop her!

  I aim the tip of my mutant hack at the woman. “Log out or die!”

  Frances’ corset spikes out like a puffer fish. The old crone leaps off in surprise, vents clouds of steam, blinks out, gone.

  “Yowza! Your corset is a weapon?” I ask as a man with dreadlocks, magenta goggles, dove-gray cut-away coat and bolo tie cuts at me with a cavalry saber. I swivel to parry and our blades connect; his shatter into a million pixelated pieces, and he logs out before I can make my riposte through his spleen.

  This is something that will take some time getting used to – human players can log out if they’re in a pickle, which strips away the satisfaction of ending someone’s digital life. Sure, The Loop had yellow-bellied pink-tea bastards galore, but there was none of this logging out like a big sissy when things turned to shit.