“Will you come back?” she asks instead of kissing me. “To The Loop, to me – will you?”
“I’m bringing you with me, babe, to Steam.”
“I know, but this … this is our place, this room, this world. It’s ours.” Tears form in the corners of her eyes. “It’s for you … I exist for you.”
“There is only one world that isn’t our place,” I say before realizing how harsh my statement sounds. “That’s not what I mean, what I mean is that there are … thousands of worlds for us to explore.”
“I can only exist in your dreams.”
“What separates a dream from reality, Doll? Who’s to say I’m not dreaming when I’m awake up there? Who’s to say that it isn’t a sham, an elaborate hoax? I existed in a dream with you for eight years, eight years. For those eight years our dream, my dream, was real, was one – just like you said. And this trip … this has really forced me to think about the world up there. It’s as much of a dream as a Proxima World, governed by laws, physical and legal.”
“But you’re alive up there, alive.”
“I am, and you’re alive here.”
She pushes away from me.
“But I’m also alive here; I feel more alive in a Proxima World than I do the real world – coming here has reminded me of this. We can, we should, just enjoy each other in these worlds. We can travel anywhere, do anything.”
She puts her arms around my neck, her face against my chest. Her tears make a damp spot on my shirt.
“I am a man of several worlds, but my heart is yours, Doll. Coming back has reminded me of this, reminded me of what it feels like to be truly happy.”
Chapter Twelve
Logging out.
Still it amazes me that I can log out of The Loop, that I can move freely between the two worlds.
My hands come to my NV Visor. There’s a ring of sweat on my forehead and my back is stiff. I’ve been out for at least ten hours, no fourteen, and while I feel refreshed due to the fact I was essentially sleeping, I’m also on edge. Sitting up with a cringe, I manually move my legs to the floor so blood can fill them.
The numbness is prickly, funny in its own way. I flick my calf just to feel the half-dead limb. It takes another minute before I’ll trust my legs to support my weight. I know I shouldn’t, I’ve been avoiding mirrors for some time; as soon as I can move with a reasonable assurance of not face planting, I move to the restroom to take in my reflection and, of course, drain the lizard.
My reflection.
My hair is starting to grow back and I’ve gained a little weight. Dark circles under my eyes add depth to my skull; my nose is more defined in the real world than it is in the The Loop. I remove my shirt and notice that I still have a few lingering bruises in various shades of purple and yellow; nearly the same hues as the color scheme of my room at the Mondegreen. Maybe I’m not getting enough vitamins. Maybe I’m just getting old.
I lean in closer to my reflection and observe the subtle blemishes on my cheeks, the blackheads on the sides of my nose. This is detail, detail that I’ve never noticed in a VE dreamworld. If the Proxima Company could replicate this level of detail …
I blink and a message splashes across my eyelids.
Frances: Outside. Are you coming?
I think the words and strangely enough, they appear.
Me: No, just breathing hard. Maintain a firm grasp on the equines; I’ll be right there.
France: The what?
Me: Hold your horses.
There’s another message: Guide to a Healthier You: Avoiding Hazards Associated with Exceeding the Adult Daily Recommended Caloric Intake, from the Fat Nazis – as opposed to the fat Nazis – I suppose. Why would they think that anyone would read this? I mark the sender as toxic spammer and delete the message unread.
I put my shirt back on and I’m nearly out the door when I notice a subtle hint of Eau de Cab Driver’s Revenge emanating from somewhere. One sniff at my armpit quickly identifies the culprit. Quick about face into the bathroom. I give face, armpits, and naughty bits a quick once-over with a damp facecloth, vigorously swish a mouthful of ListerCope Cool Arctic Spearmint Tsunami to knock the fur off my teeth, and liberally spray myself down with Wrightguard Baja Mountain Estrus body spray in the special Wilbur & Orville Commemorative Package.
Now, if the advertisements are to be believed, I’ll be forced to fend off hordes of unusually attractive, large-breasted nubile women of child-bearing age who want nothing more than to procreate with me, repeatedly.
I exit to the landing stage, and the horde consists of a disgruntled Frances, who gives me a very credible stink-eye and pointedly taps her wristwatch-free wrist as I walk up to her aeros.
~*~
She sniffs two or three times and makes the Who’s Got a Poopy Shoe face as I settle into the passenger’s seat and harness up.
“I dove last night,” I tell Frances Euphoria to forestall that whole line of observational commentary that she’s no doubt about to entertain me with.
“To Cyber Noir?”
“Yes, to The Loop.”
“Good for you!” she says as her aeros lifts into the proper airlane. The morning sun sends an arc of bright light through the windshield.
“What did you do in there?” she asks.
“Went to Barfly’s, saw some old friends, met a weapons manufacturer.” I tell her, purposely leaving out Dolly.
“A weapons manufacturer?”
“Dirty Dave’s Mayhem Mart, down by The Pier. The dirtiest gun hawker you’ll find in The Loop as long as he isn’t hopped up on Riotous. If he can’t make it, he can procure it. I figured I could use some custom-made gear in Steam.”
“Did you buy me anything?”
I tense up, knowing I just broke the Hamburger Rule: Don’t get your meat at the same place you get your bread. “About that … ”
“I’m sure all your assassin buddies got something.”
“What makes you so sure?” I ask.
“Well, did they?”
“They did … ” My stomach grumbles. “But only because Aiden was there, calling the shots. I’ll say this – it was Aiden’s fault. From there, I plead the Fifth.”
“Is that so? Aiden’s fault?”
My eyes move from the front of our vehicle to the side window. I recall the Reapers ramming their aeros into ours a few days back. What would have happened if they’d taken our vehicle down? Neither Frances nor I have really spoken about the incident. Clearly we needed to tell someone, but how could we prove it? This thought gives me a chance to deflect the animosity currently aimed in my direction.
“Is everything recorded on the life chip in our heads?” I ask her.
“Yes, and stored. Why?”
“Well, shouldn’t we report the attack on our vehicle the other day? After all, they were Reapers.”
“I was thinking of reporting it, but I figured it would be better to report everything together, all at once, in the big file I’ve been preparing about the Revenue Corporation. Once we make this info public and initiate legal action we’ll need all the data we can get. If we try to shoot them down prematurely, they’ll figure some way to weasel out of it. They always do. Always. We have to go at them with everything we got. Further, there is a high probability they weren’t Reapers. There are other forces as at play.”
“Yeah, you keep saying that. Why can’t we just torture one of those bleached people into confessing? They definitely know what the Revenue Corporation is up to.”
She snorts. “Torture? You really have been in The Loop! To answer your question – no, we can’t do that. Confessions that take place in an entertainment world have no legal validity. They should be, for the same reason someone threatening someone online should be, but this isn’t the case. So getting a confession out of one of them wouldn’t really do us any good.”
Frances lowers into a different airlane. An aeros blazes past, the sound of its honking horn following it.
“Well, in any
event, at least we’ll have some help in Steam.”
“The Assassins?” she asks, flipping the driver the bird.
“Watch it, Tiger!”
“What? Aeros are dangerous vehicles! And don’t call me Tiger!”
I laugh, twirling the handle of my cane. If I’m going to be stuck with the damned thing, I might as well get one with a custom blade inside, just like item 139, my swordstick.
“Why are you on edge today? Life ain’t too shabby.”
“Because we’re late, or should I say, you’re late.”
“Late for what?”
“The agents want to speak with you.”
“Husky and Starch again?”
“Quantum, I know you don’t listen to me all the time – well ever, really, but seriously, use our lawyer.”
I shake my head. “I told you, Frances, I don’t like lawyers.”
~*~
Agents Reynolds and O’Brian have comfortably ensconced themselves in our conference room – my conference room – like they’re the lord and master of all that they survey. Agent Reynolds has the B-drone performing aerobatics as he studiously ignores Agent O’Brian, who is thoroughly engrossed in the 3-D anime barnyard dwarf porn that his mini-tablet is projecting in front of him, and God, and everybody.
Maybe Reynolds is a nice guy away from his job, but O’Brian is a horrible human being; a vile, disgusting oxygen thief; a criminal misuse of perfectly good protoplasm on so many different levels. What I wouldn’t give to be able to deal them a little Loop-based justice. Just thinking about it makes me feel a little bit better, but only a little bit.
“Mr. Hughes,” Agent Reynolds says, as he pokes O’Brian, who grunts, sees me, and hastily logs out of his entertainment program.
Agent O’Brian looks like someone melted him down and poured him into last year’s dirty clothes. His clip-on tie hangs from the elastic band that almost closes his shirt collar, and if he coughs, sneezes or farts, odds are high he’ll blow buttons off of his way-too-tight, speckled-with-food-stains shirt. He’s in the same sports jacket he wore last time, only it looks like he’s been bunking down at the homeless shelter in it since then. Before I even sit down, I can detect the unmistakable bouquet of the beach at low tide on a hot August afternoon during kelp and octopus season wafting gently from him. The only thing he lacks to render the whole effect complete is a halo of flies to dog fight with the B-drone.
I can only hope he finds my combination of Sweaty Haptic Ultra-Funk and Baja Mountain Estrus equally delightful.
I shuffle into my seat with a sour look on my face.
“Mr. Hughes,” Agent Reynolds says. He casually gestures to the B-drone now hovering behind them. “Be advised that while this is not a sworn official statement, this conversation is being recorded.”
My tongue presses against the inside of my cheek.
“Use up all your smart alecky remarks last time? Not going to say nothing?” O’Brian asks.
“This is just a friendly conversation, not an interrogation,” Agent Reynolds says. “We just need a little more information and some clarification here and there. This is all … off the record.”
If you’re recording it, it’s not off the record – I almost say it, but I keep my mouth shut instead. Besides, Frances has promised me pancakes and beer if I play nice.
“We’d just like you to clear up a few questions we have about what went down at the Long-Term Coma Care Facility.” Agent Reynolds says.
I shrug, make the I dunno face.
“You are correct,” Agent O’Brian says, his eyebrows lowering. “You aren’t required to speak to us. However, not speaking to us does not improve your position, and forces us to draw some unflattering conclusions about your veracity and your role in Mr. MacAfee’s unfortunate demise.”
“Cut the crap,” I say, ripping my vow of silence to shreds. “I don’t have to speak to you and I’m doing so voluntarily. If you continue this harassment, I’ll get an attorney. It’s as simple as that. Now, may I go?”
“We just want to … ”
“You already know what happened. Reapers from the Revenue Corporation attacked me,” I say, my voice raising. “If it hadn’t been for Frances Euphoria, and some quick thinking on my part – thank you very much – they would have killed me. They threatened and assaulted me in the virtual world I was trapped in, too.”
“Alleged threats and assaults made in virtual worlds are not actionable in the real … ” Agent O’Brian starts to say.
“You want my statement or not?” I tell him, pushing back from the table. My cane falls, my back twinges and I grimace.
“Not such a tough guy in the real world, are you Mr. Hughes?” he asks.
“Listen you … ” He’s hoping I’ll say something like, well, I was tough enough to kill that guy in the vat, wasn’t I? and I bite my lip because I really do want to. Instead, I say “I was trying to keep the guy that tried to drown me from having another go at it when he un-stunned. Too bad, so sad that he inadvertently drowned, but at most – at most – all you got is lawful self-defense. Even more than that, the video record from the coma ward corroborates this! And how do I know about the video record? I was visited by a couple of actual detectives from the Cincinnati PD, and they showed it to me – that’s how! Now why don’t you two Keystone Kops quit wasting my time, get the video from the Cincinnati PD and get after the real bad guys?”
“I don’t know what you think you saw, Mr. Hughes, but there is no video record.” Agent Reynolds blandly states, “The facility’s server malfunctioned just after the incident and corrupted all the video log files before the police could obtain copies.”
“Then what did they show me? Don’t you even try to pull the old eighteen-and-a-half-minute gap trick on me, you obfuscating, fascist bastards!” I shout. I realize that that little outburst probably just cost me my pancakes, but boy, did it ever feel good!
Agent O’Brian jots something down. His smart-ass grin has morphed into something orc-like and threatening. I have the notion to reach across the table and give him the Moe Howard eye-poke, nose-twist, hair-pull.
A knock at the door startles all three of us. Frances enters with coffee for the agents, looks at me, rolls her eyes and shakes her head.
“We were unaware that a copy of the video allegedly survived,” Agent Reynolds says after she’s left. He straightens his tie, glances at his superior. “Do you have the contact info for the detectives who you claim showed you a video recording of the incident?”
“As a matter of fact, I don’t,” I say, still glaring O’Brian down. “Are we done here, gentlemen? I have actual work to do.”
~*~
Frances already had pancakes on hand before I ever sat down with the F-BIIGie Piggies, but she very pointedly put the beer back in the fridge. Well, you can’t always get what you want, and with a full tummy and the premises rendered swine-free, I’m feeling a little better about going back to Steam to do what I do best. Still, I’m a little troubled by the agents and their claims. What’s their angle? What are they trying to get at? If they’re anything like the agents I’ve encountered in The Loop, they’re in someone’s pocket, maybe even the RevCo itself.
Leave the real world be – from one dive to another.
Floating in a vat at the Dream Team Headquarters on my way to a virtual world. I listen as Rocket busies himself with Frances’ rig as I relax further into my own vat, feeling the gel around my body. Dive suits are waterproof, but the stuff they have us in isn’t exactly water. The specialized silicone substance is mainly for conducting electricity, as vats promise the best in full immersion, meaning that even the smallest sensation can be felt. This differs from the haptic chair back at my hotel.
“I’m going to have the two of you spawn as closely to Ray Steampunk’s airship as possible,” Rocket says.
“Can’t you just put us on the airship?” I ask.
“I’m afraid it’s not that simple. I could, however, put you on Clockpunch Mount
ain, which sits beneath the airship, on the other side. Then you could take the cable car to the top.”
“I’m not too keen on that cable car,” I say. “Bad experience last time. What about those jetpacks that the Reapers had? Can you get some of those?”
“I’m sure your weapons dealer friend can get you some. You know, the one who sold you the Slice Bang.”
Steampunk Santa Claus with the elaborate weapon cache beneath his main salesroom – he also sold Frances and me the Steam Packs, which definitely are worth the price of admission.
“Fine, send us there.”
“Don’t forget to take your potions as soon as you spawn. It will help a little, at least while you’re in Locus.”
Chapter Thirteen
Reality splice – cut to the now. Feedback an answer, an anathema, an algorithmic moment of bliss. My hands materialize in front of me and fingerless gloves appear. The gears for my wrist gun crank, signaling they’re ready. As soon as I’m able, I down item 563, the player indicator potion. From there, I equip my Steam Pack, item 564, and the aforementioned wrist gun just in case. The nozzle of my Steam Pack sinks into the port on my arm and my life bar brightens.
Frances Euphoria is clad in what I can only describe as a leather bathing suit with straps that cross behind her neck. The bottom of the bathing suit rounds off into a pair of ultra-tight boy shorts and a pair of thigh-high snakeskin boots
“Seriously, Rocket?” Frances asks, looking up at the sky as if she were speaking to God.
Rocket: I’m just trying to make the two of you blend in.
“Good work,” I tell him.
Frances chugs her potion and the indicator turns green. With the snap of her fingers, her hair becomes red again. Her finger comes up and her Shoulder Rocket appears.
“You and your red hair … ”
“A girl likes what a girl likes.”
“Why don’t you have red hair in the real world?”
“Some fantasies are best kept under lock and key,” she says, twirling a pretend key.
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