He snaps his fingers, and my advanced abilities come back on line and my life bar jumps to 250%.
“Prepare yourselves. I will transport you to the battlefields of Morlock … ”
Chapter Fifteen
… Now.
We spawn in a wooded area that would induce lachrymal flow in Smokey the Anthropomorphic Ursine. Some of the trees still stand, their bark, branches and foliage stripped away by shellfire. Most have been reduced to stumps and charred fragments and flinders which litter the cratered landscape. The sound of gunfire and explosions reaches my ears, the sky flashes with Iraqi Lightning – we are close.
“This place looks like something out of Under Fire.”
“Which is?”
I turn to find Frances Euphoria looking like an angel’s cousin with the golden indicator above her head.
“A war book. GoogleFace it.” I turn to the Loopers. “Aiden, Dolly, can you speak now?”
Aiden’s mouth moves, but no sound comes out.
“Why’s Ray still silencing them?” I ask Frances.
“No idea.”
Aiden makes the two handed shooting a machine gun gesture.
“Can you believe this guy?” I say under my breath to Frances. “This new world has sent him off his rocker.”
“I think he wants to borrow one of your machine guns,” Frances says.
Aiden points at her and gives her a thumbs up.
“Don’t you have your own?” I ask him.
He gestures machine gun again.
“Why do you want mine then?”
He rolls his eyes, slaps his forehead with the heel of his hand, makes the talk-talk-talk hand puppet gesture and pantomimes foregrip, pistol grip, and with the tip of his finger draws a big circle in between them to indicate the drum magazine of …
“ … the Thompson Submachine Gun. You want the Tommy gun?”
Morning Assassin holds out his hands and makes a very credible No Duh! face at me.
The Chicago Typewriter appears in my hands, and though he’s too well-mannered to snatch it from me, I know he wants to. He leads us to a reasonably intact wall about fifty paces from where we spawned.
He flips the selector to semi, and in a most impressive display of trigger control and rapid-fire exhibition shooting spells out S-T-E-A-M-P-U-N-K in bullet holes.
“Okay,” Frances says, “Steampunk … ”
He resumes, pauses, resumes, finishes, steps back and admires his work. With a theatrical flourish, he blows the smoke from the muzzle.
The phrase STEAMPUNK IS DEAD is spelled out in bullet holes.
Morning Assassin points at the message on the wall.
“Steampunk is dead … ” Frances says. “Steampunk is dead … ”
“Steampunk … is dead?” I turn to Dolly. “What’s with your button man?”
Aiden pinches me, in the same spot Frances did.
“Ow! Dammit, Aiden – that’s gonna leave a mark!” I whine, in a rugged and manly tone.
I step on his foot.
He punches me in the shoulder.
I grab his nose between my pointer and middle finger knuckles and slap that hand down with my other fist. I get the blade hand up over my nose to block, just as he’s about to prong two fingers in my eyes.
“Hey you two! Don’t make me come over there!” Frances shouts.
Aiden and I both freeze; Dolly shakes with silent laughter.
Frances bounces from foot to foot. “I get it! I get it! In the real world, in our world, Ray Steampunk is Dead.”
Rocket: He’s an RPC? WOWZA!
Aiden gives me two thumbs up. I turn to Dolly and she nods.
“He’s … dead? Like actually dead?”
“Yes! It makes sense now!” Frances looks up the sky. “Rocket, are you getting this?”
Rocket: Mind blown up here, Q! BLOWN! Ray Steampunk is dead, but his avatar is still monitoring Steam. His avatar is an NPC, but he’s technically an RPC, a Reborn Player Character! This is why we haven’t been able to locate Steampunk It all makes sense now! He’s remained alive through … through a Proxima World!
“Is that even possible?” I ask.
“It’s happened before. Several developers have immortalized themselves in the Proxima Galaxy.”
“Why did he silence Dolly and Aiden then?”
“Because they can tell he’s an RPC! He doesn’t want the world to know; he wants … his avatar wants for Ray Steampunk to remain in control as a human player, not an NPC. If word got out, people may turn against him.”
I glance at the writing on the wall – STEAMPUNK IS DEAD – and start to laugh “So you mean this whole time, this whole time, we’ve been trying to get in touch with an NPC masquerading as a human – not Deus Ex Machina but Spiritus in Machina! Crazy!”
Aiden fires the tommy gun in the air like some Middle Eastern knucklehead celebrant.
Bad things happen.
~*~
The sky above us rips open and a portal forms, spitting comic book sparks. Reapers spill out, draw their weapons and form a half circle around us. Leather, spikes, skull masks, asshattery, tough guy poses, Mad Max extras with more faux muscles than real sense – the murder guild lackeys are a troubled bunch of tweens. Their leader is the last to exit, and plops out like a steaming turd from a dyspeptic pig.
“Rollins,” I say, my mutant hack melting up my arm. “I like you better in the tutu, sparkly tiara and fairy wings.”
One of his posse guffaws. Rollins sprouts a katana, pivots, and removes the offender’s head.
The same fatboy cellar-dweller who took Frances hostage in The Loop stands before me in his partially shattered skull mask and make-believe He-Man avatar. As unlikely as it seems, he’s even more bloated and ridiculously proportioned than he was in our previous soirée.
“Ooh, Rollins, what great big arms you have! Can you even reach your pathetic little pee-pee like that?” I ask, and crook my little finger at him.
“Why are you here, Quantum Hughes?”
His arms bulge and ripple as his mutant hacks form, tremendous gun barrels with muzzles like Schwarzenegger sewer pipes.
“You know, I’m going to make it my personal jihad to find you in real life so I can give your flabby ass the spanking your momma never gave you, little boy.”
“You are old and weak,” he booms in the standard Reaper Vader voder knock-off tones. “A pathetic old man with a cane. I will take it from you, stick it up your ass and spin you around like a propeller! But here, now, prepa-… ”
“Say hello to my little friend, fatboy!” The air temperature drops precipitously as the arctic blast envelops him and freezes him mid-threat into a nine foot, quarter-ton stalagmite of very surprised cyber-bully.
His chopper squad scatters and opens up with everything while trying to find cover. Dolly smiles and crosses her arms; all manner of bullets and explode-y projectiles hang motionless in the air in front of us; streamers of flame and energy beams stop dead and dissipate. Morning Assassin gets in amongst them, and becomes the Flying Cuisinart of Death with a Slice Bang in either hand. He laughs like a berserker on crack as he renders Rollins’ butt-boy backup band into fugu sashimi.
In the very best kung fu vid tradition, F. E. whirls, twirls, defies gravity and hacks her way through the few B & D Mouseketeers that Aiden hasn’t gotten to yet. And then there are none, as the survivors log out like the cowards they are.
Aiden and Frances stop, land, look around, and then sit next to each other, heads together. Dolly stops doing whatever it is she did, and all the formerly flying metal the Reapers fired at us hits the ground with a ‘hail on the roof of the aeros’ clatter.
My friend Rollins is still here, still frozen solid, and somewhat worse for the wear. He was on the wrong side of Dolly’s shield and he’s picked up a fair number of chips and dings from misdirected Reaper fire. Because he is thermally inconvenienced and totally immobile, there’s no moving the hand to access the log out point for the head Reaperc
icle. “Okay, Rollins – I have things to do and people to see, so I can’t spend as much time on this as I’d like, but it’s still going to be darned unpleasant for you.”
Item 171, sledge hammer comes up, and I smash his right hand and left hand so there’ll be no logging out anytime soon. Both knees and he topples over, both shoulders and his arms come off.
“This is probably going to be wasted effort on my part because I don’t think you really have one, but here goes anyway,” and I hammer his codpiece into Extra-Vile Rollins-flavored Slurpee, now with thirty percent more crybaby. “Once you thaw out enough to log out, you’d better go. You don’t want to be here when I come back, or I’ll make it really hurt.”
Frances comes up behind me. “You have a serious problem.”
“How so?” I ask with a smirk. “Revenge is a dish best served cold.”
~*~
Aiden ankles over, cracks his neck, and observes, “What a bunch of big fat chickens!”
“Ummm … I heard that,” I say, looking to Frances.
“I did too.”
I turn to Dolly. “You got your singing voice back too?”
Her hand also comes to her throat. “Yes, it appears Ray Steampunk has removed the hack.”
“Well, ain’t that something.”
An explosion in the distance reminds me of our current locale.
Frances says, “We really need to get to the battle.”
A sphere of light takes shape between Dolly’s fingers. It lifts into the air, growing in size until six forms materialize in the center of the sphere. The UK Assassins. They drop to the ground and Burly is the first to step forward.
“There ‘e is!” he says, puffing his chest out. Attached to his back is an AUS weapon similar to mine. While his weapon may be appropriate, his get up isn’t. Burly and the rest of the UK Assassins are in their desert camouflage. Bucket Hat is in his namesake and the Quiet Man’s face is painted brown with black streaks across his eyes.
“Aye, tis true,” Scotty says, “I bloody told ye that we ‘ad the wrang gear. If youse arseholes would’ve only listened … ”
Irish Shorty says, “Well, none of us ‘ave ever ‘eard of steampunk. How are we bloody supposed to dress in a style we’re unfamiliar with? Answer me that!”
“You’ve been full of pish since I met you–”
“What did you say, Pip?” Pip aims his Hose Gun at Scotty.
“Enough bickering,” I tell them, “Save that for the real war. Dolly, please give them some world appropriate threads.”
Stars and blips of light spiral around the UK Assassins like Tinker Bell at T.J Maxx. Burly is now in a Bane mask and a black tank top with two bandoliers crisscrossing over his chest. Pip is next to him, in a trench coat with a matching top hat and black cowboy boots.
Scotty says, “What do ya think, Quantum?” He does a quick spin, opening his tweed jacket to show me his gray vest with metal spikes along the lapel. Covering his legs and bare arse is what only can be described as a steampunk kilt – leather with multiple cargo pockets. His thumb comes up and he winks at me. “No bad, eh?”
“You don’t want to know what I think.”
The Quiet Man is up next, sporting the steampunk-cyborg look in a sleeveless sack coat and old leather stompers. On his face is a leather Mankind mask and there are several grenades strapped to his chest.
“That’s a bad place for grenades … ”
“Steam grenades,” Dolly says, her arm looping in mine.
Irish Shorty has gone for the newsie-cum-assassin look, decked out in tight khakis and a puffy white shirt. Next to him is the Bucket Hat formally known as the Tall One, who would be a spitting image of a young Robert E. Lee if it weren’t for the desert camouflage hat still on his head.
“What’s with the bucket hat?”
“If ya got a problem with me ‘at you can take it up with, King,” he shows me his left fist, “William,” he shows me his right.
~*~
It doesn’t take us long to reach the forward edge of the battle area. The city of Morlock looks like Stalingrad, looks like Dresden, looks like Coventry. There isn’t an undamaged building as far as I can see, but there’s lots and lots of rubble which means lots and lots of cover for the defenders.
The roar of battle picks up as we approach. Shouts and screams, explosions and Gatling gun fire, the clank and hiss of steam powered war machines combine to create a constant rolling thunder. Fragile looking fantasy aircraft with two or three wings wheel and turn, close and spit fire at each other, separate and dive away. Air Enforcers tangle with the aircraft, with each other, with jet pack equipped flying soldiers, and a genuine crazy woman on a witch’s broom swoops low and scatters pink fireballs over the buildings just in front of us. A slather of small arms fire rises to greet her as she makes a second pass, and she suddenly disappears – dead or logged out.
A voice farspeaks us, “Hey, new meat! Over here! Look to your right – the shops with the azaleas in front? Right here.” A soldier in a German helmet leans out from around the corner, waves us in, ducks behind the corner. “Don’t bunch up as you come across; they’ve got a spotter somewhere and they’re dropping steam rockets on us every chance they get.”
A rocket slams into the two story building just behind us and showers us with debris. “Yeah, like that,” says the voice. “Cross now, quickly-quickly-quickly.”
I’m the last to cross, and the soldier reaches out, grabs my lapel and drags me in front of her as another rocket announces its presence. Shrapnel and debris patter off of her helmet and clamshell body armor.
“Well finally!” she exclaims. “Look at you, Mister and Miz golden indicator and your posse of NPC murderous moppets! The hand of Ray Steampunk made flesh, here to help us out in our hour of need and turn the tide.”
Her attitude reminds me of me. She also radiates a don’t screw with me aura that you could cut with a knife. “Yeah, that’s us chief. What’s going on here?”
“What, all this? It’s called war and it’s here all day, every day. We hold Morlock, and the Boilerplates are hitting us with everything they have, trying to push us out. If they get through us, the way to Locus is open and they’ve won. They’ve got three or four Steam Enforcers and a bunch of Air Enforcers, and these frickin’ road warrior lookin’ dudes who use banned weapons and cheat like crazy bastards.”
She spits a stream of digital tobacco juice and continues.
“I’m trying to keep their attention focused here so I can get some of my troops in to hit ‘em on the flank and roll up their line. If we can do that, we’ve won. But those big-ass Steam Enforcers are killing us, and most of my knuckleheads just want to run around, yell and scream, shoot guns and blow shit up. They die and respawn and die and respawn, but they’re not really doing us any good. If we can take down the Steam Enforcers, I think we can make the rest of the plan work.”
I listen to the way she talks and take a good look at her; short gray hair under the subdued helmet and body armor, the drab gray jacket with black braid and tarnished buttons instead of the usual brightly colored Halloween Costume Steam Stripper outfit. “You’ve done this for real, haven’t you?”
“Yep, today ain’t my first day. Twenty-seven years with the FCG Foreign Legion; the last ten with the Humandroid Armored Infantry. Been to all the US of Federal Corporate A’s downrange shit-holes at one time or another.”
“Thank-you for your service, chief.”
“Okay Goldie – couple of things. It’s Sergeant Major, not chief, and do not ever call me sarge – it’s Sergeant Major or Sarn’t, understood?”
“I understand, Sergeant Major.”
“Outstanding. Now, you want to thank me for my service? Take care of my Steam Enforcer problem and we’ll call it all good.”
“Yes Ma’am. We’re on it.”
“Geez,” Frances says to Dolly. “That’s the politest I’ve ever heard him be, and the longest he’s ever gone without being a smartass.”
Dolly stifles a laugh.
Chapter Sixteen
The ruins of Morlock spread out beneath me. The four Steam Enforcers kick their way into the city like beach bullies at the geek’s sand castle building extravaganza. Three massive land ironclads, the size and shape of the CSS Virginia on tremendous treads churn their own trail of destruction as they maneuver to intercept the Mecha-Godzilla quads. Each unleashes a rippling broadside as they cross in front of their formation; the leading Steam Enforcer bears the brunt of their fire, but their shells explode against it with no effect.
The Boilerplate infantry is massed behind them like Pickett’s men on the third day, and they don’t get off as lightly – falling shells tear gaping holes in their ranks, and many log out rather than face the incoming hate.
The land ironclads turn to withdraw, still firing their aft guns, concentrating on the infantry. In a surprising burst of speed, a Steam Enforcer sprints ahead and smashes a fist into the trailing land ironclad, then kicks it onto its side as its treads spin wildly seeking traction, seeking to escape. In an immense eruption of smoke and fire and steam, the stricken vehicle explodes as the Steam Enforcer stomps on it.
“Frances! That one, while he’s separated from the pack!” I shout. The Steam Enforcers have colossal, eight-barrel Gatling guns instead of arms, and this one swings its guns up to target us as we zoom in to engage. Both our Freeze-O-Hacks are putting out tremendous plumes of ultra-cold, and we circle round and round it in opposite directions to deny it a clear shot.
Its feet stay planted and it spins at the waist through three hundred and sixty degrees to follow Frances; it fills the sky with torrents of anti-Frances fire, but as it gets colder, it moves slower and F. E. easily avoids all the flying unpleasantness. It freezes solidly immobile, and still we pour on the cold. The wreckage of the land ironclad at its feet is covered in frost flowers, and the moisture in the air around the Steam Enforcer condenses out as snow and coats the ground in an expanding circle.
The Feedback Loop (3-Book Box Set): (Scifi LitRPG Series) Page 30