Me: Kill me now.
FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. I’ve flagged your account for suicide monitoring. Suicide is a very important issue and while America has a lower suicide rate than most other developed countries, suicide is still an issue that needs to be addressed and monitored.
Me: I’m not suicidal, Evan, but I will be if you keep sending me these messages.
~*~
“Remind me to start eating pancakes in a dark room,” I tell Frances. She’s sitting up now and the blanket is removed, revealing her turquoise hospital gown.
“What happened?”
“The FDA is on my ass. They got a Humandroid monitoring me now.”
She chuckles.
“Not funny, Euphoria.”
“Just ignore the messages.”
“I’ll try. Anyway, Rocket will be here any minute. Do you want to see Good Ol’ Betty or not?”
“Good Ol’ Betty?”
“I’m still working on a name for my instrument of filleting,” I tell her as I pull the sword out of the cane. “Carbon steel blade, made in the Land of the Rising Sun, clay tempered.”
Schwing! Or at least I imagine it sounding like that when it’s brandished.
“Quantum, put that away!”
“What’s wrong with it?” I ask as I admire the blade.
“The hospital staff might see you! Hospitals have been classified as ‘no weapons zones’ after all the hospital attacks in the 2020s. There were some real psychos back then. Attacking a hospital with automatic weapons just to get your picture on the cover of Rolling Stone? That’s how the world used to be.”
“You knew I had the blade … ”
“I thought it was a novelty letter opener or something!”
I return the blade to its proper place and lean on my cane. “A man should be allowed to protect himself.”
“He is,” she says, “in his own home. Look, promise me you won’t go flashing that thing around.”
“Promise. Take it easy, Frances.”
Rocket: Outside. Hurry! Zedic’s set was moved to 7:30. Waiting for you Q.
“So tomorrow,” I tell her, “you’ll be back, right?”
“I will, but I won’t be diving.”
“You should rest another day or two.” I say.
“And let you have all the fun?”
~*~
“What kind of music does Zedic play anyway?” I ask as soon as the taxi aeros lifts into the air. Rocket is next to me in his designer jeans and a shirt that says I’m with Cupid.
“Experimental hip-hop acoustic choons with vocoded beatboxing instead of actual words.”
“Choons?” I ask.
“Sound it out.”
“Ah.”
The driver, an actual human, says, “You guys want to hear some choons? I got plenty of MP3s, about a year’s worth.”
“A year’s worth?”
“Sure,” the driver says. “I downloaded six terabytes of the decade’s top hits. Lots of good choons on there – Girl U So What; Club High Pollute Life; Hood Up Hood Hood; Backseat Bop; We Done Did It… what else? Rotten Eye Blow; Touchdown Touch Now.”
“We’re fine, thanks,” I say.
He gives me a look that would result in a bullet in the face if we were in The Loop. Our Lady of Guada-Loop – Frances – comes to me and reminds me to behave.
“What did you do at the hospital?” Rocket asks. “You didn’t answer my messages until the last minute.”
“I took care of some business in The Loop.”
“What’s The Loop?” the driver asks.
“I’ll tell you about it later.”
“What kind of business?” Rocket asks.
“I’ll tell you about it later.”
The taxi descends into a lower airlane. Transport vehicles whip past us, their human drivers hyped up on energy drinks and McStarbucks beverages, their Humandroid drivers hyped on whatever Humandroids hype themselves up on, which gets me thinking.
“What do all these Humandroids eat, anyway?” I ask Rocket.
He snickers; the driver laughs as well.
“What?”
“That’s kind of a stupid question.”
“Everyone knows what Humandroids eat,” says the driver. “Even my two-year-old nephew knows.”
“There is no such thing as a stupid question,” I growl, knowing all too well that there is too such thing as a stupid question.
“They drink water.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it,” the driver chimes in. He’s a monster of a man, cut from granite with the people skills of a skipping stone judging by the way he keeps infiltrating our conversation.
“I’ll have to learn more about that.”
The driver laughs. “I swear these things are going to replace us … but that will take some time. Maybe five hundred years or something. Who knows?”
~*~
Paddy’s Pub is just how I remember it – worn and grubbyish, but not too shabby. Safer than Barfly’s by a longshot, brighter too. It’s still light out, which definitely takes away from the mood of whatever concert is about to happen. The bartender, a classy chassis with her shirt tied over her flat tummy, busies herself fending off flirty drunks and spraying all sorts of concoctions from a dispenser not unlike the nozzle of my AUS Hose Gun.
In the opposite corner of the real bar sits the pollution bar. Perched on stools are a couple of chumps huffing designer inhalants through neo-plague masks attached to cables above the bar. The bartender there, a gangly fellow with a goatee, adjusts one of the pollute distributors, waiting until a green light appears. The puffing patron in front of him gives him the thumbs up, indicating that he’s ready to asphyxiate a couple more brain cells.
Zedic, in a red felt jacket and sunglasses, busies himself on a stage across from the bar. He’s joined by his husband, a tall guy with long black hair shaved on one side so it can drop like a waterfall over his other ear. There are about thirty people in front of them, a few blinking rapidly as they chat over iNet.
Zedic’s husband hunches down in front of his vintage laptop with a headphone over one ear. He bobs his head up and down, getting into the groove. A few ladies come to the front of the stage holding drinks in their hands.
“They have the right idea,” I tell Rocket.
“What’s that?”
“Loading up on panther piss.”
“What?”
“Just wait here.”
I step over to the bar, balancing my weight on my cane. Damn I feel old just looking at the beautiful hotbody bartender. For once in my life I feel as pathetic as I look, a man pressing on forty slightly disabled at a bar filled with twenty-somethings.
“What’ll it be?” she asks as she wipes a counter clean.
“Jack and Coke.”
The multi-tasking goddess throws her arm behind her back, deposits the rag in her back pocket. Dervish-like in her whirlage, she grabs a bottle of Jack and has the shot glass half poured by the time she turns to the front counter to spritz it with coke.
“You got speed,” I tell her.
“That’ll be fifteen dollars.”
“Your prices go up since two days ago?”
“Do you want to support the band or not?” she asks.
“I haven’t heard their music yet,” I say with a smile. She gives me a look that could cut concrete and my hand instinctively goes to my back pocket, where I retrieve a crisp twenty. “Keep the change,” I say as I turn back to the stage.
One sip of my Jack and Coke fills me with both warmth and the itching sense that the Jack might not actually be Jack, and that the whatever-it-is contains more water now than it did when it left the distillery. Sure, there’s some warmth, but where’s the bite?
Zedic steps up to the mike and starts beatboxing. This sound that emerges is hollow, auto-tuned and pitchy. The crowd dives right in, shaking their tushies and doing hippie arm gestures. Rocket joins in, doing a Nutcracker dance that gives me
the totalitarian heebie-jeebies. Somehow this catches on.
As I toss back my Jack and Coke – what else am I supposed to do at this point? – the whole crowd has joined in. Even a few of the pollute hopheads have left their little perches to cut the nonexistent rug (Paddy’s Pub has a concrete floor – easy for vomit clean-up).
“Another Jack and Coke,” I tell the broad behind the bar. “Make it a double. Hell, make it a triple.”
“There’s a discount on triples tonight,” she says, her eyes leaping from my cane to my face.
So now you notice.
“What’s the cost?”
“Twenty dollars.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that earlier?” I ask.
“You didn’t order a triple.” She smiles and goes about her business, pouring up enough Jack to make sure I enjoy whatever it is that’s now coming out of the speakers. After paying her, and tipping her my last fin, I lean with my back against the bar. Zedic is going all out now, using a drumstick on his guitar and dancing in a way that looks as if he’s trying to do the splits but keeps stopping just in time.
The triple Jack and Coke goes bottoms up and I finish it in one gulp. Even with the incoming buzz, I know I’m too old to enjoy the youthful exuberance violating my senses. Blame it on the music, blame it on my cane, blame it on the fact that I feel old in a crowd of thirties’ babies – I’m out the door in a jiffy veering towards my hotel without saying a single goodbye.
No sense in it.
The sticky night air reminds me of why air conditioners are a must in a post-climate change world. I’m sweating like Napoleon the Pig before I can even pass the alley that I had my ass handed to me in a few days back. I keep my eyes on my feet, not wanting to see the advertisements all around me or the aeros passing over head. Sleep – it ain’t the answer to much, but it’s definitely the answer for me right now.
The buzz solidifies itself as soon as I step into the hotel lobby. I’m greeted by a Humandroid or three, but I wave them away, just wanting to get to my room. I hit the elevator and from there, my door.
Lights on as soon as I enter.
My blankets are on the floor, one pillow halfway across the room. An EBAYmazon box sits in the middle of the room with a note saying it was delivered today. I brandish my swordstick and use it to cut the packaging open. A printed message rests on top of a folded stack of clothes:
Quantum,
I’ve returned for you. Meet me in Devil’s Alley as soon as you receive this.
Frances Euphoria
P.S. Just joking. You really need to wash your clothes. You weren’t exactly … fresh today. There’s a service at the hotel, you know. Don’t forget – the F-BIIG agents will be there tomorrow. So will your lawyer. Behave.
“Thanks for the heads up,” I mumble as I fall backwards onto my bed. Lights out.
Chapter Ten
The start of the next day is defined by a can of Hangover Over, a hot shower, frou-frou hotel toiletries, new clothes from Frances, a quick taxi ride to the Dream Team offices and a balanced diet of rabbit food and gerbil bars given to me by Rocket once I arrive. Hello real world, goodbye procrastination.
“Eat quickly,” he says, still in his I’m with Cupid shirt. We’re sitting in the conference room, the blinds drawn and pot of coffee on the table to save us time. “Your lawyer will be here soon.”
I grimace as the oaty goodness scrapes down my gullet. One sip from the cup of coffee reminds me of why Frances should be the Dream Team’s one and only barista. Rocket’s brew tastes more like engine oil, thick and damn near chemical. “What’d you add to this stuff anyway?”
“Bull Bean.”
“Why am I afraid to ask what that is?”
“Bull Bean is a mixture of energy drink supplements such as taurine, carnitine, dextrose supplementitine, rinchitine, kevanite and genetically modified organic, fair trade, shade grown coffee bean extract from the plains of Central Asia.”
“Since when did Central Asia grow coffee beans?”
Rocket cocks his head at me. “Since the Coffee Crisis of 2055. Man, you were out, that’s right.” He takes a bag of nuts from his pockets, rips it open with his teeth and tosses a handful back. “There were riots everywhere! McStarbucks nearly folded.”
“I doubt that.”
A knock at the door launches Rocket out of his seat. He nearly trips over his own shoelaces as he reaches for the handle, recovers, gives me a toothy grin and opens the door.
“Quantum Hughes.”
A thin bald man with wire rim glasses enters. He has the trademark lawyer briefcase and a wrinkled suit.
“Better Call Saul,” I say, shaking his hand.
“Excuse me?”
“Never mind.”
He short circuits for a moment as he tries to place what I meant by my first comment. Straightening his lime green tie to gain his composure, he wets his lips and says, “Well, if Rocket didn’t already tell you, my name is Todd Solon. I’ve previously handled cases for the Dream Team and will be advising you from here on out.”
“Solon?”
His eyes narrow on me. “Yes, not the best last name for a lawyer, but what can you do?” he laughs at this, lightening the mood. “So, Mr. Hughes, I’ve been over what happened at the facility in Cincinnati and the fact that Mr. McAfee drowned in your dive vat.”
“Not my fault, exactly.”
“Good, and yes it wasn’t your fault at all. Nothing exact about it. No cameras indicate you were involved.”
“The feeds have been erased, right?”
I nod to the door and Rocket slides out of the room. “I’ll get the stuff set up for your dive,” he says over his shoulder.
Todd Solon pops open his briefcase. “I’ve already received the written testimony from the detective who handled your case in Cincinnati as well as the Humandroid staff at the hospital. “
An idea hits me like a brick in the face. “What about the Humandroid staff’s video feeds? I seem to recall a nurse who was killed.”
“Nothing there either. The nurse that was shot was killed before anything of significance could be recorded. And the hospital security weren’t Humandroids.”
“And they didn’t have video capturing equipment? I thought that stuff was standard these days.”
He thumbs through some papers. “They did, but thus far, nothing has been uncovered through their feeds aside from the exchange of fire with … Sharpton X. Clamwin III … who died on the scene. The two that got away, and who are now in custody, Josip Kapersky and Cramden R. Norton, have hired Branleur and Grisham’s Law Firm to represent them.”
“Represent them for what?” I ask. “I’m not going to lie, Solon, I’m a bit confused as to why the agents are questioning me in the first place.”
“Well, the hospital is taking the two men to court for damages in the digital coma ward, that’s one thing. Then there’s the fact they are being accused of trying to steal gear in the ward. And the fact that they’re facing federal charges under the Hospital Violence Act of 2024.”
“They weren’t trying to steal gear, they were trying to steal me.”
He jots something down on a yellow legal pad.
“Glad to see lawyers still use those,” I say with a grin.
“I record everything too,” he says, pointing at his eyes. “An ocular upgrade. Legally, I’m the only one who can review what I record though, so don’t worry there. To answer your question about the special agents, they’re trying to determine if John MacAfee, the man who died in your vat, died from the PHASR blast that stunned him or if you killed him.”
“Does it matter? He was trying to manually yank me out of there.”
“It does matter, actually. The lawyers are claiming that you attacked him.”
“Wait, I thought the lawyers are representing the other two guys, Kapersky and Norton.”
“They are.” Solon produces a few documents and slides them over to me. “They are also representing the families of the deceas
ed. Since one of the deceased expired in your dive vat, the special agents are attempting to get to the bottom of the matter, in addition to the alleged HV 2024 violations, which is why the F-BIIG is involved.”
“They had weapons, clearly this is some sort of threat, or should have been conceived as some sort of threat. The guy in my vat had a chain knife.”
“Yes, but he didn’t have a gun. He was the technician of the group, and his family’s lawyers are claiming that he was simply trying to take your NV Visor and you attacked him, drowning him. Now, patient client confidentiality means you can tell me exactly what happened.”
“And then what?”
“And then I know how to better defend you,” he says.
I straighten my hands over the front of my shirt. “Look, why is this an issue – why does it keep coming up? I’d been in a dive coma for eight years – eight friggin’ years, with all the physical debilitation that goes with it, even with the in-tank physical therapy. There’s a ton of literature on this; it’s well established, and it’s not unique to me. I was still strapped into the physio rack until this guy cut the straps and tried to dead lift me out of the tank. I was so weak that I couldn’t lift a hand to defend myself when this guy was holding my face under to drown me. So, if I couldn’t even defend myself, how in the holy hell am I supposed to have attacked these guys?
“He was holding my face under when he got zapped and fell face first in the tank goo. I was barely able to get my hand on the back of his neck to rest it there to keep his face under because I didn’t want him to wake up and try to drown me again. Bastard. I hope he was aware the whole time he was breathing in tank spooge, and I hope it was painful.”
“I see.” Solon rolls his pen through his fingers rather than writing something down. “For now, there is no video evidence of the attack, so they don’t have much. If they do come up with something, we’ll present your well-documented physical disability, the fact that you were strapped in the rack until he cut you loose, and your literal inability to move as a counter to the premise that you attacked first, and we should have no problem with proving lawful self-defense if it ever even goes that far. As your lawyer, I need to advise you to be very careful of who you tell what you’ve just told me. Don’t talk to any agents and don’t send messages over iNet that could in any way incriminate you.”
The Feedback Loop (3-Book Box Set): (Scifi LitRPG Series) Page 39