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

by Harmon Cooper

  “Where’s Rocket?” I ask in my I-just-woke-up-stupor.

  “Helping Zedic.”

  “You feeling OK, Frances?”

  “I’m fine. They mostly kept me for observation. The hospital doesn’t get many Proxima attack cases.”

  “Can’t we report it?” I ask as she removes my NV Visor. Blinding light; swirling kaleidoscopic lightning flashes pink beneath my eyelids; I wet my lips and adjust.

  “It’ll go in the file,” she says. “We have to build a strong case, otherwise we’ll lose.”

  “You were attacked by the head of the Revenue Corporation, the head of the Reapers,” I remind her. “That must be worth something.”

  “Alledgedly attacked.”

  “Doesn’t Rocket have a video? He sure takes plenty of screenshots of Dolly.”

  “Those are for research purposes,” shouts our in-game monitor.

  “Right … well doesn’t he?”

  “That video shows a Proxima World battle. These aren’t recognized in our current legal system.”

  “What about … ” I recall what the snake-babe said. “What about the anti-cyberbullying laws? Couldn’t Strata be considered a cyberbully?”

  “That would be a hard case to argue, especially since he hasn’t communicated with us in any way, shape or form.”

  My eyes fall onto Frances and my vision blurs into focus. I half-expect to see the red hair she wears in Proxima dreamworlds. With my hand free I rub my temples, eliminating the thought. Real world Frances is equally stunning, sleek and slim in her own future-chiseled way.

  My stomach produces borborygmic grumbles.

  “Wow, someone is hungry,” she says, laughing.

  “Playing around in VE worlds is hard work,” I tell her. A couple more blinks and I notice an iNet message. Instinct sends my finger to the digital version of Pandora’s Box.

  FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes, I hope you are doing well. Our records indicate that you consumed 411.2 calories for breakfast. Congratulations on your moderated intake, Mr. Hughes. You’ve been awarded one hundred calorie points, which you’ll be able to use at your own discretion.

  Me: Calorie points?

  “What’s wrong?” Frances asks as soon as she notices the grimace on my face.

  “I’m dealing with some FDA twats.”

  She stifles a laugh.

  FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. Once you reach a thousand calorie points, you are allowed something on your cheat list.

  Me: My cheat list?

  FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. We can populate your cheat list now. It should consist of things you like to eat, but shouldn’t eat regularly. Might I make a suggestion? Pancakes or burritos would be a perfect addition to your cheat list. As would quesadillas and In-N-Out in the Box’s Spam, Egg, Spam, Spam, Bacon and Spam breakfast croissant.

  Me: Listen, I’m not following your orders about what I eat. It’s my body, dammit. Now leave me alone.

  FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. I understand your issues with compliance. While you may not be concerned with your health, your friends at the FCG are.

  Me: I work for the FCG you halfwit!

  FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. I’m aware that you are part of the Dream Recovery Extraction and Management Team. There is no need for you to take that tone with me. I’d prefer not to send your case to our escalation team for arbitration and intervention. Further, there is the issue of your recent hint at suicide. I’ve reported the case to our suicide monitor, who cleared it as per your request. However, I must tell you, any other mentions of suicide will result in an automatic reversal of this decision.

  “Frances, is there any way to get this FDA Monitor off my ass?”

  Rocket says, “I can send you some hacks that will make it hard for them to harass you. Install everything I send you. It’ll put a filter on messages from federal entities. Further, you can designate a folder that will hold all the federal messages. You should also set up an AI auto-responder that agrees to everything they say. It’s easy.”

  “Yes, yes and yes.” I tell the lanky man, who is just finishing up on Zedic.

  “Anyone sleepy?” Zedic asks.

  “No, but I’m hungry. We really need to stock the place with something other than Frances’ Soylent Bars.”

  “They’re healthy and they provide all the nutrients you need.”

  “Yeah, if you’re a cute fluffy bunny. Real food Frances, real food. For the love of all that is holy can we get some real food in the future?”

  She pinches my cheek. “You sure are grumpy today.”

  “I’m not a cat!” I say, twisting my head away from her.

  “Luckily for you, I brought Indian for lunch.”

  “Garlic naan?”

  “Extra garlic naan.”

  “That settles it.” I tap my hand on the side of the dive vat. “You are officially my savior.”

  “I forgot to mention that the naan is FDA approved zero calorie gluten-free no sodium naan.”

  I drop back into my vat, letting the sticky liquid cover my face. Frances laughs, helps me back up. “I’m just kidding, Quantum.”

  ~*~

  I don’t know the names of most Indian food aside from naan and butter chicken curry. Two years (okay, eight if we’re being honest) in The Loop pretty much took me out of the loop – pun intended – when it comes to foreign food labeling. I do know, however, that no matter how little Indian food I eat, my gastrointestinal tract will do nip-ups and somersaults for at least the next eight hours, and treat me to a whopping case of ring burn for longer than that. I had curry a few weeks back and I’ll likely have curry in the future; it is the price one must pay to enter taste bud nirvana.

  “Get more of the green stuff next time,” I tell Frances.

  “Palak paneer,” says Zedic as he spoons some red curry onto a sliver of naan.

  “My grandmother’s is better.” Somehow Rocket has ended up at the head of the table, his foot tapping against the ground. He has had a few bites of curry, but seems to be too hopped up on energy drinks, nuts or whatever it is the rail-thin kid eats.

  “Does she live in America?” I ask.

  “Yes, at one of the Shantiniketan estates.”

  “The what?” Zedic asks.

  “They are retirement communities exclusively for American Indians.”

  I clear my throat. “I think there’s another name for that.”

  “Not those Indians,” says Rocket, “my kind of Indian. The first estate was in Florida. The company that runs the communities recreates India on American soil. If you went to the place, you’d totally think you were in India. The buildings look the same, there’s a temple, prayer service. One place even has aeros rickshaws to get around! They don’t live at that one.”

  “Sounds interesting,” I say as I use a piece of naan to mop up some curry that pretty much resembles the same consistency it’ll be on the way out. Bits of garlic are plastered to its surface, glazed with enough ghee to give the spirit of Paula Deen’s myocardial infarction a myocardial infarction.

  Me: What are we doing tonight?

  Frances Euphoria: Wow! You’re an eager beaver.

  Me: Hey, that’s my saying.

  Frances Euphoria: I was going to take you back to your hotel.

  Me: Well, the sun’s over the yardarm somewhere. Let’s have a drink at the hotel bar. I’d love to catch up.

  Frances Euphoria: I just got out of the hospital yesterday!

  Rocket and Zedic discuss Tritania and the size of the world. I tune them out to focus on my conversation with Frances.

  Me: You are a tough old cookie. I’m sure you’ll be fine.

  Frances Euphoria: You think I’m old?

  Me: It’s an expression. Of course you aren’t old. I’m the old guy here, the cripple with the cane.

  Frances Euphoria: That was an expensive cane. I hope you never have to use it.

  Me: I may use it to cut some fruit later. Let’s hang out at
the hotel.

  Frances Euphoria: Okay :-D

  A message from FDA Monitor 1351885 flashes in my inbox telling me that I’ve exceeded my daily calorie intake.

  “Rocket, will you send me any and all hacks you have to keep the food Nazis off my ass?”

  “Sure, I told you I would.”

  “Now, if you don’t mind. I’m going to say something that’ll inevitably be flagged. If I’m not careful, I’ll wind up in Gitmo Jr. on suicide watch. The bastards.”

  “We work for those bastards,” Frances reminds me.

  “Not exactly. The FCG has more heads than it has sense. The heads may be connected to the same body, but they definitely aren’t thinking the same thoughts and they rarely look at one another.”

  “That metaphor falls a little short,” She says with a chuckle.

  “You get what I’m trying to say.”

  Rocket’s eyes slam shut and he bends his head forward, as if he’s about to go into a trance.

  “Ummmm … Ah, here it is!” His eyes pop open and he grins cheek to cheek.

  “Well?”

  “I’m loading it into a message now. Real easy for you, Q-bert.”

  “Quantum.”

  “Just click each link I send you and it’ll auto-install. The first will add a filter to your inbox that targets FCG messages, even if they’re masking their VPN. The second link will create a subfolder if you ever want to actually see what the FCG is sending you. The third will install auto-responder program that will go along with whatever they tell you. It will alert you if something crucial has come up.”

  “Crucial?”

  “Like your tax statement or something.”

  “I can’t block that too?”

  Zedic laughs. “You really are trying to end up in Gitmo Jr., aren’t you?”

  “They send people to Gitmo now for avoiding their taxes?”

  “It depends on how ‘white collar’ your tax crime is,” he explains.

  ~*~

  It doesn’t take long to reach my hotel.

  Frances parks her aeros in the sky-high visitor parking lot and follows me into the upstairs lobby, through an entryway lined with freshly manicured shrubs sitting in a large bed of fresh rose petals. A holoscreen tells us that the rose petals were flown in that morning from a family-run farm in the Andalusian Mountains of Peru (paid for by a grant from the FCG as part of a recent Keep Our Visitors Spending Campaign). With so much outsourcing, America has had to find a new way to keep ahead of Russia when it comes to GDP superpowers – money from tourism has nearly surpassed the export of organic chemicals.

  A female Humandroid concierge greets us and I give her the point and nod as I lead Frances into Jack Rabbit Slim’s – one of the hotel’s many bars.

  “I can’t stay too long,” Frances reminds me.

  “That’s what they all say. Come on, catch up with me for a few hours. You got a hot date or something?”

  She laughs, steps lightly in front of me as she makes her way to a table overlooking Baltimore. The naked city that an HBO show revealed over fifty years ago has cleaned up its act to the extent that it moved the troubled minority communities away from the city center, pushing them further away with each passing decade. With a hundred more years of gentrification, the Midwest will be the most dangerous part of America. I wouldn’t be surprised if the FCG fences it in by that time. We build a wall to keep us free – some graffiti I saw back in Cincinnati.

  “What’ll it be?” asks a Humandroid waitress. I was so busy staring out over the city that I haven’t even looked at the menu.

  “Beer me,” I say instinctively. “Whatever you have on tap that’s dark.”

  “We have HeineCoors Lime Straw-Ber-Rita and Sham Adams Dark Pumpkin Spice, both seasonal.”

  “It’s a bit early for pumpkin spice,” I say.

  “Pumpkin Spice season starts in the summer now.”

  “Got it. Two of those.”

  Frances says, “I can’t.”

  “You can’t what? Who said one of those was for you?”

  The waitress casts a curious look in my direction. Her eyes dilate as soon as she glances from Frances to me.

  “Can I help you?” I ask. Being scrutinized by a droid isn’t exactly my definition of a good time.

  “I’m required by law to tell you that you may have an episode of irritable bowel later today.”

  “You’re what?” I ask. Frances laughs at the look of shock on my face.

  “A joke, sir, although it does appear that you may be in for an epic tummy ache later on this evening.”

  “Do they have you programmed for jokes or something?”

  “Yes, part of my job is to keep the mood light through clever banter.”

  “These droids,” I say under my breath. “Well, that’s fine, we’re both laughing over here. Thank you very much.”

  “I’ll have a club soda,” Frances tells the bio-mechanical comedic genius standing before us.

  “Coming right up. Any Pepto Tums?” the waitress asks over her shoulder.

  “Just the beers, thank you.”

  ~*~

  Two feculent synth-pumpkin flavored beers in and I’m feeling a bit better. Nothing like being ribbed by a Humandroid to start the day’s gigglefest.

  “You still butthurt?”

  “I’ve heard a lot of stupid terms, but I’ve never heard that one.”

  “You know,” says Frances, “butthurt. It’s like when a dog has its feelings hurt and shows you its butt.”

  “I usually don’t hurt canine feelings. I’m more into felines.”

  “That was lame.”

  “Well, I’m two beers deep and you’re still nursing your first club soda. At least halfway catch up to me – drinking alone is one of the seven warning signs of alcoholism.”

  Frances waves the waitress over. The Humandroid approaches, her ponytail swaying behind her head. She takes one look at me and smiles. “I must tell you before you order another round that you’ve exceeded your hourly beer intake as set by the FDA.”

  “You’re kidding!” I nearly slam my fist against the table. “The Feds are telling us how much beer we can drink now!?”

  Frances laughs and the Humandroid joins her.

  “There isn’t a limit on the amount of alcohol we can drink in an hour,” Frances explains. “Half the people running the government are drunks – they wouldn’t put a law into effect that puts a damper on their binge drinking.”

  “You need to read a history book, Frances.” I turn to the droid. “Alrighty, you got me again.”

  “I like you,” she says, winking at me. “You’re funny.”

  Me: Is the droid waitress flirting with me?

  Frances Euphoria: It seems that way.

  “Vodka,” I tell the future of humanity’s destruction. “The best you’ve got. Two shots.”

  “Quantum ... ”

  “Just a little, Frances.”

  The Humandroid says, “We recently received a shipment from Ulaanbaatar.”

  “Where?”

  “Mongolia.”

  “That’s still a country?”

  The droid nods. “We have Soyombo Vodka, possibly the purest vodka in Central Asia. It is diamond filtered four times to assure its purity. Those who have tried it say that it’s as smooth as silk and goes down like clear spring water. Also, no hangover.”

  “Sold.”

  Frances sighs. “All right, all right, but only one shot.”

  ~*~

  Of course we have more than one shot. Of course the vodka doesn’t go down as smooth as silk, et cetera. Of course we get closer until we are snuggled up together. Of course Frances gets more touchy than normal. Of course I kiss her cheek a few times.

  Of course we end up back in my hotel room, lying on my bed in front of a long holoscreen.

  “Dammit,” Frances says, her head resting on my shoulder.

  “What?”

  “I told you I wouldn’t drink. We can’t do this
… shouldn’t … ”

  “Do what? I was going to watch The Maltese Falcon while you slept the alcohol off.” I kiss the top of her head, inhale a sugary pineapple and clementine scent.

  “Again? How many times have you seen that movie?” she tilts her face towards mine.

  “Good question.”

  Watching movies on repeat was part of my Loop-life. I could quote The Maltese Falcon and The Big Sleep in my sleep. The list goes on.

  “Why do we always end up here?” she asks.

  “In my hotel room?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, because this is where I live. Where else should we cuddle? The Dream Team offices?”

  Frances bites her lip, holds in a laugh. “Can you imagine Rocket’s face?”

  “What about Zedic’s face?”

  “He wouldn’t care one bit.”

  “Or the other one … Ummmm … sorry, bad with names. Asian lady in California.”

  “Sophia?” She smiles fondly. “She’s a trip. You’ll like her, for sure.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “Loud and bossy. Louder than you at least, smart too.”

  “Smarter than me?”

  Frances shrugs.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence. What are the criteria for becoming a Dream Team member anyway? I should know, shouldn’t I?”

  “Yes, you should,” she says.

  “Well, lay it on me. If someone asks, I’ll just repeat what you say.”

  “In my case, the fact I was stuck greatly helped move my application along. Zedic was pretty into some anime worlds – based on several classics including Attack on Titan, Log Horizon, Sword Art Online, Tokyo Ghoul – his application also got fast-tracked.”

  “Wow, you know more about anime than I would have thought.”

  She moves closer to me; warms herself against my chest. “I interviewed him.”

  “And Sophia?”

  “She has a PhD in Neuronal Physics.”

  “That’s a thing?”

  “Yes,” says Frances, “partly because she created the program at Stanford.”

  “Yikes. And Rocket?”

  “He was a well-known Proxima hacker at the age of thirteen. We kept an eye on him, hired him as soon as he was of age.”