Cyber Noir Redux: (Book Six) (The Feedback Loop 6)

by Harmon Cooper

  Luther smirks. “I remember you, you know, back before you got stuck in Cyber Noir. You were always doing that gawdawful wordplay and those pop-culture references that nobody ever gets. I definitely remember that.”

  “I can assure you that eleven out of ten gelotologists agree that I’m much funnier these days. And the important thing is that right people get my jokes.”

  Doc: Keep telling yourself that.

  Rocket: U B fun-E to me, Q-Pac.

  “Another thing I remember is how much you really cared about the Dream Team, even if your leadership was unorthodox, unconventional – and highly effective. I remember Dad complaining about that a lot, too. It bothered him a bunch that you were a better leader.” He considers my face for a moment. “And you don’t remember any of this, do you? Are you still suffering from coma-induced digital amnesia?”

  Me: He sure knows a lot about this stuff.

  Doc: I never said he was stupid; I only said he was Strata’s kid.

  Luther continues, “I should tell you, though – even though Dad complained about you a lot, he really cared about you. I definitely remember that, and he was all torn up when you got stuck in Cyber Noir. That’s why he started the Revenue Corporation.”

  “You think he could have chosen a less evil sounding name for his company,” I say under my breath.

  Luther nods. “You know, the name isn’t exactly what it seems. Dad went to high school in France. The word revenu in French means ‘returned’. It comes from the Latin stem ‘re’ and the verb ‘venire’, revenire, to come back. The Revenue Corporation is a company that helps people return. Regarding the spelling, and the fact that the French word revenu doesn’t have an ‘e’ on the end, the Old French word does, and this is acknowledged in the company logo with parenthesis around the ‘e’. Which also hints that the company’s services are for everyone. The name does not, in fact, have anything to do with money.”

  I treat the Godsick scion to the patented Quantum Hughes Hairy Eyeball with Cocked Eyebrow and Optional Disparaging Grimace. “I gotta hand it to you, kid, that was about the second biggest load of bullshit I’ve heard all week. I thought Evan my FDA monitor was a BS slingin’ sack o’ cyberwire, but you beat him like you’re the drunken step daddy and he’s red-headed step child riding a rented mule on Dysfunctional Family Friday.”

  Doc: I was gonna throw the Bullshit Card if you didn’t.

  Luther snickers to his posse, “I told you guys he was funny, like, old guy funny. Wordy too.”

  The Bigguns and Littluns don’t find me quite as humorous apparently, and a clank and rattle ripples through them as they shift their grip on their weapons. His overall clad Mini-Me – Humjob or Dumbo, whatever his name was – gives me a furrowed brow, narrowed eyes and über-pursed lips moue that would bleach rainbows and induce miscarriages in unicorns. Sophia’s got nothing on this kid in the frowny-face department. Tough crowd.

  “Don’t mind him,” Luther explains. “Humboldt doesn’t have much of a sense humor.”

  “Don’t worry, we got one of those too.”

  Sophia rolls her eyes. I don’t actually see her do this, but I definitely feel it. Maybe I’ve become more clairvoyant as I approach middle age. Maybe I should be our group’s Mind Mage.

  Luther places his hands behind his back. “Do you all have some time? I’d like to invite you back to our village and go over what I’ve referred to as Plan B.”

  “What was Plan A?” Rocket asks.

  “There never was a Plan A; I like to start with Plan B because Plan A usually doesn’t work.”

  Rocket: But wouldn’t that make Plan B the new Plan A?

  Doc: Kid’s got a point – no plan survives contact with the enemy intact.

  Chapter Six

  The Lost Boys’ village is a DisNike-Ewok-Avatar-George-of-the-Jungle-Book collection of fantasy thatch and bamboo huts built forty or more feet above the ground, midway up the boles of a grove of colossal palm trees. They’re connected by a network of catwalks, scaffolding, rope bridges and ziplines, and in keeping with the latest FedCorp OSHA Proxima-safety guidelines, there are even prominently marked safety and anti-suicide nets.

  “Yup nub, eee chop, yub nub,” I quietly sing.

  “Coatee chah tu yub nub!” Doc sings along. “All we need are some fireworks and some Stormtrooper helmets to drum on.”

  Rocket fakes an uncertain laugh. “Um … yeah, that’s all we need. That’s the ticket!”

  Frances Euphoria: Before you guys get all involved in some time consuming orgy of drinking and feasting and waving your manly appendages at each other, how about you get Luther to logout so we can wrap this up? Imagine, the whole day ahead of us, free from distraction and the fact that we’ve been trying to nab this kid since Quantum got out of The Loop.

  The Loop. I know I shouldn’t, but curiosity will likely get the best of me yet again. I glance to Doc, ashamed, but he’s too busy checking our nine and three for any hostile activity to notice my face. No one knows, not Frances, Rocket, Sophia nor Aiden, who is hanging back on our six, just in case.

  Doc: We’re working on it, FE. Trust me. We just got to soften him up a bit, you know, turn on some of that good ol’ fashion southern charm. Too bad we can’t arrange for hookers and blow.

  Sophia: Ugh! Neanderthal thinking and the curse of the Y chromosome.

  She huffs and sighs and trudges along, radiating waves of disgruntled unhappiness at having to resort to such an undignified method of ambulation as her own bipedal locomotion.

  A heavy wind whips through the palms and brings with it a sudden shower. The fronds and huts above block a lot of the rain; still, some of it breaks through. From higher up in the canopy, a group of Littluns descend on zip lines to the level above us, where they pop open large Willy Gilligan signature model umbrellas made from dried fronds.

  “There, that’s better,” says Luther as he approaches a makeshift throne crudely cut into a tree stump. He plops down into the sylvan seat, and lifts his legs to the side so he can hang them over the armrest. “Please, sit.”

  Aiden glances around. “On the ground?”

  “If you try to sit, the invi-flora will rise to meet you.”

  Sophia: Invi-flora – the common or vulgar way of saying invisible flora, or magdakh boonukh in Thulean.

  Rocket: Sounds more like orc-speak for ‘I just sharted in my loincloth’!

  Sophia does a slow-motion side aerial, turns to Rocket and rolls her eyes mid-air, and comes down softly into an invisible chair.

  “No magic,” Luther reminds her. “It attracts things.”

  “Sorry,” she says, not at all convincingly.

  Rocket backflips into a seated position, which looks pretty badass, and to top him, Aiden does his ‘loading by dial-up’ trick, where he appears one line of pixels at a time until he’s seated, one leg crossed over the other. Doc eases himself into his seat and just to test the waters, or more appropriately, the fauna, he kicks his hooves up to see if an invisible ottoman appears and much to his delight, it does. Just to look like the fearless leader and master of all that I survey, I lift my knee and place my foot on the invi-flora chair, so that I’m standing on one leg.

  Doc is the first to speak. “Luther, we’re here to help you, our initial misunderstanding notwithstanding. You’ve been stuck here for several years, and we had to jump through some major, major hoops to find you and obtain your logout point. It’s been a rough couple of days, and if it’s all the same to you can we just wrap this up?”

  One of the umbrella boys above us snickers. I shoot him a look that’s full of slow painful death and unmarked graves and he shuts off in mid-snicker.

  “This island is magical,” Luther says, “did you know this?”

  Never one to miss an opportunity to whip out her massive, throbbing intellect, Sophia jumps right in. “I thought the island was a myth; that’s what all the scholars and mages in Valhalla think, anyway. It’s quite difficult to believe that it somehow keeps appear
ing and disappearing. You really can’t tell once you’re here though.”

  “I’m not talking about that; I’m talking about the magic gorge … ” He doesn’t finish his sentence; a tremendous cacophony of barks and howls, of shrieks, whistles, bangs and clanks drowns him out and makes me jump.

  “DOWN!” Doc yells – or at least I think that what he yells.

  He and Aiden are flat on the ground with shootin’ irons up and ready; Sophia, Rocket, and I freeze where we are like deer in the headlights as the Lost Boys make as much noise as they can – which is quite a surprising amount. The noise cuts off as suddenly as it began; Luther finishes, “ … ers.”

  My ears ring; I think maybe my nose is bleeding too.

  Sophia’s eyes go wide. “I totally get it now! That’s why you don’t want me using magic. Oh, what’s the word for magic gorge … ”

  The Lost Boys get right back at it; if anything, they’re louder this time, and my nose is definitely bleeding.

  Doc looks at Sophia and shakes his head. He’s still on the ground, has a fluorescent green headset clamped over his pointy faun ears, and has another smoky treat going. Aiden’s lying on his back, fingers in his ears, and some high-tech, futuristic-looking boomstick I don’t recognize slung diagonally across his chest.

  Again the noise cuts off. “ … ers.” says Sophia. “Nakkha Lukhna. That’s it, I think.” She looks to Luther for confirmation and approval.

  “I don’t know; couldn’t tell you. Why waste time learning Thulean when a live translating app is so much easier? Or even easier than that – just use the common tongue.”

  Sophia is hard-pressed to believe that he espouses such egregious, non-egalitarian linguistic blasphemy, and opens and closes her mouth several times before she responds with, “Translating apps cost money.” She crosses her arms over her chest and leans back in her invisible chair. “Besides, Thulean is supposed to be the common tongue, but commoners refuse to learn it!”

  The Godsick son and heir shrugs her off. “Speaking of money, Dr.Wang, this is one of the reasons I asked you all here to our village.”

  “We can talk finances later, Luther,” I say. “We really need to log you out and blow this popsicle stand. Who’s got the leaf?”

  Rocket looks from Sophia to Aiden and back to me. “Oh! I have it.” The Sage of Gotha’s magic leaf appears before him. “Okay Luther, all you have to do is touch this and you’re out. Oh, and we need your permission to look after your body in the real world. Um, Frances?”

  A scroll appears in front of Rocket.

  “Thanks!”

  Frances Euphoria: No problem! Make sure he signs the indemnity form as well.

  Luther takes a deep breath. “I hate to break it to the five of you, six if you count your in-game monitor, but as I mentioned earlier, I’m not stuck.”

  He twitches his finger and his logout screen takes shape.

  ~*~

  For a moment, all I can think of is equipping everything and doing my damnedest to vaporize this whole stinkin’ island, starting with Luther Godsick’s pale skinny ass, and for another moment, still, it seems like a perfectly reasonable response. The light island drizzle continues, only souring my mood even more.

  I breathe in, I breathe out, and I get a handle on it, despite being angry enough to shoot balefire out of my ass, fly around the village and burn the whole place down. I stand, look to Doc to get a read on how he’s reacting, pace a moment, and sit. “Sophia,” I finally say, “we need to get back to Athos. Pronto.”

  “What? Why?” she asks.

  “The Sage. I’m gonna murdalize him.”

  “Right behind you,” Doc grinds his fist into his palm, “making us solve that ridiculous riddle and for what? For what!? He had me frickin’ become a zombie just to satisfy some weird, whatever the hell he was up to!”

  “Wait a minute … you guys thought I couldn’t logout?” Luther genuinely looks amused. Humboldt, his Henchman 21, crouches down on one knee next to him and whispers something in his ear. “I can trust them,” Luther reminds him. He steadies his gaze on me. “At least I think they can.”

  “So you can logout then.” Doc claps his hands together. “Prove it,” he tells Luther. “I’ve got your RW body right now. I want you to logout, which will register on the skip box I’ve hooked to your NV Visor, and then you can log right back in for all I care. I need proof. You don’t need to stay logged out for more than ten seconds.”

  Luther bites his lip. “I … don’t want to.”

  “You what? Son, do you know how much bullshit we’ve been through just to hear that your happy little ass can log out whenever? You are logging out, and you are going to prove to me that it’s possible. We clear here?”

  “It’s not that simple, War Faun.”

  “That’s Mr. War Faun to you!” Doc gives me a quick wink to let me know he’s borrowed my line and is paying his just dues. He refocuses his unhappiness on Luther. “And I don’t have time for your angsty teen crap right now. Sign the release forms, logout to prove you can and then … wait … why would we even need a release if he can just logout any time?”

  Doc: A little help for the kid here, FE.

  Frances Euphoria: Wow! Never seen this one before – never even heard of it. I’m getting Solon on the phone.

  Rocket: When in doubt, lawyer up!

  Sophia: Solon should consult with one of my colleagues at MIT – Dr. Wuornos. She’s dealt with a similar situation before.

  Frances Euphoria: Right, I’ll pass the info along.

  Doc: I shouldn’t have to say this, but do not mention any names if you contact someone at MIT. Keep Luther’s name out of this.

  Frances Euphoria: Roger.

  Luther clears his throat. “Before you guys get all freaked out about this, just relax for a moment, and let me explain myself.”

  “Yeah, do that,” Doc grits, “and make it snappy.”

  “It’s not what you think, and I don’t know what deal you had with the Sage but my guess is he gave you my Tritania location.”

  “No, he didn’t just give us a damn thing willy nilly – we had to work for it, the logout point too,” I tell him, “which was a pain in the ass the size of Nebraska to get, by the way.” The thought hits me. “Come to think of it, Ray Steampunk had a hand in this too. He’s the one who sent us to this damned fantasy world in the first place! He just made my shit list too, and it’s filling up damn fast! Lemme see here.” I count off on my fingers for a moment. “Strata Godsick, the Sage of Gotha, Empress Thun, The FBIIGie Piggies, Uncle Stationery, Rollins, Veenure … who else? That pushy, anthophilitic humandroid at the flowershop a few weeks back, Nurse Ratched, anyone who doesn’t get my jokes – Doc, hold up some fingers!” He holds up one. “Nice, real helpful. Yo, Aiden – fingers!” He holds up two. I turn to Rocket only to see him equip one of those giant foam sports enthusiast hands. I press on. “Moving to my tootsies now: France’s landlord, clowns in general, the two guidos that kicked my ass outside the bar, Dr. Sophia Wang, AI Alexa from EBAYmazon, Ray Steampunk, cabdrivers everywhere … ”

  “Wait, did you say Ray Steampunk?” Luther asks. “He’s one of the co-developers of this world.”

  “We didn’t get this far without hearing it all, son,” Doc says. “Why the hell won’t you logout?”

  Luther thinks this over for a moment. The rain lets up and the Littluns above us zip back into the trees.

  “Your dad–” I glance to Doc, who is still steaming at the ears with frustration.

  “–That’s the same reason I’m here, because of him, to dodge him and his reach.”

  Doc looks utterly flabbergasted. “What the hell are you talking about!?”

  “Just hear me out: I saw what my dad did to the first Reapers. They were originally after you, Quantum, that’s why he hired them. It had nothing to do with me. I was, well for lack of a better term, ‘alive and well’ in the real world. They were after you. When they failed to find you … ” Luther takes a deep b
reath and looks to the boy named Humboldt. Humboldt nods. “He killed them in our house by overloading the visors, the same thing that the Reaper weapons do now. My dad killed all the people that he hired to find you! He’d been working on this for some time, and this was his first chance to actually field-test it. He did this from inside the game, the first time it’d ever been done, and he killed all of those guys – all of them.”

  “So Strata invented the tech?” I ask.

  “No.” Doc says, and leaves it at that, despite my inquisitive look.

  “I know he killed them; he doesn’t know I know because I was using the inviso-flage, which I developed. I saw him zap them, and I logged out before he did so I could check on them and maybe help them. Their tank alarms were going off like crazy, and their readouts were flat-lined, and … and he disconnected their Spider Docs!”

  “Invisio-flage. Is that what your ambush squad used?” I ask. “But I could see them with my Reaper mask.”

  “The mask you’ve got is about four or five versions more recent than the one he initially started out with. Anyway, I’d stealth up in the inviso-flage and tail him. At first it was just to see where he’d go and what he’d do – y’know, just follow my dad around while he was searching for you. Some of the stuff he’d do to the NPCs, and sometimes even the PCs made me uncomfortable, but I thought he was just really, really intent on finding you. Then he started killing people, real people in the real world, so I ran, or more accurately better, I dove. I cut off all contact with him and dove to a world that I knew he’d never find me in.”

  “Why Tritania?” Sophia asks.

  “I love this place – it was my favorite place to dive.”

  “And he didn’t know that?”

  “How would he? He’s never really been all that interested in me or the things I do, but I learned everything I could about everything he did, and not to brag, I can do anything he can do – anything – when it comes to bending the rules in the Proxima Galaxy. I mean really, I was OMIB-porting when I was like six or seven.”