by Reapers
She can clean up every mess, Better stay clear of Busty’s fists.
Veenure rejoins us with a smug smile plastered across her mug.
“Well?” I ask. “What’s the word, mockingbird?”
“Hah! The word on the street is that Empress Thun’s informant has been captured.”
“That’s what you were talking about?” asks Sophia.
“No. We were exchanging recipes for Quantum-flavored flatbread. Of course that’s what we were talking about – what did you think?” She shrugs. “Giants aren’t too bad, especially if you embiggen them about their size – read that on a forum somewhere. Anyway, they asked which city we came from; I lied and told them we were from Naklin, in the North.”
“What did they tell you about Empress Thun’s informant?” Frances asks Veenure.
“Her man on the inside was captured a few hours ago and they’ll have the trial, sentencing, and execution at midnight. I’m pretty sure this is the guy she wanted us to meet.”
Aiden cocks an eyebrow. “Midnight trial? Sounds like frontier justice.”
“So are we supposed to save him or something?” I ask.
“No way,” Veenure says, “that would be suicide.”
“We can’t commit suicide,” I remind her.
“Well, if you want to spend the next few days respawning over and over again after being squashed by giants, then yes, we can try to rescue the informant. Or … ”
“ … or we can figure out another way,” Frances concludes.
“Exactly.”
“And I think I know exactly how we’ll be able to do it!”
“How’s that?” asks Sophia.
Frances gestures her impatience. “Didn’t you guys hear those two giant rum-dums rambling about a tournament earlier? Whoever wins gets to meet King Whatzizname.”
“King Coromon,” Sophia supplies.
“So we enter the tournament and win,” I say. “Easy peasy lemon squeezy.”
Veenure laughs incredulously. “Says the man who was just stomped by a giant.”
“What? Just because I was the squashee in my first encounter with a giant doesn’t necessarily mean I won’t be the squasher in the next. Have a little confidence in me, why don’t ya?”
“We enter the tournament,” Aiden says, “and we win. There’s no other way around it.”
I nod. “We meet the king and from there, all it’ll take is a little sweet talking to convince the king not to attack during the Griffin Festival.”
“Rocket, are there any other tournament prizes aside from meeting the king?” Frances asks the sky.
Rocket: King Coromon will grant one wish to the winner.
“We get one wish,” Frances relays to Aiden and Veenure. “We can ask him to call off the attack.”
“Perfect!” Veenure says. “We’ll get the experience we need to travel to the next continent, and we’ll gain the queen’s favor when we have the attack on the Griffin Festival called off.”
“It’s never that simple.” Sophia shakes her head, “but it’s better than some doomed-to-failure prison break scheme that will get us criminalized and classified as brigands.”
“Plus we get to kick some giant ass,” I remind everyone, “and do a little grandstanding in the process. It’s win-win all around!”
“Great, let’s do it then,” says Veenure. “But for realsies, I need to log out ASAP. I’m supposed to be babysitting my little brother right now!”
Aiden’s form shimmers out and then shimmers back in. “There’s an inn just a few blocks from here. Follow me.”
{}{}{}Two Days Later{}{}{}
Chapter Thirteen
Micro-managing the details of what’s happening in Tritania is something I have tried to avoid over last two days. Sure, I spawned in the giants’ city of Waringtla several times to check on things and cause a little ruckus (got into another fight with another giant – if you can call getting my ass stomped flat twice a fight; did a little gum-shoeing side quest in which I helped a babe of Bunyanesque proportions obtain evidence that her hubby was banging her sister, her best friend, her sister’s best friend and her best friend’s sister – in that order; got challenged to a naked backwards joust which I seriously considered but did regretfully decline; ended up in the booby hatch once; and caught no end of real-life and in-game static from the Dream Team’s Big Brain and self-appointed Quantum Monitor), but I’ve also been spending time with Zedic in the OMIP. The poor guy is trying not to flash the woe-is-me mug at all hours, but that only goes so far when you’re trapped in a black void with the Milky Way in the background. Beautiful? Maybe, but I’m thinking that the charm wears thin pretty quickly. Needless to say, I feel for him.
Then there’s Frances. There’s absolutely no place for any alone time, and I don’t think it’s a particularly good idea to advertise what Frances and I are up to, at least not yet.
Doc’s service goat has grown on me. She’s smart, she’s calm, she’s friendly and she’s a good clean girl. Whenever she needs to stop for goat walkies, she lets Doc or Arnie know, and if we can’t stop she’ll use the goat-sized litter box. Sophia complained to Doc like a dainty little girly-girl princess, with much ostentatious nose-holding and ew-ew-ewage the first time she saw it happen.
Doc gestured to the seat across from him at the kitchenette table.
“Let’s get something straight, Dr. Wang. Sally lives here; you’re a guest. I like her considerably more than I like just about everybody else, except maybe Arnie and Mrs. Doc, and Mrs. Doc’s Arnette. So, if any aspect of our travelling arrangements fail to meet your exacting standards, I’ll be happy to have Arnie stop and let you off.”
“But,” she spluttered, “but, we’re in the middle of nowhere!”
“Yeah, there is that. Anything you’d like to add? No? Excellent!”
Sophia has had to content herself with giving Sally the evil eye. For her part, Sally will gently nudge Sophia to get her attention, smile a goaty little smile, and then go lie down in the litter box. I don’t know what’s funnier – watching Sophia pretend that she doesn’t know the goat’s mocking her, or the fact that she’s being mocked by a goat.
All in all – it’s good to be Quantum Hughes.
“We’re here!” Doc announces, even though we’ve all known that we were getting close for the last few hours. There’s nothing one can’t know with iNet; the updates are constant. Seeing him steer into Denver takes yet another load off my back. The Mile High City, nestled in the Rockies, high as its constituents. Me? I don’t partake in the wacky Iraqi tobaccy. No inhale, exhale for me when there’s beer and other examples of the distiller’s art to be had.
“We heading to Boulder tonight?” I ask.
“Hardly,” says Sophia, “the operation to retrieve Luther Godsick will mostly be done from Denver. I thought we went over this a dozen times.”
I can’t open my trap without the frizzy-haired harridan jumping on my case or correcting me or telling me stuff I already know. She’s lucky Frances has been around, keeping me tame in anticipation of pitching woo at the flophouse, otherwise I’d have stuck my foot in her ass and spun her around like a propeller by now – well, at least that’s what Loop Quantum would do.
Doc to the rescue, “The first part of the operation will be done from Denver. I already told you this. The fake Ebaymazon drone is in a box at our hotel.”
“We’re getting a hotel?” I ask, winking at Frances. She gives me the be a good boy look. “I hope it’s at least three stars.”
“Yes,” says Doc, “and no. The big thing is that they welcome service animals for a slight extra fee – can’t wait until they get a load of Sally – but this isn’t a fancy room service joint with foo-foo mints on the pillows. There is, however, an International House of Waffles breakfast buffet, the reviews are generally positive, and the beds are guaranteed vermin-free. Plus, there’s a Jacuzzi. Wait. Dammit, I just got a message telling me it’s down for decontamination this week. So no Jacuzz
i, which is a load of crap because that was the only thing that separated this love shack from the place next door. Where was I? Oh yeah, by the standards of the BestWiltonInn6 National Hotel Association of America, it’s three stars. Now that the Jacuzzi is down, I’d drop it to two and a half.”
“Still can’t complain there.”
“No you can’t,” he grins, “especially tomorrow morning when you and I hit that breakfast buffet with all its waffley, bacony, syrupy, cholesterol-laden goodness. AND without the FDA monitor giving us hell.”
“Waffles with extra butter, sizzling bacon, sausage, hash browns, biscuits with red-eye gravy, a couple of eggs, cold beer and a cuppa Joe? Count me in, Doc.” My mind flashes to the Mondegreen Hotel, to my breakfast for two subjective years straight always served to me by Dolly. Just the thought of her constricts my throat. Haven’t thought about her as much lately – easier that way – and the talk of breakfast gets her dancing across my mind. What I wouldn’t give to see her again, to tell her how much I’ve missed her.
Sophia moans. “That’s at least three days’ worth of calories right there. Are you two serious?”
Doc lifts a cheek and releases a two-octave, ozone-depleting reply. Truly, the man is an artist. Sophia opens her mouth to make indignant noises; Doc ignores her and continues, “Let’s go over it again: Rocket and I will get to work on the first part of our operation. We’ll accidently fly the drone into Strata’s back-up generator at 0600 hours. The generator’s AI will call for repairs. Our repair drone will come and effect repairs, which will include a software update with a little something extra that will induce random faults in his electrical system. Strata will call for an actual repairman – enter Arnie, who gets us in the system, allowing us to control everything from Baltimore.”
“And this won’t trigger any alarms?”
Doc shakes his head as a classic blue Tesla Model 3 swerves in front of him. That’s something you don’t see in the skylanes above – classic cars. “Not the way Rocket and I have set it up. I got a program from a buddy that clones the system. It will be sort of like a remote desktop operation, but a bit more advanced than that. Of course, once we’re in we’ll need to move quickly. Still, it should give a few hours window.”
“So we’ll need to rescue Luther immediately?”
Doc nods, keeps his eyes on the road. Aeros pass above us, their shadows moving quickly over the front windows of the RV. I shoot Frances a look. I really don’t like the fact that she’s going into Strata’s place, but somebody’s got to.
Did you read the tournament notes that Rocket sent yet?” Sophia asks.
I clear my throat. “Of course I didn’t. It’s a tournament, how hard can it be?”
Again with the eye rolls. “Well, anyway, to update you: the tournament has a party battle element and an individual battle element.”
“No surprise there.”
“And there’s another thing you might like.”
“What’s that?”
“The individual melees aren’t turn based. They’re real-time. You’ll be representing the Knights in these battles. You have … ” she takes a deep breath. “ … much more experience than the rest of us when it comes to real-time fighting systems.”
“Damn skippy, it’s what I do best!”
“Another thing,” says Sophia, “which you would know if you had read Rocket’s message: the Reapers have also entered the tournament.”
“Just in time for our newest weapon,” I say. Sure, it took a lot of Riotous, but Dirty Dave finally finished a prototype of the Attla Spider Venom Hose Gun, new item 577. Approaching the six hundred mark never felt better.
“Hose ‘em good,” says Doc, “or better yet, hose them at the same time you blast them with your Golden Goose Hack, then I have their real world location and they can’t log back in for a week! You know what … ” Doc slows down, gets in line behind a series of vehicles exiting the highway. “If you give me about thirty minutes at the hotel, I should be able to do a little modding on the Goose Hack so you can simply connect the ASV nozzle to it. It’s on a backpack, right?”
“Yup.”
“You hear that, Sally?” Doc asks his goat, who’s comfortably ensconced on a custom-made Sleep Number goat cushion across from Sophia and Frances. She picks up her head, quietly says “M-a-a-a-ah”, looks at Sophia with her big, brown goat eyes, and smiles. Sophia breaks eye contact first.
Arnie chimes in from the small RV kitchen. “Day-um, that’s gonna be one helluva shootin’ arm! You’ll be blastin’ and slicin’ like Walker, Texas Ranger!”
“Who?” Frances, Sophia and I ask.
Doc sighs, “Definitely before all of your times. Definitely. I was born in 1989, so pardon me for actually having a grasp on history.”
Sophia looks pensive. “1989 … I’ve seen some of those period video game systems in museums!”
“Yeah, yeah,” says Doc, “I’m a geezer to Children of the Proxima Universe like yourselves. The Super Nintento, Sega Genesis, Sony Playstation – grew up with those. Sure, they aren’t Proxima Worlds – and yes, I was around for the start of VR way before it became dream-based. My point is: everything that once existed has merit, no matter how primitive it seems now. There will be a time when people look back at us and wonder how we ever lived with such primitive tech. That is, if we don’t manage to kill the planet first or precipitate some mass extinction event and leave it all to the humandroids or some other follow-on species; or some highly-transmissible, airborne, mutant rabies-zika-ebola virus gets loose in the general population – don’t get me started on that! You’d think the gubmint would be a bit more concerned about a global pandemic, but oh, no – it’s all about diversity and inclusiveness and acceptance and monitoring caloric intake or politically correct thought policing, or … or … maybe it’ll be climate change that gets us, but it’s been trying to since the inventor of the original Internet started barking about it in the 2000s and what did we do? Find another way. The place gets hotter – we build better air conditioners. Sea levels rising? We build further inland. The poles melting? New vacation destinations. You get my drift.”
“What, no zombies?” Sophia snarks and rolls her eyes at Frances.
Doc keeps one hand on the wheel, but puts the other arm over the back of his seat and turns to face her. “Why? You wanna join their ranks?”
Sophia opens her mouth, hesitates, and snaps it closed. Doc lets the vehicle travel like an unguided missile for another two seconds before he goes eyes front and both-hands the wheel again. Frances shakes her head and puts her face in her hands.
Me: What’s on your mind, Dollface?
Frances Euphoria: A bit tired. Being in the RV this long makes me feel claustrophobic.
Me: My thoughts exactly. As per the hotel – you gonna stop by for a visit or what? Whose palm to I have to grease to get a little one-on-one time with Ms. Euphoria?
Frances Euphoria: I’m thinking about it.
Me: Anything I can do to tip the scale in my favor?
Frances Euphoria: How about something romantic?
Me: Is it still romantic if you request it?
Frances Euphoria: I’ll pretend it is.
Me: You got it, sweetheart. Romantic is my middle name.
~*~
Three stars ain’t half-bad, but the flip side of that is that it ain’t half-good either. To be fair, it’s nicer than the Quantum Hughes Honeymoon Suite back at the Mondegreen, but it still looks like it’s been rode hard, put up wet, and then semi-thoroughly cleaned. It’s got that funky Eau de Hotel Bon Marche going on – a combination of ground-in rutting musk from days gone by, over-filled ashtrays, and industrial strength lemony-fresh toilet bowl cleaner; the obligatory magic mystery stain on the ceiling just adds to the charm.
But, the bed’s reasonably comfortable, the sheets are fresh, the pillows are moderately lump-free, and the Big F.E. should be along shortly for a bit of the ol’ fashioned woo-pitchage. Even though this is the only free nigh
t we’re likely to have for the foreseeable future, I really should take it easy and rest, what with the recent concussion and supposed PTSD all. But, I haven’t experienced blackouts, whiteouts, dizziness, nausea, vomiting, astral projection, temporal bi-location, erections lasting more than four hours, or any of the other bad things the doctor warned me about, so I guess it’s party on, Garth!
Don’t feel a whole lot of anything about giving Rollins the Inejiro Asanuma treatment. Maybe I’m supposed to feel all sad and blue and introspective, but nope, my sympathy meter hasn’t twitched since Monday. The pear-shaped little bastard tried to whack me from ambush and came out shooting. Tango Fox Bravo, he got skewered like a dumbass-kabob. I do get the shakes a little bit when I think about how close he came, and it’s going to be a long time – if ever – before I’ll plant myself dead-bang in front of a door, but otherwise, no nightmares, no problems, no regrets.
The seven o’clock knock on my hotel room door reminds me to mind my Ps and Qs.
I roll off the bed and plonk my tootsies on the floor. As soon as I stand, a line of fire shoots from the sole of my left foot right up through the top of my head. This shit’s been going on for a while, and it’d be nice to take a painkiller, but I’ve been avoiding my backup bottle for over a week now, and I particularly don’t want to get drowsy or induce the ol’ reptile dysfunction this particular evening.
Yeah, it’d be easy to slam a magic happy pill or two (or three) every time the pain jumps up and bites me in the ass, but mostly I just meet it head-on and stand and fight.
Until it hurts too much.
“I’m coming,” I tell Frances. I glance over to my combat cane, item number one in my real world inventory list. I don’t reach out for it; I’ll walk on my own, like a big boy, and it feels good to do so. I’m never going to be as flexible as I was before I was trapped in The Loop, but I’m getting my strength back and there are still good years ahead.
I stand off to the side when I open the door to find Frances Euphoria in a shimmery little black dress that’s tight where it needs to be and drapes most alluringly where it doesn’t. It reaches to just above her knees, and is set off by an alluring pair of black retro Keds canvas high-tops.