Reapers and Repercussions: (Book Four) (Sci-Fi LitRPG Series) (The Feedback Loop 4)

by Reapers

  I palm the tiny golden gear. Nothing happens. No Steam Enforcer, nada.

  “Um … ” I lift it into the air – ditto.

  The Saiduka Giant charges.

  Rocket: Run away! Run away!

  No time to think, I stumble backwards, trip and go right on my ass. I grip the gear tightly as I right myself. “Come on you little bastard!” I say as I squeeze the gear for all I’m worth. The giant reaches me in two tremendous steps; I rely on my AA bar to slow time, avoiding his first swipe at the ground.

  “Damn you, Steampunk!” I say as I toss the stupid golden gear over my shoulder.

  Anger and cursing seems to do the trick.

  It hits the ground and quickly morphs into a big-ass, first quality Steam Enforcer. The crowd gasps and goes quiet. The enforcer is bent forward on its knees; the back of the skull clamshells open and a puff of steam shoots out of an exhaust pipe at the back of its neck.

  Sophia: What the hell is that thing?

  Rocket: I thought you went through all the notes?

  Sophia: I didn’t see anything about a gear turning into a giant robot!

  Rocket: Then you didn’t go through all the notes!

  I expend more of my AA, and like a cucaracha when the lights come on, I scoot over to the enormous, steam-powered robot. I’m in the operator’s seat in two skips and a bounce. The access hatch slams closed and I pull down on the brass joysticks and settle my tootsies on the pedals.

  The Steam Enforcer comes alive around me.

  “This is going to be fun.”

  Rocket: This is going to be badass!

  Time undilates and I spin up the Gatling gun and drop the three targeting reticles into my line of sight. Mr. Big and I are about equal height now – actually, I’m taller than he is – which makes me think that my Steam Enforcer has been scaled to size. As I recall, Enforcers in Steam were big enough to wade through five and six-story buildings. Methinks in-game parameters are in effect, c’est la vie.

  I stomp the pedals and the Enforcer leaps into the air. Super-size Jesus Tralfaz centers in the optics and I thumb the firing button. Out-going hate rains down upon the playing field and blasts gouts of soil into the air. The giant activates his own AA bar and gooses it to the other side of the stadium as he runs, jumps, jitters and rolls.

  Steam powered rockets on the undersides of my feet propel me towards the giant. He hurls one of his scimitars and I dive left, narrowly avoiding the blade. I pull my mechanical fist back and he leaps to meet me.

  Our fists slam together like the irresistible force and the immovable object; we freeze in mid-air as we go knuckle to knuckle and strain for the advantage.

  Neither of us wins that bout; we both fly backwards and he’s the quickest to recover – he hacks and his scimitar sails right into my Enforcer’s midsection. A cloud of steam spews out, momentarily distorting my view.

  Red lights clamor for attention and a tremendously annoying damage alarm sounds off in the cabin. I glance to my life bar – nothing taken there – but I really need this bad boy to get me through this fight. In retrospect, I probably should have gone for the Reason Railgun or the BFG 9000, but there’s no time to make the switch now – and the Steam Enforcer does have such a high cool factor.

  I use the Gatling gun like a firehose to try to get a piece of him, but he moves in close, swats the gun out of the way and clenches the Enforcer in an extra super huge sized bear hug. His eyes bulge, his face goes red and veins stand out in his forehead as the Enforcer creaks and groans in his embrace. I slam all ten little piggies on the pedals and we blast off like an Angara with a cargo module full of Stolichnaya bound for the Orbital Weapons Platform the Russian Federation swears it doesn’t have.

  The sole mounted steam jets kick in; we arc into the stands, and I half-roll us so he’s underneath as we reenact the giant and robot version of Levegh at Lemans 1955. The sports enthusiasts that aren’t doing the insanely counterproductive scream and freeze in place thing scramble to get clear of ground zero.

  The smash-landing rings my bell, and I take a second or two to shake it off and get back in the game. My giant opponent gets it even worse – all ninety-two gazillion steam-tons of pantagruelean faux-Victorian robot land squarely on top of him.

  Rocket: Hokey smokes! That’s gonna leave a mark in the morning!

  Sophia: What are you doing? I told you to not antagonize the spectators!

  The giant and I struggle for a moment; the Enforcer’s operator’s station is awash in a sea of red and yellow warning lights and the frickin’ damage alarms have multiplied and become more strident and insistent. However, it ain’t all beer and skittles for Mr. Ginormica either; his life bar is down by 50%, and his corporate sponsor jockstrap does not stand up well against a steam-powered brass-and-iron knee.

  I hit the steam jets and blast out of there – well, the bottom half of the Enforcer does. The top half with yours truly still in the driver’s seat rips free and goes face-first back into the stands, no doubt antagonizing the fans even further. The giant laughs a mighty laugh, points with a mighty finger, and lands a WWE-style pile driver on the back of the Enforcer’s head.

  CATASTROPHIC STRUCTURAL FAILURE flashes across my vision pane as the egress hatch warps in its frame and steam billows around me from everywhere.

  Time for Mrs. Hughes’ little boy to blow this pop stand. I reach hands above my head, grab the black-and-yellow striped pull ring and PULL! The egress hatch blows free and the seat slams against my ass as the ejection system sails me clear on a plume of steam.

  I scroll to item 143, my Spider-Gwen web shooters, item 348, my turkey baster filled with Chernobyl Reactor Melt and finally, item 511, my vintage Amelia Earhart parachute.

  The harness unhooks, the chair goes on its way, and Gogmagog swats at me as I sail through the air. I use the Spidey-Gwen attachment to anchor right between his eyes and swing around to the side of his head, kicking my legs. I’ve got the turkey baster extended like a fencing foil, and momentum carries me baster-first, right into his ear canal.

  I go in up to the elbow, and mash the bulb as hard as I can. Release the web, let go of the turkey baster, execute a stylish one-and-a-half gainer off his shoulder. The chute deploys and inflates.

  Fluorescent green smoke blasts out of his nose, his eyes pop out of his head in the finest Tex Avery tradition, and a blast of flatus that’s more liquid than gaseous announces his demise – and really, really antagonizes the surviving spectators in the immediate downwind area.

  I land, execute a picture-perfect parachute landing fall, and release the canopy just in time to watch Goliath pixelate into Proxima dust.

  Rocket: That was insane – absolutely insane!

  Chapter Twenty

  No time for a celebration.

  I spawn at the entrance to a hallway that recedes out of sight into the distance. Doric columns extend to a ceiling that is dimly lit by a series of chandeliers, and between each of the columns is an immense statue of a hero or titan or demi-god or dogcatcher or something. There’s pixelated nothingness behind me, so I start hoofing it forward.

  “Care to tell me where I am?”

  My voice is swallowed up in the distance.

  Rocket: You’re in … wait a sec … well … I don’t know! In-game GPS says you are in an unknown area over the Endless Sea.

  Sophia: You are likely in King Coromon’s inner chambers. While the castle grounds are here in Waringtla, they probably place the actual location away from the masses.

  Veenure: This is pretty common for Tritanian royalty. Oh, Zedic is fine, btw, or at least as fine as someone trapped in the OMIB could be.

  Rocket: Where are you now?

  Veenure: The Guild.

  A green, backlit arrow appears on the red carpet.

  “Someone’s got a real sense of humor in here,” I mumble, following the arrow. I continue for what feels like thirty minutes. No new scenery, no nothing. Just the same statues; the same Stargate meets Labyrinth otherworldli
ness. Déjà vu strikes and I look up at the ceiling.

  Me: Hey, how do I know I’m not going around in circles?

  Rocket: Can’t help you there, partner. I’m a bit distracted at the moment.

  “What do you mean?” I stop in front of one of the statues and give a quick looksee to see if there isn’t something worth pillaging. There isn’t, so I move on.

  Rocket: Frances is …

  Sophia: Frances is visiting the grocery store.

  Veenure: Why are we talking about Frances visiting the grocery store?

  Rocket: Because she’s always hungry – always.

  Sophia: She’s a body-shaming victim in real life, Veenure, trust me. She looks like my grandma’s French bulldog, same googly eyes too.

  Me: Damn, Old Euphoria is going to be pissed if she ever reads this transcript.

  Rocket: ¯_(ツ)_/¯

  Veenure: Lol. Don’t let her see it!

  The statue on my right stands, his sudden movement sending a jolt down my spine. He’s gold, or bronze more likely, and he’s decked out in armor that looks almost like football pads. Hanging from the sheath on his belt is a whopper of a sword, easily as long as I am tall.

  “Whoa, big guy,” I lean away and put one hand up, palm out. Not taking any chances – my other hand is behind my back ready to access my list.

  “Do you wish to challenge me?” the giant statue booms.

  “Jeez! Not if I don’t have to.”

  “Then what do you wish?”

  Me: Little help? Is this a trick question?

  Rocket: I have no idea.

  The giant statue yawns.

  “Are you King Coromon?”

  “Do I look like King Coromon? He taps his thumb on his chest.

  “No, you look more like the Sugar Plum Fairies’ hairdresser’s poofy girlfriend.”

  Big and bronzy snorts and laughs. “Nice one. No, I’m Statue Number 302.”

  “So, 302, is this some Moebius Strip Klein Bottle never-ending whatchamacallit or what?”

  “No, it’s just a really, really, really long entranceway. You’ve got to really, really, really want to get in to see the King. He values persistence.”

  “Well, as fascinating as I find His Imperial Majesty’s never-ending statuary, charming though I find your company and scintillating as I find this conversation, could you maybe hook a brother up and help me get there sometime while the sun still burns hot in space?”

  “Why soitenly,” he grins. “You’ve had the ability all along. Simply click your heels together three times and say there’s no place like home!”

  I do so.

  Nothing happens.

  My big bronze buddy roars with laughter and slaps his knees. “Oh, that was GREAT! That was the best! I can’t believe you actually did it!”

  Item 100, the BFG 9000 appears in my hands and it powers up with an ominous hum.

  “No need for that – I was just having a bit o’ fun.” He wipes a tear from his cheek. “Let’s go.”

  The world spins, dissolves, reformulates, and I’m suddenly in a throne room, standing before a person of restricted growth who’s seated on a massively disproportionate throne fifteen times his size, at least. He’s a just little bastard, with a gnarly braided soul patch tucked under his bottom lip and stylized Thulean tattoos along his jawline. People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals Only would have a collective fecal hemorrhage and organize multi-kingdom Fuzzy Lives Matter protest marches and looting fests if they got a gander at the number of furs His Highness is bedecked with. They cascade over and around him like a furry tsunami; the various taxidermied heads are haphazardly draped everywhere and their beady glass eyes all seem to be looking directly at me. He casts his icy blue gaze over me, grimaces in disdain and curls his lip.

  “You should have said you were in a hurry,” King Coromon says in a nasally voice.

  “Would that have made a difference?”

  “Not really.”

  ~*~

  “Someone has a secret,” I remark. King Coromon doesn’t quite put the Bilbo in Baggins, but he’d definitely have a supporting role in the recent off Broadway rap-musical, Lin-Manuel Miranda’s Straight outta da Shire.

  “Are you referring to my diminished stature?”

  “No, I’m referring to your diminished taste in footgear.”

  He looks over the tops of his feet, which don’t even reach the edge of the seat, and waggles them at me.

  “I thought the DisNikes lend the furs a certain stylish je ne sais quois. And they’re comfortable. Elegant too.” He turns his ankles so that I can better admire his zombie-green and princess-pink stompers, which bear the DisNike TinkerSwoosh with Ayre Joradyn stitched on the side.

  “Cape of Chukkis?” I ask.

  “Huh? No, Ebaymazon. They deliver here too.”

  “I just figured it would be a good place for a sweatshop. There’s more trolls there than the internet circa 2016.”

  “Your attempts at humor suck,” says His Not-Especially-Highness.

  “Not unlike your kicks.”

  “You do know who I am, don’t you?”

  I put my hands in the air. “Yeah, yeah, I get it, Your Royal Majesticnesshood. I’ve been through this before so I’ll keep it copacetic.”

  “Copacetic?” He runs his fingers through one of his many furs. “There’s a word I haven’t heard in this lifetime.”

  Rocket: ??? I think we have a Ray Steampunk theme here – another developer who died and immortalized themselves in the game.

  Me: That’s a pretty good hunch, Peanut Gallery.

  Veenure: Ray Steampunk? The Ray Steampunk?

  Sophia: It’s a long story.

  “So you were once alive?”

  King Coromon nods. “I was.”

  “So what did you do out there? Let me guess … ”

  “I was a Proxima Developer,” he says.

  “Bingo! Just like another less-than-alive buddy of mine.”

  “Who might that be?”

  “Ray Steampunk. Know him?”

  King Coromon rolls his eyes. “Oh, Ray, we had a thing.”

  Sophia: There’s only one person Ray Steampunk ever had a lasting relationship with – Taz Horne! This is a real development!

  Veenure: The king is Taz Horne? What are the odds? @_@

  Me: How do you two know this?

  Sophia: I followed the Proxima Developer group pretty closely, still do. It’s kind of an obsession of mine.

  Veenure: Same.

  Sophia: It’s a limited audience.

  I smile at King Coromon. “Sorry, voices in my head. Say, you aren’t the developer formerly known as Taz Horne, are you?”

  “I used to be, yes.” If the king is impressed by the fact I know who he was, he conceals it well.

  Sophia: She was hit by an aeros lowering to the street.

  Rocket: It sounds more like she was crushed.

  Veenure: And now she is a male Halfling! What an interesting life.

  “Yeah, I’ve heard of you,” I tell her, as I lie through my teeth. “You were pancaked by an aeros.”

  “Really? Pancaked? Out of all the ways you could have put it, you chose that as your first, best choice?”

  “Sorry, I like pancakes, a lot, and I try to use them as reference points as often as I can, which isn’t often.” I give him my sincerest shit-eating grin. “So you immortalized yourself by becoming a king of giants while in the form of a–?”

  “Halfling, but this isn’t my choice.”

  “I was going to go with Hobbit, but then again, fantasy isn’t really my cup of tea.”

  King Coromon sighs. “Any more unsolicited and unflattering personal observations and lame-ass antimerias, or can we expedite this just a mite?”

  About twenty questions come to mind, but I save ‘em for later. “Alrighty, let’s start here: why do you hate griffins?”

  King Coromon reaches for the glass of wine that sits on his throne’s oversized armrest. He swirls the
wine in the glass several times, sticks his nose in and inhales deeply. He swirls it some more, holds it up to the light, takes a delicate sip, and does the same hold it in his mouth and bubble air through it that used to get me in trouble with my mother when I’d do it with my Dr. Pepper at the dinner table. Again, he swirls, sniffs, and them slams the wine down his gullet like he’s doing tequila shooters.

  The glass magically refills as soon as he sets back down.

  “Empress Thun is an obnoxious, pretentious NPC with a stick up her ass. Let’s start there. And I don’t hate griffins per se, Stewie, I hate her; she’s the big griffin fan. If she liked hummers, Cheezi-Poofs, and cold beer I’d hate those too.”

  Sophia: !!!

  “Now that I can relate to,” I mumble.

  He wipes his lips with one of his furs and the head snaps at him. “And she never attends my tournament.”

  “Last I checked, you weren’t at the tournament either.”

  “Yeah, well – she don’t go, I don’t go.”

  “You mean it has nothing to do with … um … your current physical stature?”

  “There’s that too,” he admits. “I have more power than anyone on Polynya, but I can’t remove this confounded curse.”

  “Why don’t you just do some of that oogly-boogly magic stuff that’s so big around here? Wait, aren’t you practically an NVA Seed now? Can’t you just make yourself a giant? Can’t you use some type of algospell?”

  The king closes one eye and considers me. “You certainly talk the talk. I am surprised that an aggravating, disrespectful, self-important, rule-breaking, jumped-up little jerk-face like you knows the proper terminology. Yes, I can use all the magic there is and do anything I want with it, but only on others and not on me – the curse, don’t cha know. Only the Sage of Gotha – the NVA Seed – can lift it, and he isn’t exactly easy to find.”

  Sophia: That’s not true! The Sage lives somewhere in the Imperial Forest of Athos.

  King Coromon spares me the show-offy winetasting rigmarole and throws back another glass of wine, which again refills instantly.

  “A little birdie tells me you can find the Sage in the Imperial Forest of Athos, whatever that is.”