Apotheosis Boom (The Feedback Loop Book 8) Read online

  Apotheosis Boom

  The Feedback Loop Book Eight

  Harmon Cooper

  Copyright © 2018 by Harmon Cooper

  Copyright © 2018 Boycott Books

  Cover by Matias Andres Trabold Rehr

  Setting by Dan@covermint

  Edited by Andi Marlow @ http://andromedaediting.com/

  www.harmoncooper.com

  [email protected]

  Twitter: @_HarmonCooper

  All rights reserved. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Table of Contents

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Epilogue

  Back of the Book Content

  Chapter One

  Keep your cool, I remind myself as a message from EBAYmazon’s Alexa flashes on my iNet screen. Keep your cool, daddy-o.

  EBAYmazon Alexa: Hi, Mr. Hughes. I see that you have ordered buttermilk pancakes for a family of five, a six-pack of beer, a quart of maple syrup, Canadian bacon, and eggs that you specifically requested not be farm-to-table. Have you placed this order by mistake?

  Me: No, I have not placed it by my mistake. I have a lot of mouths to feed here, believe me, lady, things are tough in Baltimore. Ankle biters out the wazoo. And everyone at my table is staunchly against non-GMO foods.

  EBAYmazon Alexa: According to your recent purchase trends, you have been trying to place this order every morning for the last three days. Yet an authorized administrator of your account, Frances Euphoria, has restricted access to certain food products, including but not limited to breakfast foods that have high caloric values, and breakfast items proven to increase chances of heart disease. Further, you aren’t listed as having children. Is there a child you would like to add to your EBAYmazon account? Would you like to hear about more offerings for children, including month packages designed to enhance your child’s education?

  “Dammit, Frances,” I say under my breath.

  Somehow, I managed to weasel my way into her apartment.

  Sure, it’s better than staying with Dr. Sophia Gropes A Lot, but Frances’ couch leaves much to be desired. It ain’t quite cinder blocks in the Marcy Projects after a night of boozin’, cruisin’, and Riotous abusin’ followed by a KO sucker punch at Barfly’s, but it ain’t far off neither.

  Damn mod furniture.

  You’d think we would have figured out how to make furniture comfortable by the turn of the 21st century, but nope, here I am, jonesin’ for a hot stack of flapjacks and a place to rest my head that doesn’t feel like a yoga block.

  And sure, I could just walk my happy liddle ass down the block to whatever diner I know is located there – every time I think of breakfast, a prompt appears at the bottom of my iNet screen asking me if I’d care to visit the diner, some place called Bobby Jay’s, which sounds like a real greased up cornhole not unlike Scarface Charlie’s joint in Chinatown – but that would require effort.

  Having been comatose in a dive vat for a couple of days, my joints are sore, lower back too, the aches and pains of old age, which only reminds me that I’m a lot closer to growing up than I’d like to be.

  So I’m not about to start offering effort to anything that doesn’t involve basic maintenance of homeostasis.

  Me: Tell you what, toots, go ahead and send that order to one of my contacts, goes by the name Rocket. And no kids need to be added to my account, I did the world a favor and put Adolf bin Laden Hughes up for adoption.

  EBAYmazon Alexa: Toots? Mr. Hughes, your account has been flagged again for incendiary comments. Sexual harassment is not tolerated on the EBAYmazon app. If your account is flagged once more, you will be banned from making purchases.

  “Geoffrey Hinton, if you’re listening, this is all your fault,” I whisper as I roll to my other side, wincing and making a noise that probably sounds more like a beached seal than I’d like.

  Sometimes it feels like my body at night is a shish kebob.

  When one side is fully cooked, it’s time to flip it over and cook the other side. The only problem comes when both sides are cooked, and by cooked, I mean aching.

  Getting old ain’t all it’s cracked up to be.

  Me: Like I said last time, Alexa, the food ain’t for me; it’s for the Dream Recovery Extraction and Management Team, the federally funded DREAM Team. I’m sure you’ve heard of us. Well, probably not, but that’s the point. We keep a low profile due to our CWO, Doc.

  Doc: Do not bring me into this, Quantum.

  Me: Holy oversight, Batman! You’re on the horn too?

  EBAYmazon Alexa: Mr. Hughes, might I suggest avocado toast? We are celebrating Millennials this year, and offering a special on avocado toast all month.

  Me: You’ve got to be shitting me.

  Doc: Ha! Conversations like this are the reason I monitor your feed. And remember, only you can shit you.

  Me: Doc, need I remind you that you are a Millennial?

  Doc: No, you needn’t.

  Me: Okay, Alexa, I’ll play nice. Sure, I’ll take some avocado toast. But I’ve got to say, it really puts a damper on our team-building exercise. We’re cooking brunch at a benefit later this morning, a retreat for disgruntled government employees. It’s Euphoria’s idea, actually, she’s really into helping inner city youth. Me? I could go either way, but you know how it goes around here, if mama ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy.

  EBAYmazon Alexa: Mr. Hughes, I fail to see your point.

  Me: Okay, let me spell it out for you: I need a bunch of ingredients. Double, no, triple everything I listed earlier for the benefit, and come to think of it, no avocado toast. Get it all packed up, and get it over here pronto, lickety split. Quick-like, you get my drift. Frances is serious about her pancakes. She wants them to be perfect, and there will be some test batches. You’d think she was a beastkin due to the number of pancakes she wolfs down. But that’s neither here nor there. And last I checked, she didn’t have a tail.

  Doc: If this works…

  EBAYmazon Alexa: Mr. Hughes, I understand you’d like to triple your order for a charitable benefit and bill it to Frances Euphoria’s account. Am I understanding this correctly?

  Me: Yep, and no avocado toast. I’m watching my caloric intake.

  EBAYmazon Alexa: Congratulations on your health choice, Mr. Hughes. Your order will be delivered shortly. Would you like to add anything else to the order, such as paper plates, knives, or forks?

  Me: Nah, we’re good.

  Doc: You’ve got to be shitting me.

  “Only you can shit you,” I say to Doc, even though he can’t hear me. Or can he? I glance around Frances’ living room, wondering if Doc maybe put some kind of recording device up in here.

  The EBAYmazon confirmation startles me, and I forget about Doc for a moment. Finally getting used to being on my feet again, I grab my Commando Cane and I turn toward Frances’ bedroom and call out, “Breakfast is on the way. Rise and shine!”

  ~*~

  “You really didn’t have to go to the trouble,” Frances says as I place the homemade pancakes before her. She’s in a long-sleeved pajama outfit, her shirt and pants oversized, and not doing anything for the hot body under all that cotton.

  Likely on purpose.

  I pour the b
ig Euphoria some Joe, and hobble back into the kitchen to grab my plate. Once I’m fully loaded, I sit down across from her, licking my lips.

  “Bon Appetit, Frances.”

  She smirks.

  “What?”

  “I’ve got to say, things feel like the way they were before…”

  Her smile fades.

  “Like I’ve said a hundred times, it wasn’t what it seemed, Frances,” I tell her with my mouth full. “Now, I’m not going to sit here and say you should just forgive my dumb ass, but it’s been two days now and where I’m from, that’s a lot of time.”

  “The Midwest.”

  “The Loop,” I say with a stupid grin on my face. “Born on the corner of the Marcy Projects and Devil’s Alley to a mother kicking the gong around. Kidding, Frances, may I never see that godforsaken place again. And by the way, you said ‘the Midwest’ like it’s a bad thing.”

  “That remains to be seen.”

  “Which part?”

  Jeez, if this dame doesn’t have me all hot and bothered, my brain giving the third degree to my heart, asking when it became such a softy.

  I stuff a slice of pancake in my mouth, hoping that will give my body something to focus on.

  “Now, to today’s agenda. You ready to dive?” she asks, taking a sip from her coffee. Frances still hasn’t done anything to her pancakes, which is just bad sportsmanship.

  Still, she’s a looker, and lookers got to skimp on the carbs if they want to keep grabbing eyes.

  “You aren’t going to eat?” I ask. “Come on, Frances, there ain’t anything wrong with a little bit of bacon, some runny eggs, a short stack, and hell, a beer, for breakfast. But you said no beer for breakfast, and like I keep telling you, I’m a changed man.”

  “Why do I always believe you when you say that?”

  “Because of my sparkling blue eyes?” I ask. “Worked for Sinatra.”

  “Doc will brief us shortly.”

  “Already had a run in with Doc today. He’s in Colorado, right?”

  “Says he is, but that doesn’t mean he’s actually where he claims to be.” She goes for another sip from her coffee. “You know Doc.”

  “And he knows me. Knows too much, if you ask me. Can’t keep anything from the old War Faun.”

  Frances cuts into her pancake. “Just one,” she says, something quivering at the back of her pipes.

  “Well, be sure to add some extra syrup on it, then. That stuff is straight from Vermont. Just think of it like this: every bottle of real maple syrup you buy from Vermont helps their economy. Really. Every one. Not a lot going on up there.”

  “Pretty during the fall, though.”

  “Yeah, can’t deny that.”

  I reach across the table to pass her the syrup and feel a twinge of pain run down my shoulder.

  Talk about a gimp over here: I’m sore all over the place, in spots I didn’t know could hurt. Comes with the territory, I suppose. What’s a guy like me supposed to do anyway? Wallow in my own self-pity and never fully accept my gimpiness?

  No siree.

  Now, if I could only reach my bootstraps, so I could pull these boots made for walkin’ up, and get comfortable in them. They say you never know a man until you walk a mile in his shoes. Me? I’d prefer to just be able to walk ten feet without cringing.

  “You okay over there?”

  “Back pain. I think it’ll get better.” I lay some more butter on my pancake and use my fork to press it down so that it melts. “Butter will help.”

  PTSD/FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes.

  I sigh miserably.

  “What’s wrong now?”

  “I’m so goddamn sick of artificial intelligence. It was all the rage back in the twenties, and now I got robot voices in my head monitoring my happy-go-lucky-ass twenty-four seven. I swear, one of these days I’m going to get a screwdriver and pry my life chip out of my head.”

  “Who is it now?”

  “Evan.”

  “Well, say something.”

  Me: Can’t talk, Easy E, on the commode, feeling good about it too.

  PTSD/FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. I have tapped into your vital feed and I am seeing a spike in blood pressure. Are you experiencing an especially painful bowel movement?

  Me: That’s called nunya. Shouldn’t you be with Sophia right now?

  PTSD/FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. I also see that you’ve reached your daily allotment of butter.

  Me: Evan, I’m going to tip my mitt and tell you the truth for once. I’m in recovery, and if there is any time that a human should be left alone, it’s when they’re licking their wounds.

  PTSD/FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. Have you been injured? If so, I can alert the proper medical authorities.

  Me: Like I just said, shouldn’t you be with Sophia?

  PTSD/FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. I am in fact with Sophia. We are currently at the Dream Team offices.

  Me: Okay, let me shoot straight with you because, well, we’re kind of like brothers now that I spent some time in your droid carcass. Keep an eye on Dr. Wang.

  PTSD/FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. I always do.

  Me: I don’t think you understand what I’m saying here. Sophia has a thing for droids.

  PTSD/FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. Do you find a human being attracted to a Humandroid offensive?

  Me: Now, I’m not trying to go on the record to say something like that, I’m just telling you to be wary. I never trust a doctor, especially a scientist.

  PTSD/FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. It sounds like you were born in the 20s.

  Me: I was.

  PTSD/FDA Monitor 1351885: And why is that? Why wouldn’t you trust Sophia?

  Me: You haven’t met Chuntao yet, have you?

  PTSD/FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. I can’t say that I have.

  Me: Well, consider yourself lucky then. And it’s Quantum, call me Quantum. Tell you what, tin man, I’ll give you some pointers on how to really hit it off with Sophia, if you go ahead and forget my little butter incident here. Pancakes too, forget those. And the bacon. Forget all of it.

  PTSD/FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. I don’t actually have to report on you any longer.

  Me: Then why the hell are you contacting me?

  PTSD/FDA Monitor 1351885: Hi, Mr. Hughes. I am contacting you because I continue to monitor you, especially during your recovery, as I consider you a friend – a brother, in your words.

  “Lookee here, I’ve got my first friend,” I tell Frances.

  She chuckles. “Rocket?”

  “No, he’s not up yet, and Peanut Gallery isn’t as much a friend as he is a fan. He was probably in Steam last night reuniting with his girlfriend for the fifteenth time in the last two days. Frisky kid, am I right? Talk about banging nasties.”

  Frances squints one eye at me.

  “Yeah, I don’t know much about his love life either. Anyway, I wasn’t talking about Rocket, I was talking about Evan.”

  “He contacted you… why?”

  “To tell me to take it easy on the pancakes. Also, I believe he’s got a little thing going with Sophia. Anyway, I’m going to ignore him until I’m done violating these pancakes. After that, let’s get to the Dream Team office, and go from there.”

  “You ready for what’s next?” she asks.

  “I’ve never been more ready for closure in my life, Frances. Believe you me, and this is from a guy who just got his tookus unstuck from a Proxima world for the second time: my life is bad science fiction at best, but it is what it is, and I yam what I yam. Now, eat your pancakes, and if you’re not going to eat them, slide some onto my plate. We’ve got big plans for today.”

  Chapter Two

  “This is the final mission, people, so act like it.”

  Doc, still in Colorado with his humandroid manservant/combat droid/best buddy, Arnie, is being projected onto the wall in the conference room at the Dream Team offices in Bal
timore. Sure, we could have done this over iNet, but Doc is old school, and he insisted we get to see him up close and personal.

  He’s in a pair of overalls over a CWO shirt, a feed store hat on his head and an intense look in his eyes. Doc’s never been a weak sister, and in his current get-up, he looks like he’d fit perfectly into the militia I hope to form after all this is said and done.

  Me? I got my DisNike Boba Fetts under the table, trying my best to not look like I’m hurting all over the damn place. If I had my way, I’d be propped up in a gurney, sipping beer, hooked up to a saline solution just because, and watching the day slip away.

  But business is business.

  And the business we have to get to over the next few days has been a long time coming.

  Rocket sits next to me, nervously sipping from a Bull Bean energy drink, his foot tapping under the table. He’s eating some type of Indian nuts. I can smell the stuff on his breath, and while it doesn’t stink per se, it definitely doesn’t have me jumping to try a sample.

  I do like that it’s fried, though.

  You’d think this kid hadn’t just been through a traumatizing experience. Here he is, back in the saddle, caffeinated, and ready to murdalize some Reapers. Evan is here too, next to Sophia – I’m watching those two now, as is Frances, who has already put on her slick and sleek Dream Team duds.

  Gotta love that. Gotta love the Big FE.

  “So Operation Game Over is set to begin. Everyone know their roles?” Doc asks. “Please tell me you went over the notes, because those notes are no longer available.”

  “Which notes?” I whisper to Frances.

  “Shhh,” she says, rolling her eyes at me.

  I can see Doc’s humandroid assistant, Arnie, in the background, cutting some meat with a cleaver. The droid is in a red apron, a pearl snap shirt, and a pair of Wranglers.

  Sophia pipes up, eliciting a cringe from Yours Truly. “Fine, if you really want Evan and me to come to Colorado, we will, but I would just like to say that I’d much prefer to stay here in Baltimore.”

  “Yeah? And I’d prefer it if Strata wasn’t trying to find my ass in the real world, and if I could just retire and live in the bucolic splendor that is Gun Barrel City, Texas. But no one gets what they want, Dr. Wang. That’s the irony of being an adult.”