Gene Drifters: The Clone Soldier Chronicles-Book III

                                                 
The Clone Soldier Chronicles:

                   
             Gene Drifters – Book III

                                                       By
DJ Takemoto

                                                             
                    
1

IT COULDN’T TAKE THE TORTURE. Roxanne punched the turbo to
nitro max, but the sonic engine whined and burped in protest, sending spark
farts out the rig’s butt into the tunnel, from the jolt of rubber meeting steel.

Well okay, that last was a figure of speech
.

Rigs are now made of electroplasma and the tracks are from
some proton/neutron stuff. No one knows exactly how they work, but Roxanne
didn’t care. The important thing was, when the rig hit the tunnel wall it
bounced. With a pack of killer pirates on your tail, bouncing was a good thing.

And her tail was a full entourage of bubble-stop #3 pirates,
fully armed with powered-up sonics, set to brain fry. The rig did a reverse twerk
off the top of the plasmon tunnel wall, spun around 360 degrees, and then did a
full thrust back onto the tracks.

It was art in motion
.

Roxanne was counting on the maneuver working; she’d practiced
it dozens of times hauling this route. Plus she drove a fully loaded Ultrajock
8000, bright orange, the latest and fastest in underwater hover-rigs; it was
the best on the planet. And her rig was modified. It was a special version,
care of Dorian the half human/half computer rebel wizard and leader of Donner
Pass. However, the orange color was not her choice. Some CEO from the Inc., the
International Underwater Low-Way Corporation, Inc., had a thing for orange. Ditto
the orange jumpsuit and samurai-style headband.

“Lucky our cargo is packed in crap-wrap, right Rose?”
Roxanne spoke to her co-driver, who was safely encased into her seat, licking
her genitals.

Rose, happy with her current hygiene duties, didn’t reply. She
thought it was a useful way to stay clean on a long low-way haul, especially
when driving the Trans-Pacific Underwater Low-Way, from San Francisco to Tokyo,
then on to Hong Kong in seventeen hours flat; track time, of course. The union
has strict regulations, only twelve hours on the tracks, then downtime. It’s
for the engine checks, not the drivers. Roxanne and Rose logged their downtime
at #4, Eldridge Bubble-stop #4, by formal designation.

They went only as far as Tokyo. Stan took over at that
point, after direct off-load of the cargo onto his own rig. Then Roxanne and Rose
uploaded the outbound cargo, bound for San Fran, and did a reverse run.

Nope, there’d be no Hong Kong for Rose and Roxanne; a
non-go. Leo Songtain, the ultra-rich CEO of Stemworm, Inc., and current President
of the Board of Economic Enhancement and Worker Productivity Protocols of the
Hong Kong World Monetary Enterprise, the WME, had a bounty on Roxanne, and he
lived in Hong Kong. Roxanne and Rose avoided Hong Kong.

“I can taste that Fueblaster already. You ready for dinner,
Rose?” Roxanne had her heart set on two things once they reached bubble-stop #4,
if they made it past the pirates; some of Eldridge’s shark soup, and a chilled mug
of Fueblaster, a blue alcoholic drink so strong you had to swallow it
immediately, or it would rot your teeth.

Rose still did not answer. She was heavily involved in
genital hygiene; had her mouth full of muff.

Did I say Rose is a large black Doberman?

Oh, sorry.

A glance at the reverse vids confirmed the continued
presence of their lethal escort. The pirates were bombarding their rig with
sonic blasters set to brain-fry mode, hoping to, at the very least, shoot out the
hover treads and force her rig off the tracks. If they gained entry to her rig
all hell would break loose, care of a tunnel security sonic fry blaster.

Roxanne knew the pirates wanted more than the rig load. Although
a full cargo of the Stemworm,
Stem-wads
®
, facial stem cells for
stinking rich CEOs, would bring a billion gold-vouchers on the Blacks. No, they
wanted her, Roxanne Smoot, the most famous rig-ryder on the low-way haul, maybe
even the planet.

She snorted at that thought and did a reverse nitro thrust, sending
out more spark farts, and immolating two pirate rocket-crotch bikers in the
process. It served them right for piracy, and for not wearing fire-retards.

“What are you looking at, Rose?” Roxanne noticed Rose
staring out her side slot, drooling. “Oh boy, oh boy,” Rose said, except it
came out as woof, woof, of course.

I may think in human, but my vocals are unmodified.

Just as they turned the last shot to the straights, that
straight tunnel section before each security gate, Roxanne saw the problem, or
food, depending on your point of view. One of the bikers had caught up with the
rig, was even riding shot-gun to the right of Rose, and getting ready to reach
inside the open side slot. Roxanne always kept it slightly opened for Rose, who
loved wind blowing over her saliva-washed genitalia.

The pirate stuck an arm through the slot, thinking he’d
unplug the door and gain entry to the control cab. He couldn’t see Roxanne’s
co-driver, due to their one-way viewers; probably surmised he’d find some rig-ryder
guy, with a big gut, fat face, and wide terrified eyes.

It was not his day. He left half of his left arm in Rose’s
drooling, slobbering clenched teeth.

“Meat, Oh boy, Oh boy!” she said, which translated into a
muffled woof, woof.

Roxanne coded in an accidental garbage intake from the
tracks. Otherwise an illegal piece of human meat might get mistaken for a
control cabin assault, resulting in activation of the rig’s security override.
Translated that means an area about the size of a city block would be sealed
off and vaporized, care of the WME rig tunnel security.

“Don’t talk with your mouth full. And put that in the back
cabin food compartment. You know I hate it when you get the control cab messy.
Besides, when we dock the check drones will find unauthorized human DNA in the
rig; we’ll be side-lined for an investigation.” Roxanne spoke quickly to Rose,
in Maori; she usually spoke to Rose in Maori. It was their private language.

Rose grabbed her meat trophy, exited to the back
compartment, deposited her prize into the refrigerator slot, and pawed the
“seal in a plastic bag” button. She took the DNA contamination part very
seriously. Side-lining meant a long stay in an Inc. kennel, with uneducated and
horny canines. 

Upfront, Roxanne was busy maneuvering the rig around the
three bikers who’d passed her, and had formed an arch in front of the rig’s
nose. They were smug. You could tell that because they grinned, showing teeth
the color of a two-toned rainbow, brown and browner.

Roxanne was not concerned. Her rig was a special job. She’d
had it personally modified by Dorian’s “add-ons”, supplied two years ago as a
Christmas present. Her rig had a
fry switch
.

They were now surrounded by three hover-bikers, dressed in
what looked like Hell’s Angels’ Halloween costumes. The black leathers were
obviously fakes. You could tell from their smell, weird cyclic chemicals, with
a bunch of side groups, like chloroforms and methyls. At least that’s what Rose
was thinking as she sniffed the air when returning from the back cabin, after
depositing the arm appetizer into the refrigerated food section. The arm’s owner
would survive if he reached a regen unit in time.

“Well, what do you think, Rose? Should we try for a solo or
bot-com the rebels? I mean, I haven’t talked to Dina and Dorian in a while, and
we do have to confirm where we’ll be having Thanksgiving dinner.” Roxanne
twisted the hydraulic drive wheel of the rig, to execute a rapid track change
around a green bus filled with bubble-stop #3 school kids.

She’d get a fine for that little maneuver.

You had to give low-way clearance for school buses; it was the
same as on any haul, even the few remaining above ground routes. The Inc. would
dock her a week’s worth for unsafe driving, but she had to ditch her hover biker
barricade, or she’d be late clocking in at #4. A late clock-in meant getting
fired.

“I’d say let’s try the solo first, Roxanne. Dorian’s help
may be needed for the gate entry.” Rose barked rapidly, excited by the
possibility of gaining additional fresh meat. Another suicidal biker got ready
to reach inside the cab. This time Rose only managed to snag a hand; it was an
easy regen job for the owner. The biker would be good to go in about five days.
She made another trip to the back cabin to add to the stash, and Roxanne,
again, coded in accidental garbage intake.

“Right, we’ll go it alone,” Roxanne yelled back to Rose, above
the whine of the already complaining engine. The exponential acceleration from
the use of nitro came at a cost. When continued for very long, some of the engine’s
bio-components heated up and changed their molecular configurations, producing
weird and sometimes irreversible polymeric engine distortions. She headed
towards a row of five bikers, pushed the fry button, and fricasseed them under
the wheels of the rig. It was that, or risk vaporizing those school kids from
an illegal cabin entry protocol.

But, it would be hell to clean those tracks, and she’d have
to pay big time; real gold vouchers, not chits, for the clean-up crew. It would
be top union, hazardous duty pay rates, done at dark click, in #3er track
space. Yep, premium wages would be in order. But she’d succeeded in boring a
hole in their hover biker hijack party. The school kids would be safe from the
ever-present always watchful WME security drones…and their sonic blasters.

“I see the straights to the first gate ahead. Push it, but contact
Dorian, ASAP.” Rose barked her orders literally to Roxanne, in Dober-speak.

“What’s the big deal, Rose? I thought you wanted to try this
one solo,” Roxanne replied. She was fluent in Dober-speak, having been rig
hauling with Rose since she was a pup. Roxanne looked over the edge of the
front bumper, to where Rose was pointing with one of her ears.

They had major problems.

One of the fried bikers had not cooked to completion; a
medium rare finger lay impaled on the code box, blocking the signal to the
first entry lock, out of bubble-stop #3 and into the neutral zone; that five
hundred yard long stretch of tunnel track between the security gate to Eldridge
Bubble-stop #4 and the pirates’ territory. If they couldn’t send a proper signal,
the gate would not open, and they’d both be fried chickens, so to speak; well…actually
quite literally. At least that was what Rose was barking to her now, loudly and
with some urgency.

“Dorian, are you watching this? Sorry to bother you, but I
have a tiny issue here,” Roxanne launched a rebel message through her bot-com
to Dorian, the organo-digital human, and  brilliant co-leader of the world
rebel headquarters at Donner Pass Mountain, and fortunately one of her best
friends.

“You are not a bother at all, Roxanne. We have not heard
from you in quite some time. How are things with Eldridge and Rose? Will you be
joining us for Thanksgiving dinner this year?” Dorian always initiated
conversations as if he were attending a high tea.

“We’re doing great, Dorian. But, I have a real time issue
here.” The rig, at three hundred miles per hour, was rapidly nearing the first
gate.

“The gate will open when you reach it, Roxanne. I have already
taken care of your issue. But will you be joining us for Thanksgiving dinner?”
Of course, she’d forgotten to answer the second question, and Dorian, being as
he was half computer, would want to maintain a logical order to their chit chat.

“Yes, thank you, Dorian. I’ll let Eldridge know. I assume he
is also welcome.” Roxanne watched the approaching first gate, trying not to
blink, scream, or have a radical melt-down.

It was not actually a gate, but a force shield. So you could
see through it. In the first years of the Trans-Pacific Low-Way tunnel hauls,
some newbie rig-ryders, unaware that the gates were invisible, and that entry required
a fully functional, voucher tax paid-up code box, bit the proverbial and
literal final bullet, taking out the driver and the rig. It was messy.

That was then, this was now, and issues had been dealt with.
No smash-ups had occurred on a gate in the last two years, currently thanks to
Dorian. Roxanne was glad she’d gotten over Dorian and his wife, Dina. She was
so angry when Dina left her and her dad, back when she was ten-years-old and
ready to go to university. That’s when her dad, Eldridge brought Rose home, as
a birthday gift to Roxanne, from the
Petclone
store in Denver.

“Of course Eldridge is welcome. I will inform Dina. She will
be delighted. We will be roasting a recombinant turkey. And I will inform
little Gimlet, although I suppose you will want to tell her yourself.” Dorian
was referring to his and Dina’s 18-year-old, not so little daughter, a halfsie
mutant rebel, and Roxanne’s very best friend; she is more like a little sister,
actually.

“Yes, I’ll let her know. I talk to her almost every day. How
was her 18
^th
birthday party? I’m sorry I missed it,” Roxanne said.
She’d hated to miss the humongous birthday party they’d thrown for Gimlet at the
Donner Pass rebel base last spring. But it was impossible to get any vacation
without paying a huge bribe to the Inc., and Roxanne was saving up for a rig
upgrade.

The rig was absorbed through the first gate. It always
amazed the newer trainees the first time they passed their rigs through one of
the low-way gates. The force shield glop would just sort of ooze around the
truck like a blob, and then shut as the final rig butt tag coded in, at the end
of the rig. Roxanne hoped her rig’s butt tag did not have human body parts
smeared on it. She didn’t want her Ultrajock 8000 sliced in half.

“Thanks, ever so much for the entry help, Dorian. I hate to
bother with something so mundane, but we got crap on the code box. I had to use
your fry switch. The pirates are getting to be more of a nuisance on each haul.
Some actually bit it this time, but I couldn’t risk them getting into the cab. Those
kids would have been vaporized by a tunnel security zap. You got any idea
what’s going on?” Roxanne and Rose were making polite conversation while
waiting in the now silent and non-moving rig.