Gene Drifters: The Clone Soldier Chronicles-Book III (19 page)

“I thought you all would be hungry after that long trip.
Eldridge told me you’ve come all the way from Lanai; that one of you got some
R&R treatment there. I’ve always wanted to go there. What’s it like?”
Obviously Eldridge had not told Irma the whole story.

“It’s great, Irma. It was my first time there, too. Chad and
Jason spent more time there than me. In fact, Jason was at the R&R as a
patient. He had some problem with his hand; it was a work-related thing,”
Gimlet said.

“Jason why don’t you go and help Irma with the rest of
dinner; she could use some help carrying things out,” Eldridge said. After
they’d left, Gimlet said to Chad, “Yes, well yes, we know of Michael Segev.
You’ve actually met him, the actual Michael Segev?” Gimlet asked.

“Yes. Why, is he some vlog star or something? He seems
pretty normal to me,” Chad responded through a mouth full of scone.

“Normal? That’s not a term often used to describe Michael
Segev. Let me tell you about him, he’s a unique individual, or as Dad would
say, HE IS MADE OF A UNIQUE FORMULA,” Gimlet began.

                                                                                        
17

“IT IS A UNIQUE FORMULA, but we’ve analyzed it. I think it
can be tweaked a bit,” the scientists said to the senior ISA official.

They were all in that usual sound-proof safe room in the
basement of the Molecular Chemistry Department building of Ben Gurion
University. The two scientists looked tired from their non-stop bench work over
the last several weeks. Each had put in long hours at the lab, to identify the
components of the toxic rig-ryder nutria-blend. Finally, using a form of tandem
mass spectrometry, MS/MS, to measure mass to charge ratios, they’d been able to
squeeze out the identity of the last component. Now, after working all night
with their molecular models, and a map of the human brain, they knew what to
do.

“I don’t want the effects to be immediate. Make it slow. Can
we do that?” the senior ISA official asked.

“Yes, by nanoparticle release, what say, a two to three
weeks release protocol? Would that suffice?” the senior researcher asked. He
was taking notes on his bot-scriber.

“Yes, but the mind, the brain must not be affected. Is that
also possible?” another unnamed and forever unknown official asked.

“Yes, neural tissue can remain undamaged. We can do that,
but the individual will not be able to move much; the lower levels will be
affected,” the other scientist responded. He was the molecular modeler, the one
who had come up with the prototype.

“Good. How soon will the product be ready?” the unknown day
bakery job individual asked.

“In several weeks; but we will only have a small batch,
enough for one or two individuals. Have all the current targets been identified?
We don’t want just anyone drinking the stuff; the effects will be permanent,”
one scientist said.

“That is not your concern. Just make a single batch, enough
for the one to two individuals, and have it ready by next week,” the official
replied.

“How do you want it delivered?” another official asked. She
was responsible for logistics.

“There are still thirty cases of the original, tainted rig-ryder
nutria-blend out in the public. We don’t want this modified version to be
confused with the tainted drinks. We are still working on finding and
destroying those bottles. Label this new drink, CEO-special-formulated nutria-blend.
It must be distinctive enough not to be confused, yet not so different as to
raise suspicions. Has someone told the IRE, the rig-ryder union about the
tainted drinks?” the senior official asked.

“Yes, of course. That was done before any of the tainted product
was distributed by the Inc. But a few toxic cases are still out there
somewhere. Luckily our asset in the field discovered the plan in its early
stage. A few did drink it once, but they appear to remain unaffected. We sent
two assets into the Inc. to deal with the issue. It’s how we’ve pinpointed the
individuals responsible for this mess. One has been dealt with. The second will
be used as an example, to deter any future attempts by the WME to kill off
workers for robotics replacements. We will be sure they know how this goes
down.

“What do you want us to do with the tainted product if we
find it; the bottles already out in the public?” a senior TSA asset asked. She
would leave that night, on a search and destroy mission to find the toxic
drinks, and get rid of the evidence.

“Unfortunately, getting rid of the poisoned nutria-blend has
been an issue. Our initial ocean dumping was a serious mistake. We have some
fishing issues,” the senior TSA responded.

“What now?” the asset asked.

“Well, bilge dumping into the sewers does not appear to be a
problem. Our contacts at Lanai Sewer City tell us the bilge #1 and #2 nano bacs
seem quite happy to eat it. But, we can’t dump into bilge #3; it’s too late in
the food production process. So, we’ve changed our dumping procedures to bilge
#1 and #2, only. Of course we had to compensate the sewer city officials. I had
our partners in North America send over enough vaccines to last quite a while.
I hope no problems arise there or we’ll have trouble in sewer city.” The senior
official responded as she commed her driver to pick her up for return to Shin
Bet Headquarters.

“Why not send them food? Oh right, they reprocess their own;
very efficient,” the senior scientists spoke.

“Yes, but medicines, especially those vaccines were
appreciated. We have a permanent ally in Lanai Sewer City. That could come in
handy in the future.” The asset was now speaking. She had negotiated the deal
with the sewer citizen council the previous week, right before she turned into
Honeybuns.

“Ah good, we can always use new allies. Let me know when
you’re ready with this special batch. One asset remains on sight for delivery.
He’s anxious to complete the mission,” the senior official replied as he packed
up his files and prepared to leave. The limo had arrived.

“Is the agent who I think it is?” another asset asked. “Most
likely, though you know I will neither confirm nor deny; he may have a personal
stake in this, a vendetta. The initial product almost reached someone he cares
about,” the official replied.

“Do we have any idea where he is, or how he’ll carry this
out?” the scientist asked.

“Of course not, he’s a free agent; always has been. He won’t
work any other way, and he’s the best. And besides, even if I did know, you
know I’d never answer that question,” the Shen-Bet official said his goodbyes, then
left for his waiting and heavily guarded convoy back to headquarters.

The scientists returned to their research lab on the third
floor, taking that special back lift, the one only opened by a long code and
the appropriate DNA ID.

“Strange, I didn’t think that agent cared about anyone,” one
scientist mumbled to the other, on the way up from the basement.

“Strange things do happen,” the other responded.  

Back in Eldridge’s kitchen, Gimlet tried to explain the
official report on #5.

“Bubble-stop #5 is, well, it’s not a normal place. No one
goes there. It’s where all the undocumented people go, to hide out.” Gimlet was
seated at the kitchen table, finishing dinner. “You tell me you actually stayed
there, and met Michael Segev. Are you sure we’re talking about the same place
and same guy?” Gimlet asked Chad as they ate dinner.

Irma made a fabulous ground seagull roast, seasoned with
something from a bottle marked “
Thanksgiving Spices
.” The seagulls were
trapped three times a year as they flew over from Hawaii. By the time they
reached the hydroponics pods floating atop #4, they were exhausted. It wasn’t
much of a hunt, but the #4ers only took what they needed. They considered it a
holiday treat, after eating shark meat the rest of the year. Eldridge used to
complain that global warming had reduced the lower level workers’ world to
humans, sharks, pigeons and seagulls, and cockroaches; unless you were a higher
up, of course. Then you simply cloned what you ate.

Irma served the seagull roast slathered with some brown
sauce over the top, reconstituted from a bag of gravy powder. It was washed
down with a real dark red Malbec, a pilfered gift from Dorian, care of a lucky
hit on a desert supply blimp heading into Las Vegas.

“Yes, it’s not as bad as you may think. But, you do have to
understand, Jason and I are used to living under pretty simple conditions on
Deceit
.
So I guess I might not understand what current society refers to as
strange
things
. I mean, in the back zone they do have a bunch of un…”

“We don’t use that word here, son,” Eldridge interrupted. He
looked terrified, like Chad was about to tell him a bunch of headless zombies
lived in bubble-stop #5. And everyone knew that was not possible. If they had
zombies in #5, they’d for sure all have their heads still on them.

“Sorry sir.” Chad looked puzzled. He figured he had a lot to
learn about current societal niceties out in a WME-stratified world.

“What Eldridge means is we don’t talk about that particular group
of humans. I know what you were going to say. Believe me, everyone is terrified
of them. I mean, some people say if you even mention their name, it will rub
off on you; you’ll become like them. They’re the worst population of, I guess
humans, on the entire planet. We hear reports on them all the time. The WME
constantly reports on their numbers, what percent they are of the total
population, how long the group has been that way and why. Luckily, the numbers
appear to remain constant, like it’s just the same permanent group. I know it’s
silly superstition, but still….” Gimlet helped herself to some yampo soup with
shark meat, a leftover from the previous night.

“It’s not a silly superstition, Gimlet. I’ve heard how they
are. Well, okay at least I’ve read about it. It’s just terrible to behold. The
news media says once they get that way there’s no cure.” Irma looked truly
terrified, so she tried to change the subject.

“Well, did everyone get enough to eat?” she asked, trying to
smile. “Would you like some more coffee?” Irma held up a pot, filled with some
Kona, something Chad had brought from Lanai. Despite being chased by the
pirates, he’d managed to grab a bag from his office before running through the
sewer tunnels. Eldridge thought at least he had his coffee priorities straight.

Chad and Jason looked around the table, perplexed. They did
not see what the issue was; both had grown up watching humans grown in test
tubes, getting wings put on them for experimental purposes, or getting flushed
if they turned out wrong, so what was the deal with some uns, whatever they
were? Chad knew he’d have to explain his early life to Gimlet. It would take a
while for her to understand the life of a clone, even though her dad was one.

After dinner, Irma got up and started to clear the table,
smiling at Eldridge with genuine affection. She looked positively gorgeous; her
new face looked like that dark eyed movie star, and Eldridge obviously adored
her.

“You’d best get going. Drone down-time starts in 45 minutes.
You can race the clock to #5 on the side road next to the tracks. Just be sure
to ride straight. Those passing rigs pull quite a draft. Dorian has already
sat-hacked you some tunnel ID passes, but any drones will be DNA checking. They
only use DNA data, as you know. It’s impossible for even Dorian to re-program a
thousand itty bitty drones flying all over the tunnel.” Eldridge handed them
all their IDs, then got up to help carry the dishes to the sink. He did not
want to appear impolite, but having two clone soldiers to dinner would take
some getting used to on his part.

 “Thanks Eldridge. I really appreciate the help. Irma, it
was so nice meeting you. I hope to see you at Thanksgiving dinner. Is that
still on, Eldridge?” Gimlet asked as she got up to leave, grabbing some food
balls from a bag in the cupboard. “Yes, of course. But, let me talk to your dad
about the others. I’m sorry guys, but Dina will be here, and you know she gets
kinda pissy about clones, to put it mildly.”   

“No explanation needed, Eldridge. I’m not sure I’m ready to
be introduced to Gimlet’s mother quite yet,” Chad responded as he followed
Gimlet out the door. They looked back as Irma and Eldridge waved goodbye, and
Gimlet noticed Irma was holding Eldridge’s hand. They looked so happy; it
looked like maybe he’d get over Dina. And that thought made Gimlet happy.

The three walked to the back area of #4; the hoverbikes were
exactly where Eldridge said they’d be, out near the pedestrian entry portal to
the neutral zone. It was usually only used by #4ers who expected visits from
relatives and wanted to meet them in person when they exited their rigs, like
on a holiday or something. Gimlet noticed both bikes were fully nitro-charged.
They’d need the speed to outrun the check drones. She climbed into her ride
suit, absolutely a must at 300 miles per hour, or you’d get impaled by anything
flying from a rig. Chad noticed the helmets were first class, the latest night
vision, reverse-vid types, with coms to converse while driving. And yes, they
also protected your head.

“Can you ride a hover bike, Chad?” Gimlet asked.

“Yes, we learned to drive hoverbikes under the tutelage of
Michael Segev, while in bubble-stop #5. They have quite a race track there, on
the second level.” Chad mounted his bike, waited for Gimlet to climb in back of
him, buckled up, and took off like they were trying to outrun a bunch of
terrorists in the Golan Heights. That was a good thing because they could hear
the buzz of the check drones about fifty miles behind them all the way.

The next morning back in Tokyo at the love hotel, the door
to the orchid themed room opened. Roxanne stepped out, perfectly groomed and
holding the hand of someone who remained inside, someone with an orchid tattoo
on his arm. They remained that way for several seconds, then he let go of her
hand, she stepped out into the hallway, and the door shut. Roxanne walked softy
back to the poodle-themed room, used her pass key, and walked into the room.

Rose was missing. 

In an unmarked silver get-away van, a driver in a black
leather jacket, with a huge teeth hole in the left sleeve, wondered if his
boss, Mr. Leo Songtain, the CEO of Stemworm, Inc, would mind if the mission was
modified a little. THEY HAD NOT NABBED ROXANNE SMOOT, BUT THEY DID HAVE HER DOG;
HENCE THE HOLE IN HIS JACKET.