Gene Drifters: The Clone Soldier Chronicles-Book III (20 page)

                                                                                
18
   

 “THAT”S NOT ROXANNE SMOOT, YOU IDIOTS! In case you have not
checked, that’s her dog.” Leo was so much more than disappointed.

They’d chimed his bot-com with the news while he was in one
of his rare, non-Roxanne bounty poster, post-boom boom glows. In other words he
had hired some help, an itty piece of a woman, blonde hair, round face, blue
eyes, big boobs, and only five feet tall, shorter than Leo of course. She’d
been dismissed immediately when he received the news his hired thugs had
completed the heist. They failed to tell him it was a dog, not a human heist. On
her part, Rose sat forlornly inside her degrading dog crate, on a piece of what
looked like black leather jacket remnants.

“I think he misses his owner, sir. We’ve taken good care of
him, sir.” It was not the guy with the teeth-bite jacket. He was parking the
limo out back. But they’d have to tell him to ditch his jacket after what Leo
said next.

“What is she sitting on? It’s a she, you fool. This is Rose,
Roxanne’s co-pilot. Oh… my…god, she’s sitting on a piece of Roxanne’s black
leather jacket. Get it for me, now.”

Leo bent down to examine his new Roxanne Smoot icon. He’d
have it framed.

The security guy did not move.

“You want me to take that away from him…her?” Flashes of
eaten face and missing arm passed through his mind. Thank god for regeneration.
He’d get overtime; maybe he’d ask for a raise.

“Yes, get it, now!” Leo looked at Rose, from a considerable
distance across the room of his penthouse, not sure how he’d proceed. Obviously
he was not going any closer, and also obviously, and much better, Roxanne would
come to get her co-pilot back. But how would he tell Roxanne he had Rose. Would
she guess? What delicious thing should he request in return?

Back at the Tokyo love hotel Roxanne searched the room, the
bathroom, and even that one room down the hall, the one with the stunning male German
shepherd occupant. Rose and he had made eye contact when they’d checked in. Maybe
she was, you know, busy. But the occupant, who said his name was Darcy, had not
seen her either. She went back to Michael Segev’s room, and knocked softly on
the door, but he was gone; you could not even tell anyone had been in the room.
If you dusted for fingerprints you would, quite likely, find none.

“It’s Leo, he’s going to pay for this,” Roxanne mumbled, as
she gathered her few things into a duffle, checked her palm timer, and ran
outside, hailing a turbo-taxi to the rig dock. No matter what, even if Rose had
been napped, even if Michael Segev was gone, Roxanne Smoot, rig-ryder
extraordinaire, had to re-track eastbound for San Fran, in thirty minutes. As
she entered the taxi she almost touched her black orchid tattoo, then she
stopped. She used her regular bot-com to contact Dorian instead.

“Leo kidnapped Rose? That’s extreme behavior, Roxanne. He
usually does not resort to rule bending. Dog-napping is a capital offense in
Hong Kong. Are you quite certain it was Leo Songtain?” Dorian had been filled
in during Roxanne’s taxi ride to the rig dock.

“Yes, well no, not really. It just seems like something he’d
stoop to. Can you spot her on your vids anywhere, Dorian? I’m afraid for her.”
Roxanne was sitting in the back of the cab, speaking into her bot-com, in Maori,
hoping it was not one of the taxi driver’s required three languages. She noted
his creds, tacked to the ceiling, a PhD in Transportation and Conversational
Technology, followed by the list of the three required non-dead languages. He
claimed fluency in Russian, Mandarin, and of all things, Frisian, the language
of an obscure part of northern Netherlands, Friesland. Despite her current
distractions, Roxanne found herself incredulous that Russian still counted as
non-dead.

“You’re worried about Rose? I do not understand. Why would you
be worried about Rose, Roxanne? Surely you understand she has her own unique
protective mechanisms. Besides, in light of Leo Songtain’s obsession with you,
I do not believe he will attempt to harm her. However while we speak, I can
tell you she is, in fact, now in his company at his residence in Hong Kong. It
is called the Opus. Do you wish for the address?” Dorian waved a glowing hand
over three hundred additional control tabs, initiating, among only a few, the
start-up of a water filtration pump in Salt Lake, re-start of a desalination
plant in Santa Cruz, the movement of the solar panels up top over Donner Pass,
to follow the sunlight, and the speed of a train heading towards one of the
bubble-stops, under the ocean. It was a train carrying nineteen clone soldiers
bound for Las Vegas.

Of course, he was also conversing with Roxanne, and now
observing Leo, bent over and talking to Rose, who looked sad and gave out a low
pathetic moan. The sound and vids were thanks to the palmed tag Dina had
planted on Leo’s sweaty hand during the clonie trade deal, in her role as
Elizabeth Turner, Nubian beauty.

Roxanne responded, “No, thanks, I know the address. But, I
can’t rescue her now. I have to re-track in twenty minutes, if we can get out
of this traffic. Can you help in that regard, Dorian? Please do watch over Rose
for me until I get to my regulation down-time at Eldridge’s.” Roxanne was
quietly going ballistic, kept re-checking her palm timer.

She could not miss her re-track. She still had to haul
Morton’s rig back to San Fran and pick up her own rig before she’d even be able
to do her own down-time.

Summer intern training time was really a bitch!

“Yes, of course. Inform the driver to turn left at the next
signal. I have set the traffic signals for the remainder of your trip. He
should arrive at the dock in three minutes. I will contact you should Rose be
in danger. But for now, I must terminate the com. I have a rather critical
situation with a freight train to tend to. Dorian out.”

The signal shut down before Roxanne could even thank him for
re-directing traffic. But, she did arrive at the rig dock with ten minutes to
spare. It would be close. She could do a start-up protocol in five, but that
was with her co-pilot. She barely made her re-track, and then took off at full nitro
thrust, eastbound for San Fran. And whether it was from missing Michael Segev,
or from her worries about Rose, she was crying all the way.

And so was Rose.

“She sounds like she’s crying. Is she crying? You, get
closer and check her eyes. Is she crying?” Leo was standing in his usual snow
leopard robe, on a large polar bear rug, complete with beady eyes and ghastly
head intact, a full seven feet away from the crate. Rose was in fact crying, if
that’s what you’d call a fake canine moan uttered to elicit sympathy. We’ve all
heard that before. Rose is the high poobah guru of sympathy moans, has
practiced it quite often at the bar in #4 to procure the meat from a malleable
younger rig-ryder’s dinner. Of course, the senior rig-ryders know better.

“She appears to be crying, sir.” The security guy had no
idea if it was true, but he was not getting closer to that crate. They’d had a
robot carry it this far, thus he still had his limbs nicely connected to his
body, thank you very much.

“I want that leather thing she’s sitting on. Get it for me.
I told you to get it for me.” Leo pointed to the small piece of black leather
Rose was sitting on.

He planned to imbed what he was sure was a piece of Roxanne
Smoot’s very own leather jacket in a block of epon, and enshrine it someplace
in his inner penthouse rooms, maybe in the living room, or even next to his
desk. Yes, that was it, on his desk. But he would have to remove it from its
containment from time to time, to smell, to touch. Leo opened a com signal to
his decorative engineer to have it done. He gave the order in Mandarin.

Rose, of course, spoke Mandarin, the first language of Leo,
and fourth for Rose. She was not particularly surprised at her predicament; she
would just have to decide how to present herself. Rose was trying to decide if
she should take off someone’s hand, or play nice.
Nice
seemed like an
easier strategy until she scouted out the penthouse exits. Besides, the food
would be better with
nice
. Let Leo have the piece of that guy’s jacket. Rose
was sure no one would correct Leo’s misconception of its source.

And, she knew for a fact Leo did not know she spoke
Mandarin. Only a few people knew Rose was a highly modified canine, one who had
just been forced to ride from Tokyo to Hong Kong in a tricked out private hover
jet, but unfortunately, inside a degrading doggie crate. The next thing they’d
expect was that she “
do
her business”
on cat litter.

Nobody knows the trouble I’ve seen!”

“Oh nice doggie (
doggie?)
, look, she’s giving me the
piece of Roxanne’s jacket. Oh, she loves me.” Leo got just close enough to grab
the piece of black leather that Rose shoved to the wall of the crate with her
paw. She stuck out her tongue to lick Leo’s hand, hopping it would pay off in
beef. Ugh, his hand tasted like some heavy duty fake perfume additive, phenols,
and esters. Memories of her organic chemistry class came back to her.

“See, she likes me. Should I let her out? No not yet, maybe
just feed her first; let her get used to me. She doesn’t understand where she
is yet. She may be afraid or get lost in the building. You, go get something
from my chef. Tell them maybe some real meat, yes, maybe some of that Kobe
stuff from Tokyo.” Leo pointed to one of his guards, who jumped at the order,
glad to have an opportunity to be away from the infamous Rose Smoot, especially
away from her teeth.

Ten minutes later, a white-coated waiter with a crisp linen
napkin on his arm, came into the penthouse carrying a large slab of raw beef,
on a silver platter engraved with the initials, L.S.

Well, what can I say? Sometimes the weirdest things work
on humans.

While Rose was busy chowing on a giant slab of Kobe beef, back
at rebel headquarters, Dorian had just gotten off the com with Michael Segev.
Slowing down that hover train was essential, especially if they wanted to
unload a crate of clonies without killing them all.

“I can slow the train to around half speed for thirty
seconds, but any slower, or longer, and it will be noticed. Can you manage exit
at that speed, Michael?” Dorian got ready to sat-hack the train bound for San
Fran. Unlike the rigs, the under-ocean trains were totally robotic, ran at full
nitro, meaning at 500 miles per hour, and did not stop for maintenance or
freight checks until they reached the opposite coast. A slow-down could alert
the control center, resulting in the usual zoo of nosey check drones.

“We’ll have to make it work, Dorian. I’ve got 20 hoverbikes
on board, but some of these clonies have never driven one. It’s going to be a
crap shoot; your luck thing, this time,” Michael responded.

After his overnight with Roxanne at the Tokyo love hotel,
he’d had to ramp it to get to the train dock on time. He knew Roxanne was
someplace above at the rig dock, likewise pressed for time. But she had to execute
a re-track; he just had to make the train on time. Now several hours hence,
he’d bored into the car containing the remainder of the clone soldiers, the
rest of the Yac clan, outbound for delivery to one Elizabeth Turner, aka Dina.
Michael knew once they were delivered to the clone-obsessed co-rebel leader, it
was all over for these people.

“I am relieved the hoverbikes got delivered to the same car
where the clone soldiers were packed, Michael. I had to bribe quite a few Inc.
employees to get that accomplished. It is nice you are doing this for them,
Michael. I know rescue of a group of clone soldiers does not come under your
head of security job description.” Dorian completed the hack of the satellite
currently controlling the robotic station, and the train outbound to San Fran,
and immediately Michael sensed the deceleration. They had about a minute before
the check station would notice.

“I have other motives, Dorian; something I can’t go into
just now.” Michael offed the bot-com, and turned to speak to a group of
nineteen captured adult clone solders from
Deceit
, outbound for delivery
to San Fran, then on to certain death in Las Vegas.

Each wore identical utilitarian grey t-shirts marked Casino
Security Team, with matching grey sweat pants and what looked like black
leather boxing shoes. They’d been issued the uniforms prior to packing, told
they were going to great jobs and new lives in Las Vegas; should be delighted
they’d been given a new chance at a useful life. It was better that way. They’d
be easier to handle. The Clone Handling Division of the Inc. had already
checked each one to ensure they were not in serial killer mode. They’d added a
note to eliminate raw rhubarb from their diets.

When Michael bored into their pitch dark packing crate, he
encountered a load of glowing eyes staring back at him. They were not afraid,
but most were surprised, had to be convinced they’d been told a lie. Many
thought Las Vegas would be great. Finally, Michael had to contact Chad, who
spoke to the current clan leader. He told them he’d meet them all at #5, and to
do whatever Segev said. After they’d been convinced, and each had donned their
security suits and helmets, Michael gave them an instant instruction in hover
biking techniques,

“Alright, everyone get ready on my count. Remember to push
this full nitro throttle as soon as your bike hits dirt, or rather the proton track.
You have to be going at least three hundred miles per hour to match the train’s
reduced speed, or else you’ll get sucked into the draft. Once you’re free, get
to the side as quickly as possible. You’re going to be all over the place;
quite a distance apart. Just go the direction you exited, the direction of the
train, and follow my lead. We’ll exit at a zone light, reading bubble-stop #5. Take
the exit and get off the track as quickly as possible. When you exit, reduce
your speed at maximum. You got that?” Michael did not wait for questions.