Gene Drifters: The Clone Soldier Chronicles-Book III

by Takemoto, D. J.

  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 g
etting 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 18th 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.

  Once a rig passes into a neutral zone, everything stops while you get vouchered for payments, washed and sterilized to prevent spread of contaminations into the next zone, and scanned for possible cargo damage. If the cargo is damaged, you’ll be de-hover-railed until a cargo replacement arrives, chit-docked for the trouble and the cargo, and you get a demerit for a bad haul record. If you accumulate over five demerits in a year, you lose your haul permit, for life…forever. Roxanne knew some newbies who had lost their permits. They ended up selling themselves on the Blacks to pay off their student debts.

  Dorian answered Roxanne.

  “I have been monitoring the Trans-Pacific Low-Way traffic for the past several weeks, Roxanne. There is indeed an issue with the pirates in bubble-stop #3. I have not completely identified all parameters yet. I am currently working on an algorithm to isolate the issues at hand. However, it is something best discussed via the music message code system, and not on an open satellite hackable bot-com. On another issue, I can observe several of the pirate hover riders who have been damaged on the security gate, and are not punch rolling. You may need to voucher a clean-up, although it is rather unpleasant.”

  Roxanne smothered a laugh. After many years of living with the rebels, Dorian had still not mastered their rather peculiar use of the English language. Because the rebels lived in isolation from the rest of society, they still used some old time phrases. Dorian still got their colorful metaphors out of order. He’d meant to say, “The bikers were screwed because they had not rolled with the punches,” meaning they should have slid off the tracks to avoid hitting the gate.

  Dorian was a one of a kind clone prototype. He’d spent the first eighteen years of his life in slavery to the World Monetary Enterprise, the WME, as their organo-digitally enhanced human, a sort of computer/human, living in their underground military complex in the desert, near Joshua Tree. Dina, his wife, freed him during the clone games, turned him into a rebel, albeit a rather strange-speaking rebel, and married him, after first living for five years with Roxanne’s dad, Eldridge. Dina and Dorian have a daughter, Gimlet, Roxanne’s
biologically unrelated little sister, and best human friend. Rose of course, is her co-pilot and best canine friend.

  “I see what you mean. Too bad they’re stuck on the other side of the gate. Rose hasn’t had much fresh meat lately. Sorry, I forget you get queasy, Dorian,” Roxanne replied, while getting ready to nitro-purge the tanks, and do a run-up for restart.

  The scans read clean, paid up, and carrying an undamaged and fully inventoried haul load. The tunnel com voice told them to ready for passage into the next gate, to enter region #4 of the tunnel.

  “I gotta tune out now, Dorian. We’ve been cleared for entry. Send my regards to Dina. I’ll get back to you when I reach the bar.”

  “I am glad I could be of assistance, Roxanne…off for now,” Dorian replied, and the bot-com went silent. Roxanne punched the final start sequence, the rig sonics whined to on, it re-tracked to the hovers, and they waited until the next ooze slimed over them, the force shield of the actual gate into Eldridge Bubble-stop #4.

  “Oh boy, oh boy,” Rose woofed; she was ready for dinner. She was already fixated on the fresh body parts in the back cab.

  I’LL BE EATING DINNER BY HALF PAST FIVE DARK CLICKS.

  2

  IT WAS HALF PAST FIVE DARK CLICKS, five-thirty pm in pre-pandemic time, when Roxanne and Rose pulled the Ultrajock 8000 into her special maintenance-dock slot, in back of the Eldridge Smoot Bubble-stop #4 Bar and Bistro, better known as Eldridge’s Bar. Once the engine set itself to off, the maintenance nano-drones checked the rig for damage, while tuning the biomolecules, and doing a nitro-replacement protocol.

  Her rig would be ready for the remaining trip by 06:00 the next morning, although in a low-way tunnel morning is a relative term. Roxanne checked the surround vids on her cab for unwanted guests, coded in her off-time sequence, ID’ed in the open-door procedure, unlocked her rig-ryder control unit, and stepped out onto real dirt.

  It was the only dirt to be found in any bubble stop, probably in any of the low-way towns on the planet. But Eldridge did love Rose, and she had to do her business in style, which she was doing at the moment. She finished her canine bio-fertilizer deposition in a hurry, still fixated on the arm and hand tartare, awaiting her in the rig’s back cabin. Roxanne retrieved it for her, left it near the now odorous, but self-cleaning patch of dirt, and retrieved some clothes from her personal locker next to the rig dock. Inside the small changing capsule, she peeled off her orange regulation jump suit and matching head-band, quickly replacing her attire with something more off-time appropriate. Rose, of course, always looked appropriate.