Within ten minutes, Roxanne and Rose stood outside the door of the fake cedar-paneled bar, scrutinizing the clientele through the only window. Inside were the usual rig-ryders from her union, the International Rig-Ryder Enterprise union; IRE for short. To the far left sat Morton, a rather ample, freckle-faced, red-haired man, and the oldest of the rig-ryders, a level III. Roxanne had known him since she’d done route #25, from Denver to Albuquerque, back before she’d first gotten her license for the underwater rig route. That was back when Dina and Gimlet still rode with her, and with Eldridge.
Morton was still wearing his union uniform, a bright orange Inc. jump suit, resembling those pre-WME prison outfits. He was sitting at one of the larger round green formica-elite tables, reading Plato’s Republic from his bot-scriber, next to Oscar, a mid-level II rig-ryder. Oscar was drinking one of those green drink things, a Green Weenie; Eldridge loved to ply the drivers with that drink. They cost about a week’s worth of Inc. chits, but left you sure you’d had sex with whatever got your rocks off. That side of the bar looked easy, quiet, and predictable.
It was the far right table that concerned Roxanne and Rose. A bunch of newbies, the rig-ryder level I interns, had just arrived from Ryder-U for their summer training term. They’d all been through six years of University, at the graduate level of course, and were cock sure they could run the world, or at least the underwater rig-ryder universe.
You have to have a PhD in Engineering Ultrasonic Plasmon Physics and Tunnel Technology to even qualify for the job, and speak at least three languages ― languages used now on the planet, not dead ones. And the jobs are now all temp positions, not like Roxanne’s and the older rig-ryders’ jobs. Real jobs were being phased out.
Before their graduate training, most of the interns had been recruited from the Sorbonne or Berkeley; they were humanities majors, Archeohistory, Aramaic Languages, even Expressive Arts. Humanities majors made the best rig-ryders. They were the most desperate, and they provided for more interesting bar chatter, once they got over themselves.
Over qualification is a so last century concept.
“Well Rose, what do you think? Does the place look safe?” Roxanne looked down at her co-driver, who had her jaws clenched on that arm and hand. Rose was bringing her own dinner, so she just shook her head slightly, up and down, signaling to Roxanne that it was “a go” for entry into the bar. Roxanne stepped over the threshold, into the bar proper.
The place went silent.
The seniors, the level IIIs just glanced up quickly then looked down at whatever they were reading, the mid-levels looked for a little longer, and then became intent on examining spots on the table, and the group of intern newbies gawked like they just got into heaven. Because there, at the door to the Eldridge Bubble-stop #4 Bar and Bistro, stood a six-foot tall, twenty-two-year-old, fire-red haired, dressed in black real leather, with knee-length black leather boots, and whip attached to her right hip, apparition.
Did I say she also has a body to kill for? Well, for a human anyway.
There was at that moment, a serious movement of male reproductive organs into the upward, and “on” position, as the bar had a communal hard-on.
Roxanne commenced to saunter slowly to the bar, with Rose trailing behind, both ignoring the lack of commotion. She walked up to the red-haired, hazel-eyed, handsome in a blue collar sorta way, forty-five-years-old, massive, ex-rig-ryder and owner of the bar, slid onto a bar stool, gave him a kiss on the cheek and said,
“Hi Dad, I’m home. What’s for dinner?”
The clientele let out a communal sigh, as the willies went south, to their off-time positions.
“I made your favorite, Roxie honey; it’s shark soup. Gimlet sent us some apricot pie, all the way from the Ginza. I suppose you’ll want one of your Fueblaster specials first.”
Eldridge bent over and gave his only child a peck on her cheek, just below those big reflective sunglasses she always wore in public. They were a gift from Dorian. Wired with surround vids, they could be used to see in back of you, had special see-in-the-dark film, and doubled as a complete computer and entertainment center. Dorian said they also came with a heater, fold-out chair, and water-proof security shield, but Roxanne had not had time to read all the instructions yet. She figured she’d just hand the glasses to some four-year-old, and the kid would figure it out for her in three minutes.
She always wore those glasses. Roxanne never let people see her eyes, except family of course. It made the males go crazier, in particular, the uninitiated newbies who often made inappropriate advances and grabs, until she set them straight. See, under those long lashes she had a left eye that was colored like a piece of Chinese jade, and a right eye like Morenci turquoise.
“I had trouble with the pirates in #3 again, Daddy. Dorian had to sat-hack the gate. Some biker’s finger slimed the code box on my rig, so it couldn’t satellite signal the entry gate. I’ll need rig wash-voucher entry chits by tomorrow so I can finish the haul. Oh, and I’ll need a clean-up voucher for track section #22. I’m sorry; I know you were saving for Christmas. But I couldn’t ditch them, and I didn’t want the tunnel drones to fry me and those school kids.” Roxanne ran a black leather-gloved hand through that thick, fire-red, shoulder length hair. You could hear the sighs all over the room.
“You got any idea what’s going on? I mean they used to just stay off my butt. It is the bubble-stop cooperation rule, you know...don’t mess with the rig-ryders.” Roxanne helped herself to a double Fueblaster, careful to swallow it quickly and not get any on her clothes or skin.
“I’ve spent the last hour talking to Dorian about that same issue, Roxie. It’s pretty serious. I think it has something to do with the Inc. Worker Productivity Enhancement Protocol. The workers over in bubble-stop #3 think they may be the first to be replaced by robotics. They’re getting desperate, trying to do what the Inc. calls, economic self-enhancement. Dina or Dorian may pay us a visit soon, to check things out first hand. I told them to plan on having Thanksgiving right here in the bar, if they want. I plan to close it for just that day, if they do come. We got some serious stuff to discuss, and I don’t want any of the other rig-ryders nosing around. Plus, I got that extra day off to select.”
Eldridge fidgeted with his bot-com, a direct robotic communication device to contact the rebels, it resembled a glass bead and could be worn as a piece of jewelry. Dina had given him his bot-com back right before she left him to return to Dorian. It broke Eldridge’s heart when she left him. He wore his as a ring, and still missed her every single minute of the day. But, he’d come to terms with her leaving him. She was a mutant, and she really had no place in the non-mutant, normal human social order. Even being careful, the WME mutant culling patrols could eventually find her. They killed mutants on site.
“Well, I’m glad for their visit, but you still haven’t explained what the issue is with the bubble-stop #3ers and me, specifically. Why would they be after my rig, and not someone else’s? I mean Daddy, this time they were serious enough to bite it under my rig hovers.” Roxanne picked up her soup bowl to follow her dad into their back living quarters.
“Bring your dinner and come on back to my office. We can eat there, and I’ll explain things. I got a robo-bar unit to manage things for the rest of tonight,” Eldridge responded, as he scooped out two gigantic bowls of soup, and grabbed the entire pie. What Roxanne didn’t consume, Rose would finish off.
And speaking of Rose; while the conversation progressed, she had stationed herself into a “watch your back” position, at the base of Roxanne’s bar stool, exhibiting her beautiful white incisors, while loudly proclaiming that anyone approaching her rig-ryder teammate would find their facial tissues on her dinner plate. But of course it came off as, “GGGGGGrrrrrrroooow!” Sometimes Rose grew impatient with her vocal limitations.
Just as Roxanne got up to follow her dad back to their office/apartment, one of the newbie interns slid onto the bar stool next to her and said, in his best “let�
�s fuck” voice, “Hey Roxie, can I buy you another one of those?”
The place went funeral…again.
It took Roxanne fifteen seconds to remove her whip from her waistband, bestow a novel facial tattoo on the intern’s right cheek, and relieve him of his Fueblaster, which he spilled on his orange union uniform. It was now dissolving into mush. She always had to do that at least once, when a batch of newbies arrived. Otherwise, she’d be spending the summer intern training session removing hands from places on her body where the sun never shines.
The bar clientele was mute as Roxanne followed her dad into his office, with Rose at flank. Once the door to the Eldridge private quarters locked shut, the senior level III rig-ryders laughed so hard they all peed in their uniforms, the mid-levels sighed, glad it wasn’t them, and the table of level I interns looked on, perplexed but vastly terrified.
“Can you believe that newbie dumb shit,” Morton said to no one in particular, when he’d finally stopped laughing.
He had to work hard not to snort his Fueblaster into his nose. He’d lose work hours at the regen hospital with unauthorized time off for nose replacement surgery. Plus, it hurt like hell. He’d done it once. You only drank them; they didn’t belong anyplace but your esophagus and gut lining. See, a Fueblaster has special nano-crap that detects what your body requires by way of daily nutrients. You could live on them for a short time, if you had to; but get that drink on anything else or on any other cell type, and it was death by, well…something awful.
“What did I do wrong? What the hell was that all about?” the lecherous newbie protested, while cleaning the blood from his cheek with what remained of his orange union uniform. He’d have to buy a new one, or they’d deduct the cost from his minimum wage salary.
“You called her Roxie, you dumb ass. Nobody calls her Roxie; nobody except maybe her dad and her sister, Gimlet. She’s Roxanne Smoot, best senior level III underwater rig-ryder in the business, and you’d best never forget it,” Morton retorted to his idiot newbie trainee, and then he continued eating his shark soup. He was not in a good mood. Arrival of the interns meant he’d have to train them, feed them, and house them for three months, on his own time and out of his own pocket. Plus, this time one of them could be his replacement.
The shirt-less newbie joined him at the round green Formica look-alike table. “She has a sister? So what’s her sister look like?” That newbie was either really persistent, or very horny; maybe both.
“That’s her picture. It’s right there on the wall behind the bar,” Morton responded, mouth full of shark meat. He pointed to a picture of a stunning young woman, with ash colored hair, fine high cheek bones, light caramel skin, and almond-shaped deep aqua eyes. Actually her eyes were amber, and they glowed in the dark, but Eldridge had photo-botted her eyes blue, so that her mutant status would remain unknown to any WME mutant-culling officials coming to inspect the premises.
“What, but they don’t look anything alike,” newbie protested.
“That’s because they don’t have the same father or mother you fool.” Everyone in the bar laughed off the tension, and the table of remaining BS in Humanities newbies got out their bot-scribers and efficiently filed in this critical new piece of job training data.
WORKER EFFICIENCY WAS PARAMOUNT.
3
“WORKER EFFICIENCY; so, this has to do with worker efficiency? I almost bought it from some really single-minded, kill the rig-ryder pirates back in bubble-stop #3, and it was for that worker efficiency protocol piece of CEO bureaucra-bull?”
Roxanne rested her boots on the desk top; the boots she’d won from Leo Songtain in a Texas Hold’em back in grad school. She, Rose, and her dad, Eldridge were sitting in his office, right behind the main room of the bar and bistro. It was their private living space, and was actually a two bedroom and two bathroom house, furnished like a real, one hundred years ago place. For Eldridge, Rose, and Roxanne, this was home, their first and only home. Before starting the bar, Eldridge drove the up-top hauls, with little Roxanne growing up in the back cabin, in the living quarters of their rig. It was cheaper, and safer for his only child. Post-pandemic North America was pretty dangerous for about thirty years, until 43% of the total population died off from that bioengineered flu virus.
Eldridge also ran the bubble-stop #4 hotel, the place where the other rig-ryders slept while doing their down-time. It was really just a large room full of food vending machines and lid-less coffins. What with the WME cremation only rule, the coffin business had gone belly up. Eldridge cleverly purchased thirty-seven premium satin-lined coffins at an auction out in Liberal, Kansas. They now served as beds for the rig-ryders. But he had to take off the lids. Some people didn’t feel comfortable sleeping in a closed coffin, I guess.
The entire #4, and for that matter all the other under-the-ocean rest stops, were encased in giant plasmon bubbles, a town/stopover for rig-ryders, underneath the ocean floor, and used for their down-times, while hauling freight on the Trans-Pacific Underwater Tunnel tracks. Each bubble-stop had all the normal small town venues; store, hotel, school, and the required WME ecumenical church, which doubled as the whore house on weekdays. The Trans-Pacific was built as the first under-the-ocean highway, except it’s really a low-way.
“I’ve been discussing this issue with Dorian, Roxie. None of us knows for sure what’s going on with the #3ers. Dorian used one of his logistic algorithms, and all he could come up with was, the pirates from #3 got some plan to kidnap you for that bounty Leo has on you, use the gold vouchers to buy some stocks, or take over the Stem-wads® traffic and levy their own protection off-load or haul taxes. Dina thinks they want the bounty gold to buy regen stocks in the Lanai R&R facility; you know that place where the CEOs get their new faces?” Eldridge stood up to fetch a pot of coffee.
“What do they need stocks for?” Roxanne asked, finishing her shark soup.
“It would give the pirates a financial cushion if robotics did take over their jobs. They’re pissing mad about the worker productivity thing; they’re pegged for first robotic replacement, you know. They want some security money, I guess. That’s a best guess, if you want to call what Dorian does guessing.”
“But, you know that’s never going to happen, Daddy. The WME will never let non-management buy stocks in an Inc, especially R&R stocks. Nobody but management is allowed to own Inc stocks. The #3ers should know that.” Roxanne finished her soup, lowered those long legs to the cork floor, and took her bowl to the sink to wash up.
“The WME won’t allow them a cut of any action, of course; you’re right about that. The Incs never allow non-corporates to hold stocks. But these new #3ers forgot about that last time. You remember that incident at #5?”
Eldridge was sitting behind his big oak desk, the one with an eagle carved into it. It was rumored to be the original desk of Abraham Berman. He was the founder and first Mayor of Limbo, the original underground rebel city, now under ocean out in the desert near Joshua Tree. The new rebel headquarters is now at Donner Pass, high above what Dorian calculated would be the next ocean rise level. Dorian wanted to be sure his fellow clones and the mutants were safe.
Dina had shipped that desk to Eldridge as a present, after she’d left them to return to Dorian and her rebels. Eldridge was so mad at her back then that he almost dumped it. But something about the old history pre-WME just sorta charmed him. Now he loves that desk.
“Yeah, I remember; the recon/control satellite just closed off each tunnel zone and flooded the offending section with seawater; very efficient. I remember, because I was in bubble-stop #2, waiting in my rig until it was safe to re-track. They docked me seven chits for being late on my haul off-load even though it wasn’t my fault. There was no way to get past that flood. I know a bunch of us rig-ryders were really pissed. But what can you do? We’ve got no choice when it comes to Inc. decisions,” Roxanne responded, as she sat back down and shifted her long muscular legs and booted feet back onto the desk top. She’d finished h
er Fueblaster and her shark soup, the former imbibed for essential nutrients and the latter because she still loved real food.
“That’s not the way I remember it, Roxie. You were kind of a hero during that whole thing. I remember you put on one of your deep dive suits and saved the lives of over 27 kids. Did you forget that?” Eldridge asked as he starting clearing the table.
“Okay, yes well I don’t like to brag. But someone had to do something besides sit around and complain and watch those school kids drown. By then the ocean reached the top and those kids were just bobbing around, taking turns trying to suck oxygen from one of the intake tubes. I tried to tell the guards the kids were innocent, but they wouldn’t listen. It was awful.” Roxanne had stopped eating her dinner. Thinking about that episode always made her sick to her stomach.
“Well you saved that bunch, and they didn’t forget. You’re a hero over in #5, if you ever want to go there, that is.” Eldridge smiled at Roxanne. Absolutely no one wanted downtime in #5.
During the conversation Rose was at her food bowl, carefully trying to pick the shark meat out of her soup. She was getting impatient with it. She hated yampo, the GMO yam/potato Eldridge included in his shark soup, and she was getting her nose wet in her bowl.
“Really, I hate it when you don’t just take the veggies out for me. You know I’m a meatatarian, Roxanne,” Rose mumbled to her senior rig-ryder.
Gene Drifters: The Clone Soldier Chronicles-Book III Page 2
