Leo had been contacted over his personal bot-com, by an old friend of a friend from law school, that law school. He’d known the guy since they were kids, playing on the same lacrosse team back at that prep school. If his friend recommended his friend, then he’d meet with him, or rather, with his assistant. That was always the way he did business now; it was safer, made industrial espionage less likely. Leo knew a choir of other CEOs who’d sell their first born for his Stem-wads® protocol. It was more closely guarded than the coke recipe. And it made him more money. And more money could mean he could maybe entice Roxanne to come to him? Well who knows, he was still only twenty-seven, so anything was possible.
Leo’s meeting with the assistant of the friend’s friend was a bit disconcerting. He’d been expecting a male, but when he arrived at the Hotel Songtain (Yes well, why not name it after yourself?) and looked around the room, the only other occupant was a small, rather dark-skinned woman who looked to be in her mid-thirties, and maybe half native American, which would have been impossible because he’d thought they were all dead. She told him her name was Elizabeth Turner, and that she was half Indian, not the American version, but the one from the next continent over. She was nice, very intelligent, and had a great body, muscular, lean, in shape, not much taller than he was, which was very unusual, nice actually. Leo could tell she worked out.
“Mr. Songtain, it’s so wonderful to finally meet you. Robert (his friend from prep school) told me so much about you. He especially regaled me with some real bashers on your after lacrosse parties with Oldfields. Personally, I never attended a prep school. My parents preferred direct tutors then shipped me off to Oxford. It was a great education, in field agribusiness managerial techniques, but that part of the planet is still pretty wet. It rained almost daily in the UK zone.”
Leo’s luncheon business meeting associate got up from the bar to accompany him to the private, sound-security dining area at the back of the restaurant. It was his special table, made of a solid, Amazon teak tree. His personal assistant had already pre-ordered. They’d be having a Bollinger Blanc de Noirs, with some foie gras on toast, followed by some nice creamy lobster bisque, and a lamb and cilantro open-faced on sour dough, shipped fresh daily from San Fran on the push tunnel. The table was already set with the champagne on ice, and a giant slab of force-fed goose liver and truffle pate, set on a platter at center.
He ushered her to her seat, old-time gentleman style, and sat in his own chair, his back to the wall, old-time mafia style. Leo found that chauvinism usually worked on female business clients.
“I presented my research on facial regeneration there once, during The International Bioregenerative and Cosmetic Association national meeting. I believe that was about three years ago. It’s such a nasty place, so damp and wet. You must have been glad for the transfer to Las Vegas. Although I imagine it’s brutally hot there. Do you go out much?” Leo was noticing her dark skin color. Either she’d been in the sun doing field work, or she had natural or artificial melanin-enhancement. Either way, the effect was rather dramatic. She was quite beautiful, in a Nubian sort of way.
“I never go out in that area. It’s much too dangerous for humans. We use robots for outside work, as per the worker efficiency protocol. And in case you are interested, I had the melanin enhancement procedure. Dark skin is quite popular in Las Vegas at present. It’s a fad. When it’s not anymore, I’ll get the change to another color. Our algorithms suggest that could be purple-toned. But, I know your time is valuable Mr. Songtain, so let me get down to business,” Ms. Turner said as she sipped some champagne and tasted the foie gras.
His legal snake, Max had just arrived; he always shadowed him on a business deal. Max pulled out a very top of the line databot device and spoke into it in code. This had all started back about fifteen or twenty years ago, right after the Kyoto industrial espionage episode, when a group from the competing company infiltrated a clone lab and blew it up. Ms. Turner, the lovely and very efficient business assistant to the Las Vegas casino client, likewise produced and fired-up her databot, coding in a language he did not understand.
“What language was that? I am not familiar, and I can code in twenty.” Leo was curious, and careful. He touched his ear, and his more up-to-date translator device would now recalculate what she said, as extra security.
“I am so sorry. I thought we could speak in High Imperial Chinese. It’s a fashionable code language at present in Las Vegas. If you prefer, I can use another code, perhaps a Euro-tone such as Nordic.”
“No, of course, I understand that. I just can’t read it.” Leo lied. Of course, he didn’t speak High Imperial Chinese. But now, with his updated translator tuned in, her code-speak would be immediately translated. Everyone now spoke in a code when in public places. It was an essential security measure because competing industries had almost invisible minuscule spybots, those nano-drones, everywhere. In public, most businesses utilized very complex codes, which were only broken once each member of a negotiating team was back at their private, secured quarters. It was a nuisance, because sometimes you found you’d agreed to something you had not foreseen.
Leo once accidentally agreed to purchase one hundred billion vouchers worth of farmed tilapia, and it arrived on his doorstep, or rather the lobby of the Opus. That day, a bunch of Aberdeen tunnel low-dwelling sewer workers had dinner, on Leo Songtain, and he started to carry the newest generation translator and instant decoder, from then on. Plus, he now always negotiated in the presence of Max.
Speaking of which, the snake had arrived, in full Hong Kong negotiation business suit attire, accompanied by a drop dead gorgeous, tall blond, steely-eyed assistant, in four inch high heels, and a jade green skirt the size of a table napkin. She introduced herself as Irma.
“Sorry I’m late folks. Traffic on the up-top was terrible and my muni-car was stuck behind a load of flu-dead turkeys,” Max deadpanned; he actually never rode in anything but a personal limo. “It seems we will have a shortage of turkeys this Thanksgiving for the world market holiday season. I can’t understand the chimeric nature of that virus. You’d think we’d have a cure by now. Maybe we should drop another engineered version of the virus on that riff raff outside, like back at the start of the WME pandemic.” Max attempted to joke, as he removed his databot device, ran a hand through his oiled hair, and set his device to meeting mode. When he completed device activation, he glanced with black, beady eyes at the person with whom he’d be negotiating. He thought it would be too easy; she looked dumb, harmless, and female.
“Mr. Songtain, we should begin, don’t you think?” The dark-skinned beauty managed to look polite, impatient, intelligent, business-like, and sexy, all at the same time. Leo wondered how old she was, and what it would be like to fuck her. The visitor only smiled…seemingly unaware of his dirty little mind.
“Yes well, we have planned this little meeting to discuss your client’s desire to purchase our latest lot of clone soldiers. First as full disclosure, I want to make you aware that this batch did not originate from one of my client’s labs.” Max was referring to Leo, of course. They did not want the buyer thinking they’d made the clones at Stemworm, Inc. It was now highly illegal and punishable by death to make human clones of any sort, by direct command of the High College of Cardinals of the World Ecumenical Evangelical Division, Inc. (WEED, for short).The newly acquired batch of twenty-two clone soldiers had been found hiding off shore from the tip of South America, on an island appropriately named Deceit, one of the Hermite group.
“Yes, of course I am aware of their origin. My client would not be interested in a business procurement of illegal status. My client is only interested in legal, fully tagged, and controllable clones, for use as security in his casino. Have they been controlled?” Ms. Turner raised a perfectly manicured, satin-skinned hand to her shoulder-length, purple/black hair, slipping a strand behind her ear. Leo found this small gesture to be highly erotic. He was suddenly very intrigued by this woman, maybe eve
n madly in lust with her.
“For security, each clone soldier has been implanted with a fast-action controlled stem cell device, similar to what is being designed for normal human workers, to implement the worker productivity manifesto; but in this case, with a sonic brain blaster, should total elimination be desired. They were initially savage-like when first caught. They tried to escape of all things! But the WME Clonal Control Division took care of the problem with a conditioning protocol. As you are aware, these escaped clone soldiers were deemed too dangerous for human use, and were initially simply culled on contact. It was such a waste of economic potential. They are now caught, modified for control purposes, and sold on the open market as security units. We estimate that perhaps only several hundred remain available for purchase on the entire planet. As you know, with current prohibitions on human cloning, and with the general distaste for security robots, once captured and modified for control purposes, they will go at premium on the open market.” Max finished his irritable bowel-causing legal sermon, sipped some champagne, and continued.
“What is your client’s initial bid, Ms. Turner?” Max Peabody changed tact quickly. It was a legalese maneuver he’d picked up in his first position at Botsch and Vladmiri, in New York, a fast action legal group dealing in pharmaceutical stocks. Leo did not speak. He never did at these negotiations. He and Max had already worked out the deal before the meeting; knew what their bottom line was.
“My client is prepared to begin at eight hundred million vouchers,” Ms. Turner responded with efficiency, while listening to her bot-com device. The client she represented was on the other end, on a closed and coded wave. She spoke efficiently into her databot, in an entirely different code language, smiled, and closed communication.
“That is a rather unacceptable offer, Ms. Turner. This batch would go for at least ten times that price on the open market. How serious is your client’s offer? We do not have time for idle chit chat, young lady,” Max stammered. He was indignant with this crude attempt at bargaining under market. He usually did not respond so sharply to a client offer. It would upset the feng shui of the restaurant.
“I am sorry. I think you have misunderstood my client’s offer, Mr. Songtain,” Ms. Turner now spoke directly and in clear Mandarin to Leo, those wondrous eyes directed solely at him. “My client’s offer was per clone, obviously. Your legal counselor, who spoke in haste, may wish to take some relaxation time at one of your lovely hotel spas.”
Leo melted. He was thinking the same thing, only with Ms. Turner, and naked. He shook his head to get his brain back on track, and finished his champagne and lobster bisque. The personal waiter collected the dishes and brought out the lamb sandwiches, along with a Rhone.
“Well, in that case. I have spoken too rashly. I sincerely apologize to your client. The offer is quite within our boundaries. I believe we can complete this transaction at present. I will draw up the bill of transfer immediately. How does your client wish to deal the economics, Ms. Turner?” Max asked, trying to make up for his curtness; though everyone knew he’d never be able to go for sincerity.
His assistant, Irma remained motionless and mute the entire time, her eyes examining the hand painted floor tiles. She had not eaten anything. After all, she was only an assistant, for window dressing, not a primary.
“It will be by direct transfer, account to account, half now, and balance at delivery; immediate of course, and in gold-backed vouchers. Would that suffice?” Ms. Turner extended her palm, touched Max’s to complete the transaction, then closed her databot device, and prepared to leave the meeting without eating her lamb on sourdough, obviously still annoyed by the counselor’s lack of good karma. Leo was miffed at Max for possibly screwing his chances of getting this little dessert on his plate.
“That would be delightful, Ms. Turner. But, why the rush, I would like to give you a tour of my hotel, and perhaps a tour of the finer life in Hong Kong. May I take you to dinner tonight?” Leo broke with business negotiation protocol by speaking directly with the client’s assistant, rather than through Max. Max would be livid, but Leo really did not want this one getting away from him. He had some vivid images of her luscious tongue washing his entire body, very slowly.
“No, thank you Mr. Songtain, my client is a very busy individual and requires my return immediately upon completion. I am sorry, perhaps another time, when I am not working. Here is my card.” She palmed her ID onto Leo’s outstretched and now sweaty hand. He immediately had a massive hard on. There was just something about this woman that drove him even crazier than Roxanne Smoot did. Ms. Turner was gone too quickly. By the next day, he could not even remember what she looked like; very strange indeed, LIKE A MIND-FUCK.
5
“DID YOU DO A MIND-FUCK ON HIM, MOM?” Gimlet was in a Tokyo train station waiting for her ride to University, and was on her bot-com to her mother, Dina. She’d been busy studying for her final exams. Her brain felt murky, like she’d tried to stuff too much info inside. She couldn’t wait to be finished, wanted to party for days in the tunnels beneath Roppongi.
“I wish you wouldn’t swear like that. I know you get it from your dad. But he’s misusing rebel-speak and doesn’t swear on purpose, Gimlet. You shouldn’t copy him.”
Dina was stuffed into a security-hut, half way between the Songtain Hotel and the Hong Kong Central Hover Station. Security-huts, built to look like old fashioned London phone booths, can now be found on every street corner in Hong Kong. She’d walked to this one after her lunch with Leo and that horrible legal counselor, Max; she needed to be out in the open, despite the 120 degree temperature and 90% humidity outside the transit tunnels. Her lunch had gone as expected. It was so easy to gently manipulate Leo’s mind. And, as per Roxanne’s suggestion to Dorian, she’d planted a vid/audio on Leo’s hand when she palmed her fake ID.
“Sorry mom, I’ll try to clean up my language.” Gimlet frowned into her bot-com. Like most her age she could not see what the deal was with the word, fuck. It was such an old time word. I mean, if you went anyplace in the world and said, “Ok, well then, fuck it,” absolutely everyone, from saints to bio-engineers would know exactly what you meant.
“Have you finished your exams yet, Gimlet?” Dina interrupted her daughter’s thoughts.
“I finished my thirds; only one more exam to go, then vacation! I’m so fried. I never thought it would be this hard, Mom. I mean, it took great self-control not to use my mutant brain junk. You’d be proud of me.” Gimlet referred to her ability to read minds, a trait she’d inherited from her mother, Dina. She’d promised both her parents she would not use her mind reading abilities when taking University exams.
“I am always proud of you, Gim. But yes, I did mind-fuck Leo Songtain. I probably didn’t need to, but I just didn’t want to take the chance. I don’t want to have to come back here soon. I hate these away trips. It drives your dad nuts when I leave Donner Pass. He gets paranoid, like something will happen to me. Anyway it was a success. He’ll sell us the clone soldiers. They’ll be delivered to the Las Vegas hover-dock by next week.” Dina, spoke into her personal bot-com even though she was in a security-hut. She knew that no one would be able to hack her wave, but she did not want to appear unusual to any bystanders, or to the dozens of nano spy drones flying all over Hong Kong.
In Hong Kong, everyone now used security-huts for business transactions. Sometimes they were even visual-blocked and used for quick sex. Hong Kong was crowded, and everyone seemed to want to do either business, or each other.
“How much will it cost somebody?” Gimlet laughed as she spoke, rubbing her mayo and meat-food sandwich juice-covered hands on her real, old-fashioned blue jeans, procured at great cost from a student clothing store on the Ginza. She was imagining some WME ruler, who’d be wondering where that little stash of chits had gone. Dorian, the master-mind half computer of Donner Pass, her Dad, usually hacked into multiple accounts for a “borrow” this big. Gimlet had heard some really funny stories about that
from some of the older rebels; like that one time a certain CEO could not understand where the gold for his daughter’s cruise wedding had gone.
“Eight hundred million gold-backers each, for twenty-two clonies; I already cleared it with your dad. As usual he’d already estimated the costs, and selected the happy donors to the rebels’ clone soldier elimination society. What are you doing after your finals? Will you be coming back home right away, or doing some partying?” Dina, spoke softly in Hopi, looking all over for possible spy drones. She’d already fried three before she closed the security-hut door. While they could not gain entry once locked, some may have already infiltrated the plasmon-lined security hut before her entry.
“Roxanne is scheduled for down-time tomorrow night, here in Tokyo. I already made reservations for us at that eel place. Do you want to join us?” Gimlet was being polite to her mother, whom she had not seen since fall break. She turned the corner into the low-way tram station, and the signal momentarily burned out, until Dorian did a wave shift for them. He’d been listening in, wanted time to talk to his daughter and wife.
“Can you hear me now?” “Yes, you just phased out for a second. Dorian, did you want to say anything to Gim before I tune out?” Dina was on bot-multicom so that they could all talk, as a family. It was getting to be a rare occasion as Gimlet grew up, and was so busy at University, and now Dina was away on yet another stupid clonie elimination clean-up.
Dina was so tired of this. Really, she’d already lost her father Jordan, and some of her best friends in battles against these remaining pockets of clone soldiers. They had enhanced muscles, could see in the dark, had serial killer-modified brains, and like her, could read minds. Dina had made it her final rebel mission to rid the world of these beasts, for the safety of humanity, and yes, as revenge because they had killed her father.
Gene Drifters: The Clone Soldier Chronicles-Book III Page 4
