Chad had approached the pirates with his plan the previous month. The pirates of #3 dearly wanted a piece of the regeneration market at Lanai; especially after they found out they’d been targeted by the Inc. for robotic outsourcing. They needed the funds to live, for citizen job skill enhancement, for vaccines; the list went on and on. Bubble-stop #3 was underwater, right off the coast of Lanai, the Refresh and Restore Spa and Retreat Island, R&R Island for short. It was the world famous resort for CEOs and their families to go have their faces, bodies, even organs swapped for cloned replacements.
Sitting in their tiny Inc-controlled underwater bubble-town just off the coast of such wealth must have driven the citizens of #3 to their current, less than legal actions…or at least some of them. That was why they’d insisted on going for Roxanne Smoot, first. She hauled a full load of Stem-wads® eastbound, and they’d go for big chits on the Blacks, enough to procure R&R shares big time, get a small piece of the action-game for the pirates.
Plus, there was the added huge bounty placed on Roxanne for live delivery to Mr. Leo Songtain, that Stemworm CEO. What they did not appreciate was the iron hold the Incs had on stock ownership. It was a capital offense, life-long flash freeze to sell stocks to non-corporates. It would upset their economic levels. Chad had agreed to kidnap Roxanne from her rig, splitting the bounty with the pirates. But he knew the stocks would be out of the question. He just wanted to get Dorian’s attention.
Well that had gone really well. He had no idea the rigs were so carefully secured from entry. His two clone brothers, Jason and Saul involuntarily provided a hand and arm dinner for Rose, Roxanne’s legendary flesh-eating Doberman co-pilot. He’d had to dig into his dwindling emergency stash to get Jason an ID for entry to R&R for hand regeneration procedures. Saul had bled to death from loss of his arm, before they could get him to a regen-station. Chad still worried that Jason would get ID’ed as a clone and culled. It would be another two days before his hand replacement was complete; before the cooking was done. Then he and Chad had to find the rest of his clan, to help them escape before delivery to certain “Death by Dina Nampeyo.”
So in the meantime, he’d suggested an alternate plan to the pirates, snatch Gimlet from the party tunnel, and trade her for Roxanne. Snatching someone from the Nipon party tunnels was always easy. And he knew Roxanne would volunteer herself to rescue Gimlet. Then Leo’s bounty for live delivery of the object of his obsession, Roxanne Smoot, would bring about a billion gold vouchers to buy up some unlisted stocks from the Blacks, or at least keep the #3ers in food and vaccines for a while.
But, maybe he could negotiate a stock buy with Dorian. Chad had met a guy who dealt in unlisted stocks, trading them for legits; he was an Israeli, Chad thought. Frankly he didn’t care that much about the pirates or their stocks. He just wanted an audience with Dorian, to ask for a truce between the rebels and the clones. But after his brief mind read of Gimlet, he wasn’t so sure Dorian would want to interfere with his wife’s crusade against the clone soldiers. And Chad didn’t exactly relish the possibility of coming in contact with Gimlet’s notorious, evil mother.
At present, he was unsure of what to do.
While Chad ruminated on his options, Gimlet finished her pancakes glopped in coconut syrup. She had to admit he was a great cook; the pancakes were light and fluffy, almost as good as the ones Eldridge made. Speaking of which, she hoped Roxanne or Eldridge had been alerted to her gone missing status. Surely they would send out an alert to the tunnel security, or even the WME.
No, Roxanne and Eldridge usually wanted nothing to do with the WME. Plus, if her kidnappers had done nothing off limits for tunnel haul regulations, the Inc. would be loath to investigate. They allowed the #3ers some leeway, as long as hauls went untouched. And, grabbing up a university student from one of the party tunnels happened every now and then. They usually showed up at one of the pleasure house auctions within the week. If some high-up guy logged a missing kid complaint, the potential slave was found and returned to his or her family, used but unharmed.
Someone was unlocking the outer door. Gimlet knew it was not Chad Yac. He had a different smell. This guy smelled of fried fish and essence of Green Weenie Cocktail. The next door unlocked, but the guard was careful to lock both after him. Of course the problem, or rather the gift was that he had that key around his neck. Gimlet pretended to be asleep.
“Well, look what we have here. You’re a beauty, sugar buns. Bet you’d go for full deal at the pleasure auctions. Maybe that’s what Chad has in mind for you. You’d fetch maybe ten million in chits in Hong Kong. Some upper CEO’s gonna love that cute little body. Let me just take a closer look under that t-shirt. I won’t touch, just look.”
Weasel-face stepped closer, stretching out an arm to raise Gimlet’s t-shirt. It only took five seconds. It was that round the hand grab maneuver her rebel trainer had taught her during her training at Donner Pass. You found the pressure point at mid wrist. They all took the course at the rebel training center; how to escape, if caught. They even showed you how to look especially appealing to some dirty, smelly weasel-faced guard who’d been drinking Green Weenies.
She grabbed his hand and broke it at the wrist, with a quick back-snap, wrapped one shackled leg around his waist, and brought him close enough to bite a hole in his right cheek. This drew him closer in, with her teeth clenched around his facial tissues, so she could use her other hand to grab at the chain and get an angle on the key, or rather the keys. There were two. The dumb ass had also brought in the shackle keys, probably thinking he’d lock her into a spread eagle and have a fast action dong-bong.
Gimlet drew him in closer with her teeth firmly planted into his cheek, used her other hand to clamp his neck, and held him in her arms until he passed out. By the time he came to, covered in cheek meat and his own blood, he was shackled and locked in the cell, with one of his socks stuffed in his mouth, and Gimlet was dancing on her bare toes down the concrete hallway.
She turned a corner and ducked into a door when she heard some men coming in her direction. Turning around she discovered she was standing directly in front of Chad, who was seated at his desk going over some vid data, and drinking a cup of Kona.
“What, did you want another cup of coffee?” Chad pressed a button under the desk and the door locked behind her.
Gimlet dove for his throat, using a standard knife hand punch. But Chad was faster, and stronger. She noted he had the kind of body that would kill an unprotected quarterback. He twisted sideways, grabbed her wrist, twisted it back to come around behind her, and wrapped an arm around her neck, and a leg around her right leg. If she tried to get away he would deck her.
(Just a note for my readers, at this point: While I do exchange bodily fluids with my rig-ryder pilot Roxanne, occasionally in a canine-to-human show of friendly affection, I wanted to be sure that the following section of my story was told from a human’s point of view. We canines do not share the human fascination with foreplay. Thus, this portion has been included verbatim as dictated by Gimlet, with only a change of tense and obviously some shortening in length. I do not want to take credit for something not written by myself, as I have a fetish for copyright accuracy.)
[Gimlet and Chad were at an impasse. If she let go of him, he would drop her to the floor, and if he let go of her, she would probably twist around and seriously jeopardize his future reproductive capacity.
Chad turned his head toward Gimlet’s face for a second, and before he knew what had possessed him, he kissed her, full on the lips, pushing his tongue deep into her mouth. He just could not seem to stop himself. Gimlet was so stunned, that for a second, she thought of this as her moment for action. But then, she sort of just felt some warmth down there, and didn’t pull away…for longer than was normal…for a prisoner…who was supposed to be trying to get away…and should not be thinking what she was thinking…when she was with someone who could read minds.
When they stopped for only a second, they both just look
ed at each other, totally surprised. She nudged his left leg behind his knee, causing him to sit back on the desk, and then wrapped her long, muscular legs and bare feet around his midsection. Chad held her under that grey soccer club t-shirt, cupping her entire backside in one hand, rocking her gently back and forth, stamping out any space between their two bodies, noticing she had nothing on under that shirt.
He had big hands and fine long fingers that could reach all the way from her cradled backside, between her legs, to her now very wet and hot front side. And he used those fingers, exploring every opening deeply, as he continued to move her back and forth across his massive hard on.
Gimlet held on to his neck with one hand and reached for his pants with the other. He was wearing those old army fatigues, the kind she’d grown up wearing as a rebel. She knew where all the buttons and snaps were, could undo them in her sleep. Chad raised himself up just a little, to help her lower his pants, and lifted Gimlet onto him, sliding slowly into a wondrous warm wet heaven.
They’d already decided that the place was far too warm for t-shirts. Theirs were on the floor. He kept one hand cupped on her backside and another for her neck, face, whatever he could find. They slowly rocked, he back and forth, and she, up and down.
The room was silent except for the synchronized clicking of an old clock on the desk, and the buzz of the air channel, blowing oxygen across their tight, sweaty, close bodies. They could hear the guards walking by, but no one would dare disturb the boss. His thrusting motion grew more intense, as he pushed deeper into her. THEN QUITE SOME TIME LATER, THEY BOTH LET OUT FAINT MOANS.]
8
ROXANNE LET OUT A LOW, FAINT MOAN. She was watching Joster through the portal; the rig was still on auto, and Joster was gay. That was good, because that moan would have given a straight guy a boner. Roxanne and Rose knew it was why he’d been sent as the messenger. He’d get the story right without going all nuts for Roxanne.
“Oh no, I can’t believe it. Leo Songtain’s going to pay for this so bad.” Roxanne was livid. Joster could not tell which eye looked angrier, the jade green one, or the turquoise eye. He thought it made her look strange.
“Roxanne, you’ll need to belay that thought for now. The auto light just turned red.” Rose pointed to the panel with her paw, letting Roxanne know that her regulation five minute auto-pilot pee break was about to reach max time. If she did not switch to human drive, the Inc. would get all hairy and think she’d passed out or had fallen asleep on the job.
If they had to send a drone to check things out, she’d be in serious financial trouble. She’d already cost Eldridge for the rig and track clean-up, and could not afford any more chit docks. Roxanne reached over and plugged the auto to the off position. A robot com voice told her politely that she was welcomed back to the control panel, and that her next union contractual benefits pee break would be in three hours.
“I’m not sure it’s Leo who grabbed her, Roxanne. We’ve been watching her Leo-tail for the past week. That white guy is gone, but his tracer says he’s in the back of a rig heading to Hong Kong. I know that sounds like he’s got Gimlet in tow. But her tag beeped the opposite direction; that is, until it tracked to off in the underwater tunnel.” Joster spoke quickly.
He had to exit the rig at the next upcoming port, and head back to Tokyo before the tunnel security drones noticed his presence. He’d illegally entered the tunnel and the detection drones passed overhead every fifteen minutes. If they caught him, he’d be flash-frozen in a security prison, probably for two years. That’s the max for a first time tunnel offense.
“You tagged Gimlet? Why did you do that? She’ll be livid when she finds out. You know she won’t even allow her parents to tag her. Where did she enter the tunnel?”
Roxanne watched the rig controls as she peppered Joster with questions. She was going over her meager options. Unfortunately, having just left #4, she was hauling westbound, and she was about to enter the bubble-stop #5 zone, the one just before Tokyo. She would have stopped at the next bubble-stop, but absolutely no one ever stopped over at #5. It had that weird thing going on. But that’s another story. On the return trip eastbound, she was not scheduled to stop at #4 either. In fact, eastbound, she’d be on the tracks until #2 came up, midway between Hawaii and San-Fran-Bubble-stop #1.
“I suppose contacting Dina or Dorian is out of the question, given their likelihood of an overkill response.” This time Rose was speaking. Of course Joster had no idea what she’d said so Roxanne had to translate before Joster could answer.
“She disappeared near the Tokyo tram entry port, at the Mitzukoshi exit. And contacting Dina or Dorian is definitely out of the question, Rose. We’d have WWIII on our hands. Besides, what if she just decided to hook up with someone for the weekend? I mean, Gimlet’s not celibate you know. And to answer the other question, we all agree to be tagged for entry into the party tunnels. It started to be a university requirement when that rich guy’s daughter got grabbed and showed up in Hong Kong, drugged and labeled for a sell as a pleasure slave.”
Joster was immediately sorry he’d added the part about Gimlet and celibacy. Both Roxanne and Rose looked at him like he’d told them Gimlet had toxic waste syndrome. He had to remember that Gimlet was Roxanne’s little sister, well sort of. He knew Gimlet had been adopted into the Smoot family, but did not know much else about her early childhood, growing up in the back cab of an up-top ground rig.
Joster did wonder sometimes about Roxanne though. She was never seen with a man, or woman for that matter. He knew that Tokyo had a loose way of handling sex, but surely even underwater rig-ryders like Roxanne had their off time fun too. But he had not even heard rumors, unless you counted the crazy jokes about Leo Songtain’s obsession with her. No, he’d never heard anything of the romantic sort about Roxanne, despite her huge entourage of slobbering wishful male admirers.
“I’ll send a com to Dad. Maybe he can check things out on the rig-ryder gossip circuit. He hears a lot in his bar. Maybe someone saw something, or heard something. But if she doesn’t turn up in 24 clicks, I’ll have to inform Dina and Dorian despite the possibility of overkill. Rose, watch the panels while I contact Dad. Joster, your exit is approaching. I can’t stop. Is your bike still sucked to the back fender?” Roxanne opened her rig-ryder official Inc. bot-com to Eldridge and told him what had happened. Unfortunately he hadn’t heard a thing about Gimlet. But he agreed not to tell Dorian or Dina for the time being.
Joster got up and re-oozed himself back into his jacket and safety suit. “Yeah, I gotta go. I’ll contact you when you reach #2, with good or bad news.”
He climbed back into the rear cab and scaled the ladder to the porthole, scurried out the small opening, which sealed shut behind him, and crawled over the top of the rig; it was no small accomplishment at 300 miles per hour. His bike was still suctioned to the rig’s butt fender, so he climbed on, accelerated to matched speed, then detached his bike and rode off towards the exit portal of bubble-stop #5. It was his least favorite place on the planet, but he was only just going to make the U-turn and head back to Tokyo, taking the side bike tracks. He’d be back in time for the night’s tunnel party.
“I told Dad what was going on. He hasn’t heard anything, but he’s going to ask around and get back to me. I guess that’s all we can do for now.” Roxanne turned her attention back to the control panels, because after their download and return trip, they’d be back in the #3ers zone, possibly fighting off some pirates again.
After about ten minutes of silence, Rose finally had to say it.
“You could contact him, you know.”
“Don’t even mention it,” Roxanne had that look on her face again. Rose could never figure out if it was pride, fear, anger, or just plain old embarrassment.
“Why not? You know he’d get the job done. I just don’t see…” Rose did not get to finish.
“Because it’s not happening, that’s why. No, I won’t.” Roxanne said it softly, so Rose knew she had a fo
ot in the door. Maybe she’d bring it up again later.
I should backtrack, and explain.
The “him” referred to in the above conversation refers to one Michael Segev. He is probably the most feared person on the planet. He should be feared. It is well known that every group, rebel or ruler, needs someone to do the job, you know, the kill. I would say elimination, but that really does not adequately describe what Michael Segev does. He is the current designated killer, the alpha, for the rebels of Donner Pass Mountain; which means he replaced the legendary former alpha, Robert. If you know anything about the original rebel security chief and slightly psycho Robert, you understand something of Michael Segev.
Michael Segev is to Roxanne Smoot, what Basel St. John was to Brenda Starr. Except Basel disappeared into the Amazon jungle to seek out a mysterious and rare black orchid, while Michael Segev disappears to some place no one knows about, to confiscate a life.
Let me backtrack yet again.
For those who are post-pandemic, Brenda Starr was a comic book character. If you still don’t understand, I would suggest Youndry’s Parchment Entertainment Publications, Pre-WME, which can be called up on any archival bot-com device, after deposit of chits for purchase of a Spindle from Tweekling, Inc.
As far as I know, no one knows of the connection between Roxanne and Michael Segev, except for the aforementioned Eldridge, and of course me, Rose Smoot. Every so often, say three to four times per year, Michael Segev shows up someplace where Roxanne just so happens to be, and well, being a canine and not a human, I won’t go into it.
Roxanne never contacts Michael directly, though he did present her with a birthday present of a direct link bot-com tattoo, in the image of, understandably, a black orchid. He has an identical one. To my knowledge, she’s never used hers, and he’s never used his. She’s probably the only other person who can contact Michael Segev, except for Dorian; who in old parlance is referred to as his controller. From my understanding, that is the way Michael prefers it. And, one always takes Michael Segev’s preferences into serious consideration.
Gene Drifters: The Clone Soldier Chronicles-Book III Page 8
