The next morning back in Tokyo at the love hotel, the door to the orchid themed room opened. Roxanne stepped out, perfectly groomed and holding the hand of someone who remained inside, someone with an orchid tattoo on his arm. They remained that way for several seconds, then he let go of her hand, she stepped out into the hallway, and the door shut. Roxanne walked softy back to the poodle-themed room, used her pass key, and walked into the room.
Rose was missing.
In an unmarked silver get-away van, a driver in a black leather jacket, with a huge teeth hole in the left sleeve, wondered if his boss, Mr. Leo Songtain, the CEO of Stemworm, Inc, would mind if the mission was modified a little. THEY HAD NOT NABBED ROXANNE SMOOT, BUT THEY DID HAVE HER DOG; HENCE THE HOLE IN HIS JACKET.
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.
One part of Michael really did want them all to make it, but the other part of him was Darwinian, survival of the fittest.
“Alright, on my count, I’m going to open the slide and ramp off on my bike. Good luck.” It was something Michael rarely said. They’d need it this time. It was a dangerous way to exit one of the under-ocean transits, but his handlers, the real ones in Israel, not Dorian, wanted these guys safe, squirreled away for future use, maybe as something similar to Michael Segev, a free agent, and a killer. He was, after all, also a rescued clone soldier; another reason for his elusiveness, and his real motive for their salvation. Like Dorian, he wanted to save his own kind.
Michael made the ramp jump look like a picnic. It wasn’t of course, and two bikers bit it, got draft-sucked onto the tracks, under those mega-ton hovers, and ionized to dust. It happened all the time, but usually it was some poor sucker trying to escape a flash freeze prison squad, or even sadder, someone trying to leave their zone illegally to try their luck at finding employment in the legal zones; someone on their way to a job fair. Michael waited at the portal until everyone arrived.
“Let’s do a head count. What do we have now, seventeen? Sorry, but that’s the best I can do. We have to leave, now! Let’s go!” Segev shouted.
Michael led the group of clonies, in shock from the loss of their friends, to the pedestrian portal into #5. It was rusty, old, not often used. People just did not go in and out of #5. Michael had been coming and going via a bribe-and-ride coupon on someone’s rig, which meant he boarded at the rig dock, carrying a vial of some human DNA as ID, not his own of course. The seventeen, now silent clone soldiers entered the slime security wall, all using fake IDs, DNA donated by twenty-two nursing home dwellers from Beit ……Moses (deleted to protect their IDs).
After the slime oozed off of them, four individuals awaited on the other side of the portal, Chad, Jason, Gimlet, and the mayor of bubble-stop #5, ready to ferry the Yac clan into what others call
ed the void. After living on Deceit, Gimlet was not sure if they’d be overjoyed or shocked. THE PLACE WAS CERTAINLY NOT AT ALL WHAT SHE HAD EXPECTED.
19
“THIS IS NOT AT ALL WHAT I EXPECTED!” Max had just opened that dead CEO’s safe deposit box in Tokyo; the one left to him by his assassinated partner, the CEO of Nutria-blend, Inc., and the target of Michael Segev’s latest hit. The box did contain a single white piece of paper, with a hand-written half-formula for the toxic rig-ryder nutria-blend, although it was a fake formula substituted by someone he knew of as Honeybuns.
But, Max also expected to find about thirty-five billion gold vouchers, the life savings of that now dead CEO. He had counted on that little bonus to enhance his supplemental annuity plan, his SAP, for his retirement. They’d agreed on it, even shook hands on it. If one died, the other got the contents of their safe deposit box, any money or luxury items, and the formula. Could no one be trusted; not even a full-fledged CEO? Did the guy blow it all on his daughter’s lunar destination wedding? Would Max be working for Leo Songtain for another ten years?
And most importantly, how should the mayor of bubble-stop #5 use this newly obtained wealth to help the Yac clan? Those were the almost simultaneous thoughts of the mayor of bubble-stop #5 when Segev handed him the CEOs gold vouchers; obviously at another location.
“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit!” Max slammed the box shut, a no-no in any bank. The com announced his vault visit was over, due to use of inappropriate banking language, and violent behavior, and that there would be an official lock-down and sleep gas dispersion, if he did not exit the vault in eighteen seconds, and thank you and have a nice day.
Gene Drifters: The Clone Soldier Chronicles-Book III Page 18
