Gene Drifters: The Clone Soldier Chronicles-Book III (2 page)

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.

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.