Gene Drifters: The Clone Soldier Chronicles-Book III

by Takemoto, D. J.

  Back at bubble-stop #4, Gimlet knocked gently, only once, at the back door of Eldridge Smoot’s house. Eldridge immediately answered, opened the door, looked both ways to be sure no one was watching, then he hurried his guests into the house, shut the door, and ushered them to some green vinyl chairs in his living room.

  “I didn’t close the bar tonight, Gimlet. I gotta go back to work right now. It might look suspicious. You’ll have to make yourselves at home. Which of you is Chad?” Eldridge looked from right to left at both clones. They really were identical, in almost every way. But Gimlet knew the difference. It was in the eyes. Chad looked happy, but Jason was clearly not. He was obviously very worried about something or someone.

  “Eldridge, this is Chad Yac. He’s my, my well, I guess you’d say boyfriend.” Gimlet stammered. They all spoke softly, because the walls were too thin. You could hear several rig-ryders in the bar, arguing about a soccer match. Eldridge got up and tuned the waves to some bird song music to drown out their conversation.

  He came back to his chair, and shook hands with Chad, but you could tell he had something on his mind; something he wanted to say. Gimlet had never been in this situation, had never had to introduce someone important to Eldridge. He did not smile. It would take a while for him to accept that, 1) Gimlet had a steady, and 2) that he was a clone soldier. Eldridge felt like he had to play the stern dad role and clone crusader at the same time, and he was clearly unhappy with either role. Things were uncomfortably quiet until Jason looked sideways, at the individual who had just entered the room behind Eldridge.

  “Oh, I am sorry. This is Irma. She’s new, came with highest recommendations from a chicken sashimi place in Nagoya.” Gimlet knew he was lying. But, she was happy for both of them, because the first thing she read from Eldridge’s mind was affection for Irma, and vice versa. This was a new development. Irma and Eldridge both blushed, and Irma left to put on a pot of coffee and take whatever she was making out of the oven. It smelled wonderful, like real food.

  “Your dad was worried about you, young lady. You best not be running off like that again. He was about to tell your mom. You know what that would cause. The next time, please just com him within the agreed upon 24 hours.” Eldridge was serious. Dorian had contacted him every fifteen minutes for the 24 hours prior to finding Gimlet.

  “It’s my fault, sir. I was sort of getting in the way. It won’t happen again,” Chad responded.

  “I hope not. And no offense, but you know you can’t stay here. We got DNA drone sweeps every other day, due here tomorrow in fact. You’ll have to be out of here before then or they’ll sweep you up in a drone check. You got a plan?” Eldridge had already asked Dorian what to do with an errant daughter and two clone soldiers. Options were limited in an underwater tunnel. Dorian suggested a temporary haven in bubble-stop #5.

  “You may suggest they use hover-bikes, at drone down-time for transit to #5, Eldridge. I will arrange for someone to be there upon their arrival,” Dorian had informed Eldridge, only a few minutes before Gimlet’s arrival at his back door. Eldridge would have protested to anyone but Dorian. He owed him too much. But, stowing your daughter in #5 was a strange plan, to say the least. Eldridge had to ask for confirmation.

  “I think we got some static here, Dorian. I thought for a minute you said bubble-stop #5.” Eldridge thought he’d imagined it. But Dorian repeated the message, so #5 it was. He only hoped Dorian knew what he was doing. Although he had to admit, people did disappear quite nicely into bubble-stop #5.

  So now Eldridge had to get his adopted little girl, and her blasted clone soldier boyfriend and his look-alike, into the last place in the world any self-respecting dad would ever want their daughter to be. He hated when that happened.

  “I got some nitro-bikes out back. You’ll be going to #5. It’s your dad’s idea, so he must know what he’s talking about. You okay with that, Gimlet?” Eldridge asked.

  “What? Are you sure? I mean, wow. Okay, I guess it’s not any different than a Tokyo party tunnel, but maybe more….interesting.” Gimlet looked a little uncertain. But really she had no choice at this point. Besides, her dad would have checked it out; at least she hoped so.

  “What’s so weird about #5? I’ve been there. We all hid there right before we left to negotiate with the pirates. We would have been fine there permanently if the rest had not decided to try to get back to Deceit Island. That’s when they were captured, the rest of our family. Three of us got away to #3, but they got my wife.” Jason was speaking. That was why he was so unhappy. Everyone was silent for several seconds before he continued,

  “In #5, we met a really nice guy who helped us. He said he lives in #5, when he’s not doing business trips, or something. I’m not sure what his business is, but his name is Michael Segev. Do you know him?” Chad was speaking this time.

  That name, quite naturally, had a funeral effect in the living room of Eldridge Smoot’s house. No one knew quite what to say until Irma walked in carrying a pot of coffee and tray of recomb wheat scones filled with cheese-food. Jason and Chad each grabbed three, happy not to have to explain who Michael Segev was. Neither understood the others’ reactions to that name.

  “I thought you all would be hungry after that long trip. Eldridge told me you’ve come all the way from Lanai; that one of you got some R&R treatment there. I’ve always wanted to go there. What’s it like?” Obviously Eldridge had not told Irma the whole story.

  “It’s great, Irma. It was my first time there, too. Chad and Jason spent more time there than me. In fact, Jason was at the R&R as a patient. He had some problem with his hand; it was a work-related thing,” Gimlet said.

  “Jason why don’t you go and help Irma with the rest of dinner; she could use some help carrying things out,” Eldridge said. After they’d left, Gimlet said to Chad, “Yes, well yes, we know of Michael Segev. You’ve actually met him, the actual Michael Segev?” Gimlet asked.

  “Yes. Why, is he some vlog star or something? He seems pretty normal to me,” Chad responded through a mouth full of scone.

  “Normal? That’s not a term often used to describe Michael Segev. Let me tell you about him, he’s a unique individual, or as Dad would say, HE IS MADE OF A UNIQUE FORMULA,” Gimlet began.

  17

  “IT IS A UNIQUE FORMULA, but we’ve analyzed it. I think it can be tweaked a bit,” the scientists said to the senior ISA official.

  They were all in that usual sound-proof safe room in the basement of the Molecular Chemistry Department building of Ben Gurion University. The two scientists looked tired from their non-stop bench work over the last several weeks. Each had put in long hours at the lab, to identify the components of the toxic rig-ryder nutria-blend. Finally, using a form of tandem mass spectrometry, MS/MS, to measure mass to charge ratios, they’d been able to squeeze out the identity of the last component. Now, after working all night with their molecular models, and a map of the human brain, they knew what to do.

  “I don’t want the effects to be immediate. Make it slow. Can we do that?” the senior ISA official asked.

  “Yes, by nanoparticle release, what say, a two to three weeks release protocol? Would that suffice?” the senior researcher asked. He was taking notes on his bot-scriber.

  “Yes, but the mind, the brain must not be affected. Is that also possible?” another unnamed and forever unknown official asked.

  “Yes, neural tissue can remain undamaged. We can do that, but the individual will not be able to move much; the lower levels will be affected,” the other scientist responded. He was the molecular modeler, the one who had come up with the prototype.

  “Good. How soon will the product be ready?” the unknown day bakery job individual asked.

  “In several weeks; but we will only have a small batch, enough for one or two individuals. Have all the current targets been identified? We don’t want just anyone drinking the stuff; the effects will be permanent,” one scientist said.

  “That is not your concer
n. Just make a single batch, enough for the one to two individuals, and have it ready by next week,” the official replied.

  “How do you want it delivered?” another official asked. She was responsible for logistics.

  “There are still thirty cases of the original, tainted rig-ryder nutria-blend out in the public. We don’t want this modified version to be confused with the tainted drinks. We are still working on finding and destroying those bottles. Label this new drink, CEO-special-formulated nutria-blend. It must be distinctive enough not to be confused, yet not so different as to raise suspicions. Has someone told the IRE, the rig-ryder union about the tainted drinks?” the senior official asked.

  “Yes, of course. That was done before any of the tainted product was distributed by the Inc. But a few toxic cases are still out there somewhere. Luckily our asset in the field discovered the plan in its early stage. A few did drink it once, but they appear to remain unaffected. We sent two assets into the Inc. to deal with the issue. It’s how we’ve pinpointed the individuals responsible for this mess. One has been dealt with. The second will be used as an example, to deter any future attempts by the WME to kill off workers for robotics replacements. We will be sure they know how this goes down.

  “What do you want us to do with the tainted product if we find it; the bottles already out in the public?” a senior TSA asset asked. She would leave that night, on a search and destroy mission to find the toxic drinks, and get rid of the evidence.

  “Unfortunately, getting rid of the poisoned nutria-blend has been an issue. Our initial ocean dumping was a serious mistake. We have some fishing issues,” the senior TSA responded.

  “What now?” the asset asked.

  “Well, bilge dumping into the sewers does not appear to be a problem. Our contacts at Lanai Sewer City tell us the bilge #1 and #2 nano bacs seem quite happy to eat it. But, we can’t dump into bilge #3; it’s too late in the food production process. So, we’ve changed our dumping procedures to bilge #1 and #2, only. Of course we had to compensate the sewer city officials. I had our partners in North America send over enough vaccines to last quite a while. I hope no problems arise there or we’ll have trouble in sewer city.” The senior official responded as she commed her driver to pick her up for return to Shin Bet Headquarters.

  “Why not send them food? Oh right, they reprocess their own; very efficient,” the senior scientists spoke.

  “Yes, but medicines, especially those vaccines were appreciated. We have a permanent ally in Lanai Sewer City. That could come in handy in the future.” The asset was now speaking. She had negotiated the deal with the sewer citizen council the previous week, right before she turned into Honeybuns.

  “Ah good, we can always use new allies. Let me know when you’re ready with this special batch. One asset remains on sight for delivery. He’s anxious to complete the mission,” the senior official replied as he packed up his files and prepared to leave. The limo had arrived.

  “Is the agent who I think it is?” another asset asked. “Most likely, though you know I will neither confirm nor deny; he may have a personal stake in this, a vendetta. The initial product almost reached someone he cares about,” the official replied.

  “Do we have any idea where he is, or how he’ll carry this out?” the scientist asked.

  “Of course not, he’s a free agent; always has been. He won’t work any other way, and he’s the best. And besides, even if I did know, you know I’d never answer that question,” the Shen-Bet official said his goodbyes, then left for his waiting and heavily guarded convoy back to headquarters.

  The scientists returned to their research lab on the third floor, taking that special back lift, the one only opened by a long code and the appropriate DNA ID.

  “Strange, I didn’t think that agent cared about anyone,” one scientist mumbled to the other, on the way up from the basement.

  “Strange things do happen,” the other responded.

  Back in Eldridge’s kitchen, Gimlet tried to explain the official report on #5.

  “Bubble-stop #5 is, well, it’s not a normal place. No one goes there. It’s where all the undocumented people go, to hide out.” Gimlet was seated at the kitchen table, finishing dinner. “You tell me you actually stayed there, and met Michael Segev. Are you sure we’re talking about the same place and same guy?” Gimlet asked Chad as they ate dinner.

  Irma made a fabulous ground seagull roast, seasoned with something from a bottle marked “Thanksgiving Spices.” The seagulls were trapped three times a year as they flew over from Hawaii. By the time they reached the hydroponics pods floating atop #4, they were exhausted. It wasn’t much of a hunt, but the #4ers only took what they needed. They considered it a holiday treat, after eating shark meat the rest of the year. Eldridge used to complain that global warming had reduced the lower level workers’ world to humans, sharks, pigeons and seagulls, and cockroaches; unless you were a higher up, of course. Then you simply cloned what you ate.

  Irma served the seagull roast slathered with some brown sauce over the top, reconstituted from a bag of gravy powder. It was washed down with a real dark red Malbec, a pilfered gift from Dorian, care of a lucky hit on a desert supply blimp heading into Las Vegas.

  “Yes, it’s not as bad as you may think. But, you do have to understand, Jason and I are used to living under pretty simple conditions on Deceit. So I guess I might not understand what current society refers to as strange things. I mean, in the back zone they do have a bunch of un…”

  “We don’t use that word here, son,” Eldridge interrupted. He looked terrified, like Chad was about to tell him a bunch of headless zombies lived in bubble-stop #5. And everyone knew that was not possible. If they had zombies in #5, they’d for sure all have their heads still on them.

  “Sorry sir.” Chad looked puzzled. He figured he had a lot to learn about current societal niceties out in a WME-stratified world.

  “What Eldridge means is we don’t talk about that particular group of humans. I know what you were going to say. Believe me, everyone is terrified of them. I mean, some people say if you even mention their name, it will rub off on you; you’ll become like them. They’re the worst population of, I guess humans, on the entire planet. We hear reports on them all the time. The WME constantly reports on their numbers, what percent they are of the total population, how long the group has been that way and why. Luckily, the numbers appear to remain constant, like it’s just the same permanent group. I know it’s silly superstition, but still….” Gimlet helped herself to some yampo soup with shark meat, a leftover from the previous night.

  “It’s not a silly superstition, Gimlet. I’ve heard how they are. Well, okay at least I’ve read about it. It’s just terrible to behold. The news media says once they get that way there’s no cure.” Irma looked truly terrified, so she tried to change the subject.

  “Well, did everyone get enough to eat?” she asked, trying to smile. “Would you like some more coffee?” Irma held up a pot, filled with some Kona, something Chad had brought from Lanai. Despite being chased by the pirates, he’d managed to grab a bag from his office before running through the sewer tunnels. Eldridge thought at least he had his coffee priorities straight.

  Chad and Jason looked around the table, perplexed. They did not see what the issue was; both had grown up watching humans grown in test tubes, getting wings put on them for experimental purposes, or getting flushed if they turned out wrong, so what was the deal with some uns, whatever they were? Chad knew he’d have to explain his early life to Gimlet. It would take a while for her to understand the life of a clone, even though her dad was one.

  After dinner, Irma got up and started to clear the table, smiling at Eldridge with genuine affection. She looked positively gorgeous; her new face looked like that dark eyed movie star, and Eldridge obviously adored her.

  “You’d best get going. Drone down-time starts in 45 minutes. You can race the clock to #5 on the side road next to the tracks. Just be sure to ride straigh
t. Those passing rigs pull quite a draft. Dorian has already sat-hacked you some tunnel ID passes, but any drones will be DNA checking. They only use DNA data, as you know. It’s impossible for even Dorian to re-program a thousand itty bitty drones flying all over the tunnel.” Eldridge handed them all their IDs, then got up to help carry the dishes to the sink. He did not want to appear impolite, but having two clone soldiers to dinner would take some getting used to on his part.

  “Thanks Eldridge. I really appreciate the help. Irma, it was so nice meeting you. I hope to see you at Thanksgiving dinner. Is that still on, Eldridge?” Gimlet asked as she got up to leave, grabbing some food balls from a bag in the cupboard. “Yes, of course. But, let me talk to your dad about the others. I’m sorry guys, but Dina will be here, and you know she gets kinda pissy about clones, to put it mildly.”

  “No explanation needed, Eldridge. I’m not sure I’m ready to be introduced to Gimlet’s mother quite yet,” Chad responded as he followed Gimlet out the door. They looked back as Irma and Eldridge waved goodbye, and Gimlet noticed Irma was holding Eldridge’s hand. They looked so happy; it looked like maybe he’d get over Dina. And that thought made Gimlet happy.

  The three walked to the back area of #4; the hoverbikes were exactly where Eldridge said they’d be, out near the pedestrian entry portal to the neutral zone. It was usually only used by #4ers who expected visits from relatives and wanted to meet them in person when they exited their rigs, like on a holiday or something. Gimlet noticed both bikes were fully nitro-charged. They’d need the speed to outrun the check drones. She climbed into her ride suit, absolutely a must at 300 miles per hour, or you’d get impaled by anything flying from a rig. Chad noticed the helmets were first class, the latest night vision, reverse-vid types, with coms to converse while driving. And yes, they also protected your head.

  “Can you ride a hover bike, Chad?” Gimlet asked.

  “Yes, we learned to drive hoverbikes under the tutelage of Michael Segev, while in bubble-stop #5. They have quite a race track there, on the second level.” Chad mounted his bike, waited for Gimlet to climb in back of him, buckled up, and took off like they were trying to outrun a bunch of terrorists in the Golan Heights. That was a good thing because they could hear the buzz of the check drones about fifty miles behind them all the way.