Gene Drifters: The Clone Soldier Chronicles-Book III (17 page)

Finally, after two small countries had gone bankrupt from
the cost, all sides would point fingers, especially during the up-coming
election campaigns.

The sandwich eating Peoria secretary was given an award for
ideal employee of the year, and promoted to the position of Assistant Manager
of Human Resources.

They were all wrong, of course. Only Roxanne had opened her
eyes before the drones almost bit them all into oblivion. She was trying to
re-latch the bilge portal after the real Chad almost flew out at them; she was trying
to keep the pirates from exiting the sewer tunnel.

They were all wrong because they had not examined that very
tiny region of the vids off to the far right, behind the desalination storage
tank, next to that crate of cat food balls bound for Beijing. But Roxanne saw
what she saw…a hand, gripping a Glock, connected to a silencer; it was nothing
else, just a hand, with what looked like the beginning of a black orchid
tattoo.

When she came to her senses, she noticed her circle of
guards were all dead; single shots to the center forehead, each one.

It was clean, a mass execution.

It was something only possible by one individual, at least
that she knew of. She called out to him, in a whisper. But by then, Gimlet and
the others were dragging her away, back to the rig dock, with only four minutes
to spare before that required rig haul re-track. As they climbed through a hole
in the wire fence, Gimlet heard the guy with the black orchid tattoo say,

“TELL DORIAN, MAX PEABODY IS NEXT.”

                                                           
                           
15

“WHAT IF I’M NEXT? What if someone tries to kill me?” Max looked
down at the Carrera marble floor, pacing back and forth in his inner office,
the one within the outer office that took up the entire 27
^th
floor
in the Songtain Building, in Hong Kong, with the giant wall of windows overlooking
the harbor.

It was that office.

The floor had been ripped from some historical villa in the
south of Italy, and set intact into Max’s office. At present he was not admiring
his floor, or any of his ten latest illegal purchases from the Louvre black
market.

Max had just received word of the demise of the Nutria-blend
Inc. CEO, at the Kabuki-za in Tokyo. He knew it wasn’t an accident.

“Stupid idiot! It has industrial espionage written all over
it. I told him to lay low until the product was in place. I told him not to
appear in public. I told him someone would find out and target us. Shit, shit,
shit, shit, shit! Now they’ll have an official WME legal investigation; they
always investigate when a CEO bites it.”

“Calm down Maxie, you’ll get your blood pressure up. You’ll
work it all out. Everything’s going to be alright. You always work everything
out.” His latest assistant was naked and spread eagle on Leo’s backside, giving
him a massage with her tongue, over the spots where she’d spanked him several
minutes prior.

Max had purchased her the previous week, at top voucher from
the sex slave commodities market. He usually stole his assistants off the
streets; it was much more economically efficient. But she was his birthday present
to himself, a replacement for Irma, and she was so much nicer. He had no idea
what her real name was, as market commodities always came with new and glitzy names.
Her market name was Honeybuns, and she had them.

Honeybuns was the absolute opposite of Irma, dark curly
hair, dark brown eyes, perfect sculpted body, and a wide sunny smile. It was
that smile that gave him pause, made him pay real gold vouchers for her, at the
sex slave auction.

Max was tired of frowns. Everyone was always frowning at
him, his client, Leo Songtain, his staff, his security guards, and especially
Irma. He was glad he’d given Irma away to that client in Tokyo the previous
week. Let the client deal with Irma’s frowns; she could frown all over his
stupid Las Vegas casino for all he cared. He never knew what Irma’s problem
was, why she always frowned at him. What was her problem? He gave her nice
clothes. He fed her. What more did she want?

He had not asked Honeybuns about her prior history; why she
smiled so nicely at him. Max supposed it didn’t matter. But still, sometimes he
liked to know things about his sex assistants, in case he wanted to tease them.
Or sometimes, if his assistant was especially nice to him, he’d send a small
gift, like flowers to her family. Irma didn’t have a family. And anyway, although
she was beautiful she was quite cool towards him; she was always frowning. In
contrast, Honeybuns really got into him, smiled all the time. He liked that.
Maybe he’d send her family some flowers. Yes, flowers were just the thing to
brighten up a hut in the lower zones, or an apartment in one of the sewer
cities, or wherever she came from.

Naturally, it never occurred to Max that Honeybun’s family
might live in a kibbutz near the Israeli border, or that the flowers he bought
for his female sex slaves were grown in greenhouses in that kibbutz, or that
Honeybuns was not her real name, or even that she was an agent for the Israeli
Mossad.

“I suppose you’re right, Honeybuns. But, you’re not trained
like I am. I know about espionage spy stuff. Competing industries will stop at
nothing to get that nutria-blend formula. Plus, it’s especially altered. We
have a plan.” Max rolled over and looked at Honeybuns, raising one eyebrow in
genuine, two-year-old intrigue mode.

He knew she’d take the bait. Then, he’d demand something
outrageous before he told her about anything. It was not a danger. He’d made
sure all his market commodity sex assistants were not very smart. Smartness was
not what he was after in his sex assistants. She had to be beautiful, look
great in or out of clothing, be available for sex at all times, with him or a
client, and most important, she had to be malleable. He liked them obedient.
Max guessed it was because he spent so much time kissing Leo’s ass. As Leo
Songtain’s legal, he kissed a lot of ass. So why not get an assistant who did
the same for him, especially with her tongue, like right now?

“Oh, puleeese tell me about your plan, Maxie. I’ve got to
know. I hate secrets.” Honeybuns pouted, whined, smiled, sucked, and touched
until Max was sweaty all over and willing to divulge even the passwords to his
offshore accounts, if she asked. He even let her hold his special ring of keys,
the ones to his bank boxes.

But the dam bot-com chimed, and it was Leo Songtain, and he
could hear his senior legal assistant coughing outside his office to get his
attention, and well, work was such a bitch!

“I can’t tell you now, Honeybuns. Maybe later, if you…” Max
whispered something scandalous in her ear. She looked wide-eyed, then laughed
that tinkling cute baby laugh of hers, and lightly slapped his butt.

“OOOOO, Maxie, you are so naughty,” Honeybuns said, as she
handed the ring of keys, minus one, back to Max, and got up to put on the red
and white polka dot robe he’d demanded she wear at all times, when not naked. He
never noticed the missing key, because the bot-com chimed again and Max knew
he’d have to pick up; it was Leo Songtain.

“Yes Mr Songtain, what can I do for you, sir? What? How late
will the shipment be? Do you wish me to work this out with the client? Perhaps
we can add another small bonus due to the late delivery. I have several in
mind. Oh yes, I suppose that one would be just the thing. No Mr. Songtain that
will not be a problem. Yes Mr. Songtain, I’ll be by tomorrow morning for our
usual stock go over. Yes, I will deliver the bonus in person today, fine, goodbye
Mr. Songtain.”

Max was unhappy.

Leo Songtain wanted him to send Honeybuns to that clonie
buyer in Las Vegas, as a bonus for late shipment of the product. Evidently one
of the hover trains had derailed, and large shipments, such as a cargo of clone
soldiers, were backlogged for two days. The client had demanded Honeybuns as a
bonus for late delivery. He supposed he’d have to give her up, given the
delayed goods. Plus, they were still three clones short. That security guy had
not been able to find them, and no one wanted to sell theirs. It seemed the
word had gotten out. Clones were a hot commodity. Max would have to throw in
some refund vouchers and bury the evidence from his client, Leo.

The Lanai R&R management figured out how to use those
clones for most anything and well, you can imagine where that went; sex-ramped clonies,
with almost limitless ability to “stay in form” so to speak. Max wished he had
that gift. He hadn’t told anyone about his little issue, but he planned to get
that stem cell willie-wonker treatment on his next vacation, in Las Vegas of
course. They had the best weenie clinic in the world. Max was interrupted from
his self-conversation by the return of Honeybuns, now clad in her polka dotted robe.

“What was that about, my sweet Maxie baby?” She smiled. Yes,
she was really sweet, and sincere, and not very smart. Max thought he could
probably tell her anything, even the truth, and she wouldn’t even understand
it. He would hate giving her away. But, keeping his major client happy was the
bottom line.

“It was Leo Songtain. Go back to your room, Honeybuns. Dress
in outfit #24, and have the hair doer person, whatever her name is, fix you up.
Tell her I said, “Meeting a new client” mode. Can you remember that? Just tell
her those words; she’ll know what to do. Then you march right back here and
wait until I come get you. Oh, and eat something. Here, take this sack of my
dog’s food balls. I don’t want you hungry during the meeting. You understand?”
Max asked, and patted her butt.

“Yes, Maxie, whatever you say.” Honeybuns exited to her room
in back of Max’s office, changed into her designated outfit, and went down to
the basement to have her hair done, taking the back employee stairs. After she
left, Max opened his hallway door to a patiently awaiting legal assistant.

“Here are the files, sir. The clinic sent them via sat-bot,
direct from the clinic. The Nutria-blend CEO appears to have died from a heart
attack. It’s pretty conclusive, but they’ll still have an official
investigation. I also took the liberty of accessing the safety codes to his
bank vault. There is a box at the Tokyo International Bank, set to
self-destruct in 48 hours, should you not be there to access it. Apparently it
is coded for your DNA only, sir.”

“Thank you Mathew, your father will be proud of you. I knew
I’d picked the best when I grabbed you up from Harvard last year. Tell your Dad
I said hello, and I’ll be seeing him next summer at the Music Festival on Cape
Cod. Now, you won’t let anyone in on our little secret, right?” Max grabbed the
files and turned to go back into his inner sanctum.

“No, of course not sir; confidentiality is godliness, sir.”
The assistant quoted the legal profession’s lst rule, sworn on a piece of the
original WME
Book of Legal Counselor Rules
, saved from the attempted uprising,
and now embedded in glass at headquarters.

“Yes, yes, have a nice day.” Max waved him off and shut the
door.

He immediately ripped open the files, the ones he and the
now dead CEO had written up and then kept sealed, in each of their individual bank
boxes. Upon death, the contents were to go to the survivor. If not claimed
within 48 hours, the files would self-destruct. Max had to get to that box in
Tokyo. It contained half of the toxic nutria-blend formula, and that dead CEO’s
retirement money, a billion gold vouchers. He had the other half of the formula
in his own box; the secret and altered formula for the, now quite toxic, nutria-blend
for the rig-ryders.

Max had insisted they try it on the rig-ryders first. He
hated that Roxanne had such a strangle-hold on Leo Songtain. It was a serious
weakness in their economic enhancement strategy. Time and again, Leo had pulled
back from serious voucher-making possibilities, simply because it might damage
his precious Roxanne Smoot. Like his failure to switch from human rig-ryders to
robots; what a waste!

“I only have to wait three more weeks, just three more weeks.
Then she’ll be too far gone, after drinking all that toxic nutria-blend. It’s
not reversible. Even with his stupid
Stem-wads
®
it’ll be too late
for that red haired bitch.”

Max glanced at the file contents, a single piece of white
old fashioned real paper, with a hand-written number on it, the code to the box
in Tokyo. It was long enough to be unique but short enough for Max’s still
sex-ramped brain to memorize. Max looked at the paper, memorized the number,
then he tossed it into the fire pit in the corner of his office. He was too
anxious to wait for it to burn completely, and was already out the door, never
noticing that the rush of air from the door opening had moved the paper to the
side, away from the flames.

Once Max left his office, a dark haired, glowing amber-eyed,
Israeli looking, somewhat lean man stepped from the closet where he’d been
hiding. He walked quickly to the fireplace and grabbed up the still undamaged
paper, and the single key to the safe box in Tokyo, left under the sofa by
Honeybuns, using the hand connected to the arm, with that black orchid tattoo.
He was out the door and on his way to Tokyo within minutes. As usual, no one
saw him leave.

When Max reached his staff’s offices, two floors below, he
spoke briefly to his secretary, “Ralph, have a hoverjet waiting at the port. I
need to go to Tokyo in ten minutes. Tell Rita to be at the hoverport with my
#16 suitcase, the one for partial off time, and partial lower management
business deals. And contact the hair doer people in the basement. Tell them to
have Honeybuns at the hoverjet port. I’m taking her with me.”

Max would multitask; the trip to Tokyo would deliver
Honeybuns to the Las Vegas casino client, and he’d grab up whatever was in that
dead CEOs safe book on the same trip.

“Yes Mr. Peabody, do you wish to stay at the usual place,
and shall I make the usual restaurant reservations, with the usual menu?” Ralph
was the most efficient secretary he’d ever hired; she knew exactly what Max
wanted, almost seemed to read his mind. 

“Yes to all, but add food for Honeybuns, maybe even some real
food, but in the hotel room, not at the restaurant. We don’t want to give the
wrong impression,” Max commanded as he made a dash for the lift.

“No sir, we certainly do not,” his secretary responded,
taking notes with her bot-scriber.

Max took only the file with him, bolted into his always
waiting personal lift, and rode to the roof, where an aerial was already
waiting, along with a wet-haired Honeybuns, to take him to his personal
hoverjet at the Hong Kong Port. The hair doer lady came along to finish
Honeybuns up, prep her as proper decoration for Max’s business trip to Tokyo. She
was finished doing Honeybun’s hair by the time they arrived at the Chek Lap Kok
International Hoverport, where she exited and walked back to her job in the
basement.

Sadly, Honeybuns would not be returning to Hong Kong. He had
to turn her over to some rep for the clonie client, once they reached Narita
Hoverport. She was wearing only that red and white polka dot robe, which was
good, because Max insisted on playing with his new toy one last time, and all
the way to Tokyo.

On the day after Max and Honeybuns flew to Tokyo, in an
underwater rig haul tunnel dock, Roxanne and Rose were going through their
start-up procedures. They had never had to re-track so fast. Usually it took
over forty-five minutes to check and recheck coms, make sure the nitro and even
the hydraulics were properly operating, and then the control terminal approval
would be announced for the
track-on
. It was similar to the old jet
landings and take-offs. And it could be just as dangerous if not executed
properly.