Free Gene Drifters: The Clone Soldier Chronicles-Book III by D.J. Takemoto Page B

about that, Rose?”
    Rose was sprawled across Roxanne’s long legs, her head at
the foot of the bed, and feet planted almost into Roxanne’s left cheek. They
were both used to each other. Rose yawned, as only an incisor-enriched best
friend can do, and woofed a brief reply of yes. She was not quite ready to rise.
    “Come on Rose, we got us a haul deadline today. The clock
says 05:00; we clock onto the tracks in one click. Besides, I can smell Dad’s
pancakes.” This got Rose’s attention, although pancakes with turkey sausage
would have been even more interesting. Rose thought things were getting leaner here
at Eldridge’s place, but she wouldn’t say anything to either of them. It would
hurt their feelings. Besides, she was just getting too tired to complain about
much anymore. After five years as Roxanne’s rig-ryder co-pilot, she was about
ready for the Eldridge Bar kitchen duty. She smothered that thought, guilty
that she’d even considered leaving Roxanne to guard her own back against a
bunch of lecherous newbies.
    “I’m up, just let me have five more minutes,” Rose replied,
slightly raising her left ear. Rose loved to doze.
    “Okay, see you in the kitchen. But hurry up. I’m not saving
the sausage for you.”
    Roxanne teased Rose, and rolled off the bed in her bare feet,
onto the blue shag rug. She was dressed in one of her dad’s discarded shirts,
and not much else. The temperature in the bubble-stop was nice and warm and
constant. Sometimes it was too constant for Roxanne, who missed the up-top
hauls from back in New Mexico and Colorado. Sometimes she had dreams about when
she and her dad would camp outside under the stars, in the real outside and not
in a virtual dome.
    Roxanne showered in desal, the cleaned-up ocean water from
the outside. She had to step into that awful orange jumpsuit and don the
bandanna again for work. Ten minutes later she was in the kitchen, seated at
the table, stuffing Eldridge’s fluffy pancakes into her mouth.
    “I had a dream about Leo last night. Can you believe that?
It was that lacrosse game I told you about, from grad school; it was that time
I sent the ball into his butt,” Roxanne mumbled through a mouth-full of
sausage.
    “Probably came up from our talk about him last night. You suggested
he was involved in the pirate endeavors. By the way, I told Dorian about your
hunch. He had Dina plant a tag on Leo yesterday. She was in Hong Kong in
disguise to purchase some clone soldiers from Leo. I also told Dorian about the
poisoned nutria-blend. I think he already had some notion of that. But he did
say not to touch the stuff.” Eldridge poured fresh coffee for his daughter.
    He never told her, but he didn’t drink it when she wasn’t
there. It was just too expensive. He’d also been worried about the bar revenue
of late. When the Inc. froze or lowered wages, or hired too many level I’s at
minimum wages, it meant a recession for all the bubble-stops. Trickle-down
bull shit ; that’s what he thought. But he kept it to himself, not wanting
to worry Roxanne, or get her in trouble with the Inc. She had enough to do,
keeping the rig haul going, and bringing in her share of chits.
    And now, he was expecting new kitchen help. Dorian informed
him last night that a rescued slave was on the way, someone named Irma.
Unfortunately it would be another mouth to feed. But of course he couldn’t
refuse Dorian’s request. After all, Dorian had footed the cost of the bar and
rig in the first place. So he said yes, of course. Eldridge thought he could
find something for her to do. At any rate, it was the charitable thing to do,
and Eldridge still had that in him.
    Dorian said Irma would come with a temporary new face, to
hide her true identity. Evidently she was an escaped slave from the Blacks. Over
about six weeks, the Stem-wads ® would meld with her own facial cells,
and then she’d be someone new, on the outside anyway. Eldridge wondered how
many chits Dorian had to hack