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

university
student from one of the party tunnels happened every now and then. They usually
showed up at one of the pleasure house auctions within the week. If some high-up
guy logged a missing kid complaint, the potential slave was found and returned
to his or her family, used but unharmed.
    Someone was unlocking the outer door. Gimlet knew it was not
Chad Yac. He had a different smell. This guy smelled of fried fish and essence
of Green Weenie Cocktail . The next door unlocked, but the guard was
careful to lock both after him. Of course the problem, or rather the gift was
that he had that key around his neck. Gimlet pretended to be asleep.
    “Well, look what we have here. You’re a beauty, sugar buns.
Bet you’d go for full deal at the pleasure auctions. Maybe that’s what Chad has
in mind for you. You’d fetch maybe ten million in chits in Hong Kong. Some
upper CEO’s gonna love that cute little body. Let me just take a closer look
under that t-shirt. I won’t touch, just look.”
    Weasel-face stepped closer, stretching out an arm to raise
Gimlet’s t-shirt. It only took five seconds. It was that round the hand grab
maneuver her rebel trainer had taught her during her training at Donner Pass. You
found the pressure point at mid wrist. They all took the course at the rebel training
center; how to escape, if caught. They even showed you how to look especially
appealing to some dirty, smelly weasel-faced guard who’d been drinking Green
Weenies.
    She grabbed his hand and broke it at the wrist, with a quick
back-snap, wrapped one shackled leg around his waist, and brought him close
enough to bite a hole in his right cheek. This drew him closer in, with her
teeth clenched around his facial tissues, so she could use her other hand to
grab at the chain and get an angle on the key, or rather the keys. There were two.
The dumb ass had also brought in the shackle keys, probably thinking he’d lock
her into a spread eagle and have a fast action dong-bong.
    Gimlet drew him in closer with her teeth firmly planted into
his cheek, used her other hand to clamp his neck, and held him in her arms
until he passed out. By the time he came to, covered in cheek meat and his own
blood, he was shackled and locked in the cell, with one of his socks stuffed in
his mouth, and Gimlet was dancing on her bare toes down the concrete hallway.
    She turned a corner and ducked into a door when she heard some
men coming in her direction. Turning around she discovered she was standing
directly in front of Chad, who was seated at his desk going over some vid data,
and drinking a cup of Kona.
    “What, did you want another cup of coffee?” Chad pressed a
button under the desk and the door locked behind her.
    Gimlet dove for his throat, using a standard knife hand punch.
But Chad was faster, and stronger. She noted he had the kind of body that would
kill an unprotected quarterback. He twisted sideways, grabbed her wrist,
twisted it back to come around behind her, and wrapped an arm around her neck,
and a leg around her right leg. If she tried to get away he would deck her.
    (Just a note for my readers, at this point: While I do
exchange bodily fluids with my rig-ryder pilot Roxanne, occasionally in a
canine-to-human show of friendly affection, I wanted to be sure that the
following section of my story was told from a human’s point of view. We canines
do not share the human fascination with foreplay. Thus, this portion has been
included verbatim as dictated by Gimlet, with only a change of tense and
obviously some shortening in length. I do not want to take credit for something
not written by myself, as I have a fetish for copyright accuracy.)
    [Gimlet and Chad were at an impasse. If she let go of him,
he would drop her to the floor, and if he let go of her, she would probably
twist around and seriously jeopardize his future reproductive capacity.
    Chad turned his head toward Gimlet’s face for a second,
and before he knew what had possessed him, he