Cloneworld - 04 Read Online Free PDF Page A

constituents' annual salaries.
    "Oh, Ben," said Rebecca, giggling coquettishly. She wore her brown hair in a fashionable basin haircut, and her podgy squidgy face had been gangered to mimic the greatest actress of the Ganger Age, Rebecca Rebecca, star of screen and stage, warrior actress and unreservedly best shot with the Bausch & Harris Sniper Rifles, models KZ1526 and KZ1527. "Don't snort it everywhere! You know how hard it is to come by! And we have so much fun planned!"
    They did indeed. As the buzz took Big Ben, he gazed around at the thirty other hookers in the suite of apartments. They were caught in myriad poses and gestures and acts, and his mind swam with the perfect base beauty of the scene.
    "Come to me!" cried Big Ben, opening wide his arms, his silver pants glittering, and the thirty women (with a couple of men thrown in for sheer variety) ran to Big Ben, and smothered him with their nakedness, with their soft bits and hard bits, with their floppy bits and hairy bits. I just fucking love expenses, Big Ben revelled, falling onto his back as he was swamped, tickled, and caressed, and a squirming orgy encompassed him...
    "Ahem."
    The cough was the sort of cough coughed by somebody who knew he shouldn't be interrupting Big Ben's multiple carnal pleasures, but had indeed something of great importance to impart. When the first cough went unnoticed amongst the huge breasts, the slathering flesh, and the moans reverberating from the organic pink SuckPaper[tm] wallpaper, the man coughed again. Only this time a little louder.
    "Ahem."
    "Yes, yes, yes, what is it, why am I being interrupted, is there no bloody privacy in this whole damn place? I'm having the time of my life here and you have to come coughing your guts up all over my lovely naked men and women... oh, it's you, what do you want? Can't you bloody see I'm bloody busy?"
    Johnson, Head of Private Security, was a sensible man. You had to be a sensible man when working for insane narcissistic-types, like politicians, rockstars and head teachers. Johnson gave a thin smile from his black bearded face, and smoothed out an imaginary crease on his perfectly pressed black uniform. "Mr Ben. Sorry to intrude on your..." - the pause was calculated - " business meeting, but it would appear somebody is trying to steal your motorcycle."
    Big Ben gawped at Johnson for a moment, mouth opening and closing, flapping like a guppy fish. "Well... well... well..." he spluttered, clambering over three buxom hookers who squealed in delight. He managed to get to his feet, sliding in something slick and juicy. " Do something about it! Shoot the bastard! That's what I pay you for!"
    "Perhaps that could be considered a tad excessive? After all, if we kill a man, the Royal Ganger Police Force will be here in a few short minutes. And I thought you were supposed to be dutifully engaged in a month-long off-world conference on ecology and the saving of the planet." He gave a brittle smile. And not, he added mentally, living it up with decadents whilst snorting enough puff to put a strap-on rocket into space.
    "Yes. Yes. Well, er, send some men. Bring him down, then bring him to me."
    Johnson departed the business-meeting-which-resembled-an-orgy, and Big Ben slapped off several questing fingers and rushed to the window. He peered down. And there - by all the gods indeed! - there was a short stocky fellow, a little stick man in the distance, fumbling with the mechanical innards of Grace.
    "Enhance," snapped Big Ben, and the window hissed softly to enhance his view, tracking Ben's eye movements. There! A bastard with a shaved head and an untidy ginger goatee beard! Not a man who would be hard to forget, since due to the hot climate of Cloneworld most people, gangers and orgs included, were of darker skin and hair colouring. (Yes, some gangers had gone to extremes, but the ginger gangers were something of a rarity - indeed, a cult! It was something which never seemed to catch on in the clone