Cloneworld - 04 Read Online Free PDF

community.) As a result, the shaven-headed ginger-bearded thief stood out like an org at a ganger SF convention.
    Ben shifted his perspective. He saw a group of men running across the car park. Aha! They would have him now! His view shifted back to the thief, but there came the roar of a HondaHarley V24 even from this distance, and a massive burst of black fumes, and the maniac opened the throttle wide, leaving a twenty-inch streak of molten rubber across the alloyconcrete as he powered off, veering and swerving, and the security men grabbed frantically and pointlessly for the fast-disappearing thief.
    "Baby, come back and do that thing with your tongue," crooned Rebecca, cupping her ankle-length stretched breasts with a grunt, her bowl haircut wobbling sexily.
    "Johnson!" screamed Big Ben, and ran out into the corridor. "Johnson!" He was in the shuttlelift, thumping buttons, and sprinting out into the lobby before anybody could mutter " Bastard bike thief... "
    "Sir," said Johnson, smiling a narrow smile. He seemed calm, unruffled, in perfect control. He was always calm, unruffled, and in perfect control.
    "Get after him! Call the RGPF! Get in the gunships! Blow the motherfucker into a steaming puddle of motherfucking oilgrease!"
    "Sir. I think, first, you need some pants."
    Big Ben looked down. He was still proud. And he was definitely naked.
    Big Ben looked up. A glittering crystal room crammed with succulent diners had paused, forks to mouths, spoons in soup, glasses to lips, to observe his outburst. Suddenly, there came a click and a flash. Kunta, the worst of the worst global tabloid paparazzi, gave him a big grin and a thumbs-up, and slid out of the revolving hotel doors before Big Ben realised what was happening...
    Big Ben lifted his hand. His face was covered in Greebo.
    He looked down. His skin was as green as his erection was hard.
    Shit. Shit and damn! Shit and bastard bloody buggering bastards!
    Cursing in yet more languages, Big Ben hurried back to his flesh-filled hotel suites, already wording apologies, hypothesising his explanations on News At Eleven as he stood on the podium, a stricken-looking harrowed wife on one arm, happy smiling children gambolling at his feet - and he would wail as to how he had become a slave to the drugs, and the drugs made him do it, and his wife was strong and stood by his side, and how all he needed was time, and hope, and the trust and honour and belief of his constituents and the Prime Manager!
    His eyes glittered with hatred and rage. Once again, he pictured the ginger bearded one.
    "It's all your fault! You've ruined me! Ruined my political career! Ruined my funtime!" It didn't occur to Big Ben that, in fact, it was his own doing. The logic of the politician clicked neatly into place. "You've got a micronuke up the arse coming real soon, my friend," he muttered.
     
    "I was simply walking down the street."
    Franco enjoyed the rush of the HondaHarley V24 over the rough, dusty and pretty much deserted roads which led, like gently curving tributaries, to the distant, glowing, and slowly growing city of Nechudnazzar.
    As the klicks clicked down, Nechudnazzar grew alarmingly, until its towers towered over Franco, its ramparts glistened like black oil, its mammoth walls and buildings and temples and factories formed a huge and towering blur, its vastness and sheer height almost beyond comprehension. Now, Franco was a veteran of big cities, of vast cities, of cities so titanic they inspired new cultures and species within their urban sprawls. Franco was a denizen of every sleazy pub, bar, brothel and gambling den it was possible to be a denizen of. But Nechudnazzar was different. It looked like a vast and unforgiving mountain range. It filled his vision like the frightening and near-mythical Black Pike Mountains of distant legend. It ran from horizon to horizon, from corner to corner. Nechudnazzar seemed to fill the world. It certainly filled Franco's head, with the glimmer of...