The Cessna banked again and Charlotte noticed two small objects rolling down the aisle. She snatched up both, tossed one to Misha, and twisted the top on the other. Omandi tilted her head back and drained the tiny scotch bottle in a single swallow while Misha did the same with her vodka. Charlotte reclined her chair, took a calming breath, and said, “Proceed, Daemon.”
“It’s clear, come on,” said Sokolov in what Charlotte had already learned was her, listen carefully or you could die voice. Omandi nodded and stepped onto the dock. She wobbled a bit after her hours at sea in the Ubuntu. Charlotte glanced east and could barely make out the horizon. Dawn was still some minutes off, and she found herself thankful for the darkness.
A tall, lean man approached them. He wore a suit so dark it seemed to blend into the night itself. Charlotte arched an eyebrow at Misha. The security officer seemed relaxed which, oddly, made Charlotte the opposite. “Who’s he?” she whispered.
“One of the Howard Technologies security guys,” she responded.
“So, he’s like you?” asked Omandi.
The younger woman barked a laugh. “Ain’t nobody like me, but me.” Charlotte furrowed her brow at both the words and the odd inflection with which Misha delivered them. Sokolov shook her head. “Never mind, Captain, it’s just an odd reference from one of the numerous films Howard-Prime insisted I watch. Ostensibly he had me do so to understand him better. In reality, I think he was just lonely toward the end. Regardless, this guy, Martin, is not one of us, so I won’t be calling you Captain while he’s around. Put your game face on, here he comes.”
“Sokolov, what the hell have you gotten yourself into this time?” asked Martin while extending his right hand.
She gripped it and Charlotte saw how Martin subtly shifted his weight to give his arm greater leverage. He squeezed Misha’s hand and twisted it slightly while bearing down. Sokolov’s smile never flickered but a pained expression flashed across Martin’s face for a second before he recovered. He narrowed his eyes at her and said, “You’re still not going to tell me are you?”
“Tell you what?” asked Misha innocently. “We all have our secrets, Martin. I’m sure your last name isn’t Smith is it?”
“Actually—” he said, but Misha slipped her hand from his and patted his cheek.
“Honestly, I just don’t care, Martin. What I do care about is getting my colleague to the hotel before we’re seen. We’ve had a hell of a night that included autonomous planes, cars, and boats. We’ve been on the ocean all night and I’m caked in salt. All I really care about is a shower and some sleep.”
Martin gestured to the large, black, Cadillac that idled nearby. “Come on then, I’ve got you rooms at the Castello Beach Hotel, but I don’t know how much sleep you’re going to get.”
“Why’s that?” asked Charlotte
Martin stared at her for a beat, then said, “You and Sokolov are flying out just as soon as the Gulfstream I took here is modified for your next leg."
"Is that the GX950?” asked Misha hopefully.
Martin nodded, "Yep, she's one sweet ride. I've no idea what kind of mods she might need, but some Howard Tech pencil necks and grease monkeys kicked me out of the hangar right after we arrived. They’ve been working on it since. Last I heard, they estimated about another four hours.”
“And where, exactly, is here?” asked Charlotte.
Martin shot a confused look to Misha, then said, “Praslin Island, ma’am. You didn't know you were coming here?”
"I said 'where, exactly,' Mr. Smith. I knew we were coming to the Seychelles, but not exactly where among them."
He nodded, “I understand, ma'am. You are on Praslin Island and it is definitely part of the Seychelles." Martin flashed her a quick smile, "and since we’re talking, do you have a name or shall I just continue to call you, ma’am?”
Before Charlotte could respond, Misha placed a hand on the security guard’s chest, stared up at him, and said, “George. Her name is George. Now get us to the hotel before I do more than bruise your manhood a little. Remember what happened in Ukraine last year?”
The blood drained from Martin’s face and he turned back to the car. He opened the rear door and Misha slipped in, then slid to the far side. Charlotte’s eyes flickered to Martin for a brief moment. He nodded toward the open door and said, “George, if you please.”
Charlotte shook her head and sighed, but climbed in beside Misha. Martin closed the door and jogged around to the driver’s side. “What’s up between you and that guy?” asked Charlotte.
Misha shook her head slightly. “What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean, tell me.”
Sokolov sighed. “He and some other Howard Tech guys provided a little backup on an operation I executed for Doctor Howard in Ukraine. Some people died. Martin saw me do a few…” she shrugged, “…unlikely things for someone of my size and gender. Ever since then he’s been curious.”
“Curious?” asked Charlotte, not understanding.
“You ever heard of bi-curious?” asked Misha with a sly smile. “Well, he’s enhanced-curious. He knows there’s something different about me and he’s a man, so he wants to fuck me. That’s how men think.” Misha lowered her voice an octave and affected neanderthal-like cadence. “That different. I kill it? No, different thing is woman. I fuck it, then maybe I kill it.”
Martin’s voice came from a concealed speaker and filled the back cabin of their car. “Hey, Misha, can I lower the privacy partition? I have a couple questions.”
Sokolov held up a finger, pointed to Omandi, then placed it to her own lips. She tapped a button on the center console and said, “Hi Martin, sure you can lower it, but I need you to confirm something first.”
“Shoot,” he said.
“Did your mission brief include asking me questions or,” she raised her voice at the recessed microphone, “getting me to my secure hotel before someone tries to kill me and George!”
The car tires spun gravel, then lurched forward. Misha grinned at Charlotte who just shook her head and said, “Remind me not to piss you off, Misha.”
The younger woman shrugged. “You’ve already pissed me off…several times. However, you are my Captain, and that’s your prerogative. In fact, you get to do most anything you want, except get yourself killed. Now, relax, we should be at the hotel in less than ten minutes. I expect that whatever version of Damien you decided to keep operational will meet us there. I’m just hoping things are at least a little less fucked up than I think they are.”
Misha leaned her arms on the hotel clerk’s desk and craned her neck toward his computer screen. “Try Roberta Carlisle,” she said pleasantly.
The clerk gave her an imperious look and sighed. “Is that your name, ma’am?”
“My name tends to change from time-to-time depending on both mood and circumstance. Now, be a good boy and just see if your most expensive suite has a reservation under that name.”
The clerk tapped several keys and his brow raised in apparent surprise. His eyes, once again, skittered over Charlotte before resting on Misha. “It seems our Presidential Suite has been reserved for R. Carlisle, but I’ll need some kind of identification.”
Misha nodded and fished in the front pocket of her pants for a second or two, then pulled out a small, leather, rectangle. She turned her back to the clerk, smiled at Omandi, and slipped a card from the thin wallet. Charlotte glanced down and watched as her security officer tapped the ID in an oddly rhythmic pattern. The card instantly became blank. Misha said, “Roberta Carlisle,” then gave the card a final flick and held it up for Charlotte to see. The Georgia driver’s license depicted a smiling Misha with the fictitious name right beside it. She winked at Omandi then turned and slid the ID to the hotel clerk. He seemed surprised, but pressed a few more keys while Misha drummed her fingers on the desk in mild annoyance.
After a final clickity-clack, the clerk seemed to freeze in place for several seconds. He stared at his screen, then to Char
lotte, then back to his screen. Finally, he slid two room keycards to Misha and said, “My sincere apologies, Ms. Carlisle. I didn’t realize.”
“It’s quite all right,” replied Misha, with far more magnanimity than Charlotte thought the younger woman possessed. “It happens to us all the time. Don’t give it another thought.”
“Very good, ma’am. Your suite has been prepaid and all incidentals have been secured for—” the clerk stuttered a moment then finished, “—for a substantial amount. Is there anything you might require, anything at all?”
Misha took the room keys and held one over her right shoulder until Omandi plucked it from her offered fingers. “We’re famished, but really don’t have time to deal with menus. Please just have your chef prepare whatever he thinks best, then double the amount needed for two people. We’ll be slipping out before dawn so have him send it up as soon as practical.”
“Yes, ma’am. It will be as you say.”
Misha gave the clerk a parting smile and turned toward the elevator with Charlotte keeping pace. As the doors closed, she turned to her security officer and said, “What the hell was all that about?”
Misha shrugged. “No idea. Apparently your daemon changed our names, made us rich, and secured the room with far more credit than was reasonable.”
“I noticed,” grumbled Charlotte, “Remind me to thank the daemon for helping us keep such a low profile. I would have hoped it demonstrated better judgement, especially given the power it can evidently wield.”
The doors slid open and Misha stepped out defensively. She looked left and right, then motioned for Charlotte to join her. “I don’t think the daemon has much judgement at all, captain. It is just a highly sophisticated multi-tiered algorithm. It’s not like Damien or even Coleman. Both of those—” Misha broke off, pushed Charlotte against the wall, and reached for her HID weapon. A second later the stairwell door flew open and Misha relaxed. A young man in hotel livery burst into the hallway. He caught sight of them and his face flushed with relief.
“Excuse me, Ms. Carlisle, ma’am. There was a package left for you at the front desk and we failed to give it to you at check-in. Mr. Davies offers his apologies and will be adding a complimentary bottle of Champagne to your dinner. He says it should be ready within thirty-minutes.”
Misha nodded to the boy and accepted the package. He bobbed a quick bow, then scuttled away, back down the stairs. Sokolov tucked the package under one arm and the two women walked down the hall to their corner suite.
Once inside, Misha slipped a tactical knife from her waist and and cut through the box tape with practiced ease. She lifted the cardboard flaps and nodded. “I should have guessed.”
Charlotte leaned in and frowned. “Should have guessed what? They look like—”
“Damien,” said Misha, interrupting. “They look like Damien.” She grinned at Charlotte’s confused expression and pulled one of the two small, black, containers from the box. Misha opened it and held out a pair of stylish glasses for Charlotte to take. She accepted them and arched an eyebrow at her security officer. “Go on, Captain, put them on. If they are like the ones I’ve used before, they will bio-lock to you once worn.”
Omandi slid on the glasses. They rested comfortably on her nose, then shifted to fit perfectly around her temple and ears. A second or two later Damien Howard appeared beside her, wearing a cotton shirt, faded jeans, and a broad smile.
“Hello, Captain,” he said. “It seems the daemon managed to get you here safe and sound.”
“Barely,” offered Misha, who now also sported a pair of the augmented reality glasses. “That thing is not ready for prime time, Damien.”
He shrugged. “Don’t tell me that, Lieutenant. I’m not in charge.” He pointed at Omandi. “She is and she let the daemon out of its cage way before it was ready.”
“We were about to be killed. I’m sorry I didn’t wait for the bug release version” said Charlotte sarcastically.
Howard raised both hands in a placating gesture. “Hey now, I wasn’t judging. You made a command decision, and that’s what you get paid to do…Captain. I’m just saying, the daemon wasn’t ready.”
“Great,” muttered Charlotte, “and where is it now?”
Damien shrugged. “By now, pretty much everywhere. Howard-Prime designed it to self-propagate across the entire cloud infrastructure as soon as you fully activated it.”
“Can we turn it off,” asked Misha, “I mean if it really gets out of hand?”
Damien shook his head. “Not really, but Howard-Prime put in tons of safeguards to keep it under control. It will do pretty much whatever the captain orders it to do. Just be careful, because it was designed to be very literal. The daemon has limited heuristics, and even those few moderating algorithms weren’t fully integrated when you activated it.”
Omandi shook her head, “Which means what exactly?”
Damien shrugged. “I can’t tell you…exactly. But here’s an example. Don’t tell the daemon to get you a commercial jet as soon as possible.”
“Ok, why?” asked Charlotte skeptically.
“Because, it might depressurize a Dreamliner at 40,000 feet and kill everyone on board.”
“It’s kind of already done that,” offered Misha, then added, “but on a smaller scale.”
“Oh,” said Damien thoughtfully. “Ok, then don’t tell it to launch a nuclear strike on, well, anyone.”
“Wait, what?” yelled Omandi, “That thing has access to nuclear weapons?”
Damien gave her a sheepish expression, “It shouldn’t, but it might if it thinks you really need them. I told you, it wasn’t ready. Right now, it’s like a love-struck savant and you, Captain, are the object of its desire to please.”
“Fuck’s sake,” hissed Misha, but before she could say anything further, there was a knock at the hotel room door and she brightened. “Oh well, that’s a problem for another day. I’m starved. I hope there’s steak and lobster on the other side of that door.”
Damien looked crestfallen. “I remember steak and lobster.”
“Yeah, well, you’re dead and we only have a few hours before the Howard Tech pencil necks finish souping up the Gulfstream,” said Misha as she reached for the door, “Everyone knows that dead geniuses, who make potentially killer daemons, don’t get steak, lobster, or sympathy for not being able to enjoy either.”
Chapter 11
Flight to the Navigator
Charlotte stumbled up the Gulfstream’s steep boarding stairs, and steadied herself on the doorframe for a moment before stepping inside. She glanced left, blinked, rubbed her eyes and stepped through the open cockpit door. Both chairs lay empty. She pinched her nose and tried to ignore her raging headache by sheer force of will.
“What are you doing in there, Captain?” asked Misha.
Charlotte turned to regard her security officer. “I was looking for our pilot. Why do you sound so damned cheerful after only two hours sleep? For that matter, why the hell do you look like that?”
“Like what, sir?” she asked, but the playful turn of her lips gave Omandi all the information she needed.
“You don’t need sleep, do you?”
“Of course I need sleep, sir,” replied Misha, with barely concealed mirth, “just not as much as you.”
Omandi shouldered past the younger woman and collapsed into one of the ten large leather chairs that filled the jet’s cabin. “I’m not feeling very enhanced at the moment,” she grumbled. “I think Howard may have missed tweaking a gene or two when he had the hood up on my DNA.”
Charlotte felt a soft tap on her left temple and jumped. She turned to find Damien Howard leaning forward, from a nearby chair, with one hand extended toward her. Before she could say anything he tapped at her again and she felt a corresponding tap from the left side of her AR glasses. She sighed and Damien laughed. “Oh don’t get your panties in a twist, Charlotte, all I can do is activate the haptics in your glasses.” His expression turned sly and he ad
ded, “but I have designed full haptic uniforms and with those you could feel all sorts of things.”
Misha snickered but cut off when Omandi shot a baleful glare in her direction. Charlotte turned to Damien and smiled, but it did not touch her eyes. “Would you mind clearing up a few things for me, Damien?” she asked in a tone so cloyingly sweet that Misha laughed under her breath. The security officer stepped back and began examining the outer door’s locking mechanism as it sealed the jet in preparation for takeoff.
Damien appeared to try and lounge back in his chair, but succeeded only in partially disappearing into the fabric. He frowned, then sat up again and said, “Sure, what’s up?”
“Great,” began Charlotte, “let’s do a lightning round, shall we? I’ll ask short questions, you give short, preferably one-word, answers. Got it?” Damien nodded. “Good. First question. What would have happened if I had chosen the less personable, older-looking Howard, version instead of you?”
Damien’s brow furrowed. “But we’ve covered all this, Charlotte. I don’t see the point—”
She waved a hand dismissively, “Indulge me, please.”
He shrugged. “Fine, this version of me would have been boxed up until some future day when it would be joined with the memories Howard-Prime has excluded. That combined mindset would then be reunited with an organic body along with, assuming I was right, Howard-Prime’s soul.”
“Excellent,” said Omandi, “and how does the prospect of being, as you say, boxed up, sit with you?”
“Not well,” he replied glumly.
Before Charlotte continued, a chime rang through the cabin and she heard a high-pitched whine as the jet engines began to spin up. She pointed in the general direction of the sound and said, “That reminds me, who exactly is flying this plane?” As if in answer, Coleman’s clipped North Eastern accent came through the jet’s intercom system.
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