Paradigm 2045- Trinity's Children

by Robert W. Ross

  Misha waved a frustrated hand in his direction. “Well, then how do you suggest we—”

  “We will use the daemon,” interrupted Charlotte, “but not the way Misha suggested. We’ll use it to get Branson to bring himself to us.” She smiled at the reaction from both Damien and Misha, then held up a hand to forestall the torrent of objections and questions, from each. “The daemon is a tool, and I suspect we will need to use every tool at our disposal if we are to have any hope of success.”

  Damien nodded. “Okay, Captain, setting aside the fact that you, literally, just said we shouldn’t use the daemon, what do you have in mind?”

  Charlotte took a deep breath and laced her fingers behind her head. “Have you guys ever heard of a movie called, The Italian Job?”

  “Which version,” asked Damien, “1969, 2003, or 2032?”

  “I’ve only seen the one from 2003,” replied Omandi.

  “Pity,” sighed Damien, “The 1969 version is a classic with Michael—”

  “I haven’t seen any of them,” sighed Misha, “and, with all due respect, Captain, can you please get to the point.”

  “It’s obvious what her point is,” said Damien, “and I must say, it’s a brilliant use of the daemon, barely any risk of collateral damage at all.”

  Misha gave a derisive sniff. “Great, well, for those of us without either cloud-based silicon brains or enhanced organic neurons, how about you explain? Feel free to use small words.”

  Omandi inclined her head toward her security officer. “Fair enough, Misha. Given what I’ve read of James Branson before passing out, coupled with Damien’s addendum, it seems our would-be pilot is some kind of get-away driver. Am I correct, Damien?”

  “In part,” he said, “James has an unerring sense of direction across all three axis. In addition, his ability to intuit control systems and surfaces would appear magical to anyone other than us. In short, if it floats, dives, drives, flies, or traverses the vacuum of space, Branson can operate it. Drop him in the pilot’s seat of the most advanced alien spacecraft you can imagine, give him ten minutes, and he’ll have the thing safely doing barrel rolls around a dark matter infested nebulae.”

  “You seem pretty proud of your creation, Doctor Frankenstein,” grumbled Misha.

  Damien held up a hand. “Hey, now, weren’t you listening to our Captain earlier?” replied Damien with a grin, “Once again, as she so eloquently stated, Howard-Prime was Doctor Frankenstein and I am not Howard-Prime. Oh, and there’s no need to get your nose out of joint, just because James has some mad skills. You were always Howard’s favorite, well, except for Charlotte. So, second favorite.” Omandi shook her head, and Misha looked as if she’d encountered a foul smell.

  The jet suddenly lurched as its wheels touched down and the engines whined with reverse thrust. Sokolov instinctually shifted her weight in an unconscious effort to mitigate the plane’s change in velocity. Her eyes remained locked on Omandi as the captain pressed forward against the restraining seatbelt. “So, what’s the plan, sir?”

  Instead of replying, Charlotte lifted her hand terminal. It activated and she said, “Daemon, are you there?”

  “I am here,” it responded, “What can I do for you Captain Omandi?”

  Charlotte spared a quick glance at Misha and Damien, then said, “I’d like you to create a honey pot for the soon-to-be newest member of our crew.”

  “I understand the concept,” said the daemon, “Do you have any operating constraints or clarifications?”

  Damien leaped to his feet and began waving wildly in her direction. She mouthed, I know. I’m not stupid, then addressed her hand terminal. “I do. Please create a plausible scenario where James Branson would need to meet us at our hotel in order to be briefed on a high-value opportunity. Have him arrive between seven and ten this evening. Feel free to use all available data to make this opportunity one that Branson simply can’t refuse, but, do not attract undue attention, damage property, or injure people.”

  “Constraints acknowledged. Shall I execute your command, Captain Omandi?”

  Charlotte tapped the bright green circle on her hand terminal and tossed it to Misha. The device tumbled end-over-end as it passed through Damien’s AR projection and the security officer snatched it from the air. She was about to slip it into her jacket pocket when all three heard the daemon’s slightly artificial response, “Initiating real-world protocols. Authorization: Omandi-alpha.”

  Misha sighed. “I sure hope you know what you’re doing, Captain. Letting that robotic sociopath off its leash, even for a few hours, gives me the creeps.”

  Chapter 12

  James Branson

  “I love room service,” said Misha around a mouthful of lamb. She reached over, tore a chunk from the large loaf of rustic bread and dipped it in brown gravy. “This is even better than that spread we got yesterday. Apparently, I especially love room service in Ireland.” She gestured to Omandi with a piece of bread. “ What is this I’m eating?”

  Charlotte wore a plush, white, hotel robe and glanced over from where she had been sifting through a bag of fresh clothes the daemon had couriered to their room. Damien had provided some suggestions as to what apparel would be most effective. Charlotte didn’t like his suggestions, but once he’d explained the logic, she reluctantly agreed. Omandi sighed, hoisted the bag and walked over to Misha. “You’ve never had shepherd’s pie?” asked the captain. Sokolov shrugged and shoveled in another huge spoonful of the thick meat and potato slurry. “Well, that’s what you’re eating, complete with obligatory Guinness gravy.” Charlotte gestured to the suite’s dinner table which lay heavy with at least a dozen different foods. “Of course you also ate some fish & chips, Brunswick stew, corned beef & cabbage, at least five scones, and a spiced beef pasty.

  The security officer pointed to the suite’s living area where Damien appeared to be snoozing on a long, leather couch. “Blame him. My metabolism runs like an over-stoked furnace.”

  “That was Doctor Howard, not me,” lilted Damien. “How many times do I have to tell you? However, you are right, that synthetic combat gland you’re sporting is a real energy sink.”

  “The what?” asked Omandi.

  “It’s down here somewhere,” offered Misha, pointing in the general vicinity of her waist.

  “You mean near your appendix?” asked Charlotte.

  Misha shook her head. “No, well, kind of. I don’t have an appendix so I guess Doc Howard used that spot for my she-hulk gland.”

  Omandi shook her head and was about to respond when her hand terminal chimed from the nearby coffee table. “Answer on speaker,” she commanded.

  It was the daemon. “Captain Omandi, James Branson is en route. Estimated time of arrival, twenty-five minutes.”

  “You better get ready, then, Captain,” said Damien. “Remember, we’ve only got one chance at this. All our backup navigators are dead as doornails.”

  Omandi stared into the bag she was holding. “I really don’t want to do this,” she said. “It goes against every instinct I have.”

  Damien shook his head. “Instincts are overrated. For the most part, they are just residual actions prompted by ancient areas of the human brain.” He sat up and pointed to her. “Now, don’t confuse instincts with gut reactions to real environmental stimuli. You, more than most, should trust initial gut reactions. But, since you’ve never met James I don’t think your gut has much to do with anything. Your reason for disliking our plan is much more basic.”

  “Is it?” Charlotte asked, “Why don’t you enlighten me then?”

  “You think acting the vamp is beneath you and don’t like using your physical attributes in such a way,” said Misha, then added, “which is really stupid, if you don’t mind my saying so, sir. I’m sure you will demand that the rest of us use every asset we have at our disposal to ensure our mission succeeds.” The security officer rocked back until the front legs of her chair lifted off the floor. She braced one foot against the table
and gestured with a half a scone. “You’ve got some pretty nice assets right there, Captain,” she said then let out a lengthy belch. “Excuse me. That slipped out.”

  Omandi grimaced. “More like exploded out, but at least I can see why you aren’t the one who’s about to slip into something more comfortable.”

  “Puleeze, I’m only disgusting around family,” scoffed Misha and pointed at Damien, “He’s got some of Howard’s memories. Ask him how well I perform in a sequin dress and come-fuck-me heels.”

  “A sight to behold, that’s for sure,” said Damien, “One minute they have a hand on her thigh and the next they’re unconscious or worse. She lives up to her name, that’s for sure.” Charlotte had already begun moving toward the bedroom’s master bath, but paused and turned toward Damien questioningly. He smiled and jabbed one foot in Misha’s general direction. “Sokolov,” he said. “it’s Russian for Bird of Prey.”

  Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Of course it is. I’m just saying that I don’t buy Misha having to play the dangerous assassin role in our contrived drama. It’s all very Black Widow to me and I doubt Branson is going to try and attack any of us directly.”

  Misha barked a laugh. “Captain, I could be the dangerous assassin while wearing a translucent mini skirt, five inch heels, and concealing a pistol along with two tactical daggers.” She shrugged. “The problem is, I’m just not his type.”

  “What?” asked Omandi, “What type. We never discussed him having a type.”

  “He likes black women,” said Damien, then quickly added, “sir.”

  Sokolov held up a hand. “No come on, be fair. From what I’ve read of Branson, he just likes women, period.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant,” said Charlotte with a nod, “Then why—”

  “But he absolutely has a weakness for older black chicks,” interrupted Misha, “so you best suit up, Captain.”

  Omandi could almost hear her teeth crack as she ground them together, then stared daggers at both Damien and Misha. “I’m thirty-six. That is not older, and you two, are going to pay,” she growled, then disappeared into the bedroom.

  Sokolov called after her in a sing-song cadence, “Everything’s relative…he’s younger than me.” Misha shifted her weight and her chair clunked to the floor as she reached for her beer bottle. “Our Captain just threatened two junior officers, didn’t she?”

  “I believe she did,” snickered Damien.

  She shot him a mischievous grin. “What do you think we should do about that, Lieutenant Howard?”

  “Well,” said Damien as he rubbed his chin, “I think I will wolf-whistle at our Captain when she’s finished dressing for tonight’s mission.”

  Misha snickered and pointed at him. “Ruthless. I like it. Be careful though, she may yet find a way to delete you.”

  Damien leaned back into his couch and laced his fingers behind his head. “No, I don’t think so, Misha. Our Captain has been looking for a family like ours all her life. She may yell. She may threaten. But, trust me, we fulfill every one of her unvoiced dreams.”

  Charlotte’s hand terminal buzzed and she immediately looked up to find Misha staring at her. “Game time,” said the security officer.

  Charlotte gave the device a tap and the daemon’s face appeared. “Mr. Branson has entered the building. I have given him your room number and he will be arriving in approximately five minutes. Would you like me to allow, delay, or prevent his arrival?”

  Omandi was about to press the green, allow, indicator but instead said, “Isn’t it a bit late for that? How exactly would you delay or prevent Branson’s arrival? He’s already in the hotel.”

  “I have a number of options, Captain,” said the daemon evenly. “However, I must correct you. Mr. Branson is currently in the elevator. Prior to his arrival, I took the liberty of accessing the hotel’s fire suppression systems. Having done so, I have the option to delay him by holding the elevator car at its current location. Should you wish to prevent his arrival permanently, I can use the fire suppression system to fill the elevator car with Bromotrifluoromethane gas.”

  Omandi shot a questioning glance to Damien who said simply, “More commonly known as Halon gas. If you’re getting cold feet, I would not suggest that approach. It will kill our pilot.”

  Charlotte mashed her finger on the green button, stood up, and started walking toward the door.

  “Hang on a minute,” called Misha. She closed the distance between them, reached up, and removed Omandi’s AR glasses. The security officer smirked. “I don’t think our fair Irish lad is into the whole librarian-thing. Besides, those blocky glasses clash with that amazing red dress you’re rocking.” Misha reached up and pushed Omandi’s breasts together then released. “That daemon picked the perfect dress for your body. She slid back the side panels of her athletic cut jacket and cupped her own breasts. I love my girls just as they are, but they’d never look right in...,” she waved a hand toward Charlotte, “…that.”

  Omandi glared at her. “Don’t remind me how much I hate this plan and, for that matter, you.” A knock sounded from the door. Charlotte stared at her security officer. “I assume you are keeping those glasses on.”

  “Of course I am. He doesn’t care if I look like a librarian. Besides, I need to be able to communicate with Damien. Remember, assassins don’t need to be sexy, just dangerous. The fact that I manage to look dangerously sexy despite these clunky government-issue frames is just a testament to my innate Russian beauty.”

  Another knock sounded. Misha sat in one of the salon chairs, slipped her HID weapon from its holster, placed it conspicuously across one thigh, and nodded to Omandi.

  Charlotte took a deep breath, then opened the hotel room door. James Branson leaned casually against the door frame. He ran his fingers through black, wavy, hair in a gesture that Omandi judged to be both overt and practiced. Branson slowly traced his eyes the length of her body and Charlotte blessed her naturally dark complexion as she felt heat rise up her neck and settle across her face. James flashed her the devil’s own grin and cocked his head to the side. “Can I help you,” she asked, “or would you rather continue to undress me with those brown eyes of yours?”

  “Well, love,” he began, “do I have the option of undressing you with something more substantial than my eyes? Because, if I do, then yes, you can most certainly help me with that.”

  Charlotte returned the Irishman’s smile. He looked wary. “You’re welcome to touch, but I warn you, the last man who did, well, his pieces and parts were found scattered across most of Spain, poor fellow.” Omandi took a deep breath and watched as Branson’s eyes tracked downward. “Now, are you coming in or not?”

  “Aye,” he said and she stepped aside. “Whoa, lass,” he said a moment later and raised both hands. Branson pointed the finger of one hand to gesture at Misha who casually leveled her exotic weapon at his head. “Who’s this, then?” he asked.

  “That’s Misha,” said Omandi while affecting a light-hearted laugh. “She’s here to make sure I get to my destination, safe and sound.”

  “Is that so?” asked James.

  “Yes, it is so,” replied Misha evenly, “now be a good boy and turn around. Slowly. No, keep your hands up.”

  “Do ya want to come over here and frisk me? I wouldn’t mind, you know. Maybe you both could—” Misha pulled the trigger and James shimmered blue for a second, then staggered forward several steps before regaining his footing. “What the hell was that?” he slurred.

  “It’s a weapon, and I just shot you with it,” Misha said as she walked over to him. She slipped a practiced hand quickly over several areas of Branson’s waist and legs, then leaned in and whispered by his ear. “That was its lowest setting. The next time I shoot you, it will be higher.”

  “Well, that’s a fine thing, shooting a man before he even gets his bearings,” exclaimed James, as the low-level stun effect waned. “I might just have to reevaluate a few things. May I put my hands down now?”

>   Misha had reseated herself but still held the weapon trained on James. She nodded and said, “Go ahead. You can sit on the couch.”

  Branson lowered his hands and was about to sit on the cushion furthest from the door when Misha motioned with her weapon. He froze and she said, “Not there. Sit on the left side.”

  He stared back at her questioningly. “Why? Are you expecting someone else to join us?” Misha didn’t answer but just turned a dial on her weapon then pointed it at James again. He raised his hands, then quickly sat on the cushion indicated by Misha. “Fine, don’t get your knickers in a twist.”

  Omandi laughed as she settled herself into the chair opposite Branson and said, “What is it with men and their fixation on our undergarments?”

  Misha shrugged, “I didn’t notice. I have an innate ability to filter out both stupidity and innuendo.” The security officer glanced at her watch. “Ok, Ms. Omandi, we are supposed to be wheels up in two hours so I suggest you clarify things with our pilot.”

  James leaned back and crossed his legs in a deliberately casual gesture. “I don’t think I’ll be needing anything much clarified, lasses. You need me to fly you somewhere and don’t want to be noticed. I asked for two-hundred-thousand US dollars and your agent agreed along with offering a one-hundred-thousand dollar bonus if I got you there in less than twelve hours.” He spread his hands. “What more do I need to know?”

  “How about where we are going?” asked Misha.

  “Don’t care,” James replied and pretended to inspect his nails. “Just give me the GPS coordinates when we’re in the air. I’ll get you there as long as your bird flies fast and true.”

  “How do you know you can even fly, our bird?” asked Misha.

  James sniffed, then leaned forward, placing hands on knees, “Because, I can fly anything, but if it makes you feel better, tell me.”

  “It’s a Gulfstream GX950-DH,” said Charlotte.

  The Irishman frowned at her. “That doesn’t exist.”