Paradigm 2045- Trinity's Children

by Robert W. Ross

  “It’s an experimental prototype. My husband gave Gulfstream the specifications and they built two. He was using the other one.”

  Branson tried to hide his reaction, but Charlotte locked in each tiny change to his posture and expression. She saw it all play out across his face and read it like words on a page. James’s innate skepticism warred with his lust for such an aircraft. It took less than a second for lust to win out. Damn if they aren’t right. He’s already in love and it’s not with me, that’s for sure. I’m just the distraction to keep him from thinking too much.

  James leaned back in an attempt to affect disinterest. “Who’s your sugar daddy, then love? Gulfstream doesn’t make or sell experimental prototypes. If they did, I’d know. Your husband must have paid them a pretty penny.”

  “He did,” replied Omandi. She smiled back, then slid her own legs sideways and angled them to the left. It was a practiced maneuver she’d learned over the years to test unconscious biases of those with whom she consulted. Some people looked, some didn’t. Some of those who looked did so because of the movement, some did so because of the legs. Charlotte could always tell which was which and despite his previous breast-directed ogle, James Branson was definitely a leg man. He glanced up to find Omandi smirking at him and blushed at having been caught. That, too, told her many things. He likes playing the rogue, but there’s more than that beneath the surface, she thought.

  “Mr. Branson,” began Charlotte, “my husband’s initials are visible, plain as day, right in the model of the jet. Surely you can tease it out.”

  The Irishman furrowed his brow. “GX? Your husband’s initial are GX? I don’t know anyone that—” He broke off as she stared at him with a you’re not so bright, are you, expression. “What?” he huffed.

  “GX stands for Gulfstream Experimental,” offered Misha. “Her husband’s initials are DH, or more accurately, her late husband’s initials. He just passed away this week which is why we’re getting Charlotte home.”

  James turned back to Omandi and his previous flirtations were replaced with sincere concern. “Oh, I’m sorry for your loss, truly. Was this sudden or—” He paused and his eyes widened slightly. “DH? Your husband’s initials were DH?” Charlotte nodded. He sighed. “Please tell me that stands for something like Donald Hamilton.”

  “I’m afraid not,” said Omandi with mock sadness.

  James shook his head. “Of course not, well that at least explains the ridiculous fee you agreed to while also adding on an even more ridiculous bonus. You realize, love, that the U.S., E.U., Russia, and China have all been trying to seize people and property associated with your dear departed since he shuffled off this mortal coil.”

  “We are quite aware,” said Misha flatly, “but does that fact now give you pause, Mr. Branson?”

  “Not at all, Miss—”

  “Sokolov.”

  James nodded while repeating her name softly. “I think it suits you.”

  “I’m so glad,” said Misha flatly

  “Why do you say that?” asked Charlotte with genuine interest.

  “Bird of Prey,” said Branson with a laugh, “That’s what Sokolov means. It means, bloody Bird of Prey.”

  Misha shrugged, unimpressed, but Charlotte tilted her head toward the security officer. “That’s twice in the span of as many hours that someone mentioned the meaning of your name, Misha. I’ll admit, it does seem surpassingly well suited to your talents, but…” she frowned, “…strange that it would come up twice like that. Oh well, I’m afraid that is a mystery we shall have to puzzle out another time. Mr. Branson, I apologize. I interrupted your answer to my security officer.”

  “Huh, oh, you did at that. No matter. I was just going to say that for what your late husband is paying me, I’d fly you to the moon and back.”

  “Would you?” asked Charlotte innocently, “Well, good pilots are often hard to find. Perhaps you should just consider this little junket an interview for something far more permanent.”

  He smiled. “How intriguing. Perhaps I will at that.”

  “You’re right, she’s not very good at being subtle,” growled Misha as she stared intently at the seemingly empty cushion beside James. Both James and Charlotte stared at her with Omandi drawing her lips to a rather harsh line.

  “Who’s she talking to?” asked James.

  “I couldn’t tell you,” said Charlotte, then added, “but I’m sure there is a perfectly good explanation, isn’t there Misha?”

  The security officer adjusted her glasses, and glared at the empty cushion to James’ left, then focused her attention on Charlotte. “Yes, ma’am, there is a perfectly good explanation. It’s our…agent.” Misha tapped her left ear to give the impression that she’d been receiving a message. Omandi smiled while directing a pointed glance to Branson’s left, where she knew the virtual Damien Howard continued to sit.

  “Ah,” said Charlotte, “and what did our agent have to say? Logistics all shipshape and Bristol-fashion I trust?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Our agent has also confirmed that Mr. Coleman has been running diagnostics on whatever modifications were made during our last layover. He says they are fully integrated and ready to go. The jet’s being fueled now and a car will arrive to collect us in fifteen minutes.”

  Omandi nodded in satisfaction. “Excellent, that leaves us time for one quick drink to toast our new partnership with Mr. Branson. Misha, be a dear would you, and pour us all a few fingers of that ridiculously expensive scotch.” The captain controlled her own expression as indignation flashed across her security officer’s face. Omandi arched an eyebrow and Misha took a deep breath then rose from her chair.

  “Happy to,” she said with a forced smile, “but I’ll just take a couple sips myself. Probably best to not risk slowing my reflexes any. After all, someone might just want to kill you tonight…ma’am.”

  Branson watched the exchange between the two women in bemused silence. Finally, he said, “Since you’re pouring anyway, Misha, I’ll take the portion you’re too afraid to drink.”

  Sokolov had already returned with three glasses. Charlotte held out her hand for one, but her security officer made a point of setting it on the coffee table, just outside her captain’s reach. She then turned a baleful gaze on James and said, “You’re the pilot. You shouldn’t be drinking even this much.”

  He took the glass from her and snickered. “That’s for commercial pilots. I fly and drive better with a wee bit of drink in me. Keeps me loose.”

  “Famous last words,” grumbled Misha then took a step back to make room for Omandi who had joined her. James rose and lifted his glass expectantly.

  Charlotte did likewise and said, “To the newest member of our little band. Welcome James Branson. We place our lives in your hands and trust you to fly us safely home. Cheers!”

  Misha tilted hers toward the pilot. “Na zdorovie!”

  He grinned, and offered a full-throated, “Sláinte!” then was about to drink, but paused for a beat. “We aren’t going to clink, are we?”

  Charlotte laughed and took a long pull from her glass. She smiled at her pilot. “I should say not, Mr. Branson. I am from Nairobi, Misha from St. Petersburg, and you from Dublin. Only Americans clink.”

  Misha tilted her head back and drained the scotch in a single swallow. She locked eyes with James for a second, then threw her glass across the room where it shattered in the stone fireplace. “Yes, we are all far too refined to clink, now drink your scotch like a good boy and help me with milady’s bags.”

  Chapter 13

  Sacrifice

  James ran his hand down the leading edge of one wing while Misha stalked beside him impatiently. “You can huff all you like, love, it’s not going to make me go any faster.”

  “It’s a brand new plane,” she growled, “and our engineering team literally just made additional enhancements. It’s fine. We need to leave before someone figures out we were ever here.”

  Branson turned to face he
r. “Speaking of your engineers, what exactly were they doing to a brand new aircraft?”

  “Do I look like an engineer to you?” she replied while unconsciously placing her hands on hips. “Listen James, engineers put things together. I take people and things apart. I’m the opposite of an engineer.”

  He frowned. “Yeah, I imagine you’re right at that. Something just seems a bit off. It’s like, well, it’s like the fuselage is too clunky for a Gulfstream, let alone a prototype built for a billionaire with unlimited funds.”

  “Howard was a trillionaire, but I take your point.” Misha held up her hand terminal. “Do you need me to ask one of the real engineers what they did, or maybe just provide your expert critique of our plane’s industrial design?”

  Branson dipped his head beneath the aircraft’s nose as he circled around. “I’m immune to sarcasm, Sokolov, but I have a counter proposal. Why don’t you just feck off and get your boss a coffee or something? I’ll be finished with my external preflight check in less than five minutes.”

  Misha didn’t respond as she turned and stomped up the Gulfstream’s telescopic stairs. Omandi glanced at her from a first row seat. “What’s taking so long?” she asked.

  “Our new pilot is a pain in the ass, that’s what’s taking so long. He keeps fondling every curve of the damned plane like he’s a teenage boy copping a feel.”

  Charlotte snickered. “There’s a visual I didn’t need.” She stared at her security officer a moment, reading her expression. “What else?”

  “It’s probably nothing, just an observation he made that caused the hair on the back of my neck to stand up a bit. Forget it, sir, I’m just anxious to get us to a much more defensible location.”

  “Misha, as best I can tell, your neck hair has been designated as one of my early warning systems. We’re not going anywhere until I’m satisfied that doing so won’t place us in even greater danger. What exactly did Branson say?”

  “The jet’s dimensions seemed off to him. He said it wasn’t as aerodynamic as he would have expected from a Gulfstream. I don’t know anything about planes, sir, but it seems that aerodynamics is probably an important part of being an…aero-plane.”

  “Did you ask Damien?”

  Sokolov shook her head. “My AR glasses are in my duffle. I’ll get them.”

  A voice seemed to emanate from just beside them and both women stared at the empty space near the jet’s door. “You will no longer need AR glasses within the Galileo. Would you like me to enable the Galileo’s holographic emitters so you may all interact with Damien and me more easily?”

  “Coleman?” asked Omandi.

  "Yes, ma'am, it is me."

  "Were you eavesdropping again?"

  "No ma'am. Eavesdropping implies a clandestine attempt to gain information. My attempt to gain information was not clandestine. I am always listening unless you order me to do otherwise. Would you like for me to stop listening now, ma'am?"

  Omandi's shook her head in frustration. "No, Coleman. What I want is for you to explain four things."

  "I'll do my best ma'am."

  "One, how are you projecting your voice like that when you previously had to use the plane's speakers? Two, why don't we need AR glasses anymore? Three, why do you call me ma'am instead of sir, and four, what the hell is the Galileo?"

  "Shall I respond in the order you made the queries, ma'am?”

  Charlotte sighed and saw Misha's lips quirk up. She narrowed her eyes at the security officer. "Do you find this amusing, Lieutenant?”

  “Yes, sir, I do and I needed a bit of levity, so thank you for that.“

  Omandi ground her teeth, then said, "Coleman, in order, if you please.“

  The AI responded immediately. "The answer to your first two questions is the same. The Galileo is equipped with the means to both project holographic figures and use ultra-wideband to simulate voice proximity. I believe you first experienced this technology when the elder Howard-AI spoke in your shower. In answer to your third query, I call you, ma'am, because I am not officially a member of your crew. Should I ever be afforded that honor, I will of course use the proper honorific. Finally, the Galileo is the craft in which you are standing. It replaced the GX950DH that Martin Smith flew to the Seychelles."

  "Replaced?" asked Sokolov, "No, wait a minute, this is the GX950. I think you meant that Martin had it enhanced."

  "No, Lieutenant, I meant what I said. I always mean what I say. The original GX950DH was flown to Colombo, Sri Lanka by Martin Smith. He landed several hours ago and is currently laying over there until we depart from here in the Galileo.“

  Misha's eyes widened as the implication struck home and Omandi asked, "What is it?"

  "He's bait. Martin is bait. He's flying in an identical aircraft going wheels up the same time as we are. I bet his transponder won't be hacked-off like ours has been either." Misha shook her head and stared at the empty space where Coleman's voice emanated. "I'm right, aren't I?" No response. "Coleman, answer me."

  "I'm sorry Lieutenant, I am unable to comply. The answer to your query is under a Howard-Prime trigger-lock protocol."

  "That's impossible, Coleman," snapped the security officer. "The Howard-Prime protocols were all disabled when Captain Omandi assumed command."

  "Most, but not all," corrected the AI.

  "Okay, what the hell is a Howard-Prime trigger-lock?” asked Omandi.

  Misha shook her head, clearly angry, "It's a command set that can only be altered, queried, or overridden by Doctor Howard himself."

  "The Doctor Howard who is now dead?" asked Omandi as a rock settled into her stomach.

  "That is not entirely correct, Lieutenant,” said Coleman, “Captain Omandi has query rights to all Howard-Prime protocols."

  "Then answer my security officer’s question," snapped Charlotte, "Is Martin about to become airborne bait and where is he going?"

  "Yes to the first part of your question,“ replied the AI. "As to the second, Martin Smith's destination depends on our own. He will be directed to fly to whatever destination creates the best opportunity for us to reach ours. Once I know where we are going, I can tell you where he is going."

  Omandi ran a hand down her face and pinched her nose while she considered the situation. As often happened when faced with complicated decisions, she saw dozens of possible answers flash through her mind as if each were represented pictorially. She sighed then asked, "Where is Linnea Sorenson?"

  "Ms. Sorenson is in Monte Carlo," answered Coleman.

  Charlotte let out a breath. “Okay, then that's where we are going…Monte Carlo. Now, where is—”

  “Mr. Smith will be directed to Miami, Florida once we are airborne, but Captain, you never answered my earlier question. Would you like me to enable the Galileo’s holographic emitters so you may all interact with Damien and me more easily?” asked the AI.

  Charlotte leaned forward in her chair and began rubbing her temples. “Not until James is safely in the cockpit, Coleman. How do you think he would react to seeing two holograms chatting with us, and why do you keep calling this airplane Galileo?”

  “I have no idea how Mr. Branson would react but will enable the cabin emitters once he has closed the cockpit door. As for the name, strictly speaking, ma’am, the Galileo is not an airplane. It just looks like an airplane at present.”

  The two women locked eyes for a split second before James scampered up the stairs. He stared at them, then barked a laugh. “Well, I’m all done with the external preflight. What’s been going on in here? You two seem mighty shocked about something. Care to fill me in?”

  “No!” they both said in unison.

  He grinned. “I didn’t figure you would. No matter, as long as this bird flies as good as she looks, I’ll get you where you’re going in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.” With that, he turned, slipped into the Galileo’s cockpit, and closed the door.

  Damien flung his arms wide in frustration and yelled, "I am telling you the truth. Why don't y
ou believe me?"

  "Because," growled Misha, "you have bits of Howard-Prime running around in that clockwork head of yours and Howard-Prime has lied to me plenty."

  "I'm only partly him,” corrected Damien, “and, whether by design or not, I seem to be less him with each passing hour. As for this aircraft, I have no earthly idea, not one memory about it."

  "This is completely unacceptable," whispered Charlotte. She had been leaning forward with both elbows propped on her thighs while she continued to rub her temples. Without looking up she asked, “Coleman, are you capable of lying?”

  “Of course, ma’am.”

  She nodded. “Okay, and are you capable of lying to me?”

  “No ma’am, unless you order me to lie to you.”

  “So, everything you’ve ever told me is the truth?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “But you can’t tell me why this aluminum tube, in which we are currently hurtling, is something other than an airplane?”

  “That is correct, ma’am. I know it to be true, and I can see the reasons why, but cannot access those reasons. They are trigger-locked.”

  “From me, the supposed Captain?” she asked.

  “From everyone,” corrected Coleman.

  “What kind of idiot goes through all the trouble to genetically engineer the ideal Captain only to then withhold information from her?”

  Damien raised his hand. “I believe some part of me is that kind of idiot.”

  “No,” said Misha pointing, “some part of you is that kind of asshole.”

  Damien glanced up, as if thinking, then flashed a grin. “Sticks and stones, Misha…sticks and stones.”

  “What about you?” Charlotte asked.

  “What about me, what?” Damien replied.

  “Can you lie to me?”

  Damien pinched up his face. “I don’t know. I’ve never tried. I certainly hope I can lie to you. Sometimes lies are incredibly useful.”

  “What color is the sky?” asked Omandi.

  Damien smiled at the simplicity of her question. “Charlotte, the sky is green.”