Omandi raised a hand to the pilot as a calm washed over her body. She’d felt it several times before when faced with intensely stressful situations, but now knew its likely origin. Some hidden gland was likely filling her body with a mysterious cocktail of neurological enhancers much like Misha’s did with musculature related ones. Oddly, she also noticed how the cabin seemed several shades brighter as if her eyes had dilated without regard to a change in ambient light. “Coleman,” she said, “please finish.”
“If you do not comply, Captain Brandise said you and your crew will face the same fate as Martin Smith. Mr. Smith’s transponder is no longer registering, but a Howard Technologies satellite, tasked for that area, is now picking up a black box beacon. Captain Omandi, I believe Martin Smith is dead.”
Chapter 14
Galileo
The Galileo screamed westward across the Nubian Desert. Branson flew so close to the ground that thick clouds of fine dust were whipped up by the jet’s passing. He glanced over his shoulder to find Omandi ducking into the cockpit.
“You really should be strapped in,” he said, then pitched the nose up to avoid a rapid change in terrain. Charlotte’s head slammed against a console. She twisted, then sat in the co-pilot’s seat.
“Did you do that to make a point?” she asked.
“Huh, no,” he grunted while making dozens of tiny adjustments with both hands and feet. James’ eyes flew over the instruments in a precise pattern that repeated itself every two or three seconds. “but since you're here, I do have a question for you."
"What's that?" asked Charlotte.
Branson spared her a quick glance between his console scans."Are you sure you still want to go to Monaco? I was thinking that maybe we should go somewhere a bit more off the beaten path. You know, since apparently the American’s want to kill some, or all, of us. How about I find us a tiny valley between some Afghani mountains in which to set down?”
“No,” said Omandi, “We are going to Monte Carlo.”
“…because we’ll be sure to blend right in,” he snarked.
Charlotte sighed, “Look, I know there’s a lot I have to explain, but for right now, I just need you to trust that I’ll figure things out before we get to Monte Carlo.”
He shook his head and chuckled, “Remember when I said that you were overpaying me? I was wrong.” Omandi smiled and was about to push herself up from the chair when an obnoxiously loud klaxon began sounding and one of the displays glowed red. “Feckin' cac!” yelled Branson, “they found us. We’re painted.”
“Painted?” Charlotte asked, confused.
“There are two fighter jets closing on our position and they have both painted us with range finding lasers. They have us target locked, Omandi, as in we’re all about to join Martin Smith in the hereafter. Oh shite & sugar,” he yelled, then pulled two levers and pushed a glowing amber button. The aircraft lurched right then pitched up at a steep angle. Omandi felt herself sink deep into the co-pilot’s chair while Misha’s curses filtered up from the rear cabin.
“It doesn’t make sense,” groaned Charlotte beneath the weight of the artificial gees. “They must need us alive otherwise why—”
“It’s not an explosive,” said James. Omandi twisted in her seat to look at him. His voice was calm yet his hands moved even quicker across the various controls. He began humming something vaguely gaelic and smiled. “This bird has some juice. I keep pushing her toward a stall and she keeps climbing. Honestly, I think I’m finally in love. What a way to go.”
Charlotte felt her face twist in the same manner she knew it did when, as a girl, she’d caught her nephew doing something especially stupid. She took a breath, then said, “What do you mean, not an explosive.”
“Hmm, oh, apparently our not-really-a-jet is equipped with some kind of advanced friend-or-foe detection. I think it assumes pretty much everyone but us is a foe at this point, but anyway, it just told me the thing they shot isn’t an explosive?”
“Did the not-really-a-jet happen to say what the projectile streaking toward us might be?” Charlotte asked far more calmly than she felt.
“Yes, ma’am, that is a genuine, military grade, knock the shit out of your electrical grid, EMP.”
“Can we outrun it?”
“Oh, hell no!” he laughed. “It’s a missile. We’re in a plane, even though she really doesn't handle like a plane.”
“Then what exactly are you doing?”
“Trying to gain as much altitude as I can. That electro magnetic pulse is going to turn off this sweet machine like a light switch. I should still have manual controls though and with a bit of luck, can get us to the ground in one piece. You know, so the American cowboys can shoot us in person, all nice and proper.”
Charlotte felt her stomach twist, but she forced down the sensation and asked, “How long?”
“Oh, about two, maybe three, seconds,” he replied then there was a bright flash, the plane lurched, and all the instruments went black. “Maybe less,” he added, then slammed his hand against a panel and twisted the bright red handle that extended. He grinned at Charlotte, “We’re a glider now. This is fecking awesome.” His eyes slipped off hers and the smile fell away.
Charlotte turned to find Coleman standing just outside the cockpit. “Now’s not a good time, Coleman,” she said, while thinking it must be the understatement of the year. “Whatever you need, go ask Damien or Misha.”
The AI didn’t move, but seemed to stare straight through her at some distant object. “Lieutenant Sokolov is texting a message to someone named, “Fuckov,” and Damien is offline due to the EMP.”
Charlotte felt herself gearing up for an outburst but Coleman’s last words brought her up short. “If Damien is offline, why aren’t you?”
“In case you are wondering,” interjected Branson, “flying this thing with no power and no hydraulics is damned impressive. Twenty-thousand feet and dropping. The F-45s still have us painted.”
“I appear to be drawing power from a hardened energy source that is impervious to electro magnetic pulses,” said Coleman. “However, as intriguing as that would normally be, it is not why I came to you. There is a new command subroutine that became available when Galileo became disabled by this attack.”
“Fifteen thousand feet,” said Branson.
“What kind of routine?” asked Omandi.
“I’m not sure, Captain. The routine is called Galileo Incarnation and it has a command level warning dialogue.”
“That sounds ominous,” offered James. “Twelve-thousand.”
Omandi gestured to Colman and he nodded. “Dialogue reads as follows. Howard event number G01 encountered. Galileo Incarnation authorized by Howard-Prime. Execution will merge all Coleman algorithms with Galileo and Bladerunner. This execution cannot be reversed. Does mission commander concur? Yes or No?”
“What the hell does that mean?” sputtered Omandi.
“I do not know, Captain, but I can tell you that the idea of my consciousness being merged with this vessel and…a Bladerunner…is not at all appealing.”
“I don’t even know what a Bladerunner is,” huffed Charlotte.
Branson gave a forced laugh. “It’s from an old movie. I got a free copy of it as a kid. Just showed up in my cloud server one day. The Bladerunners are kind of like cops that kill bad robots. Oh, and we’re at ten-thousand feet. I’m looking for some hard sand so we don’t flip over and catch fire.”
Omandi closed her eyes and promised herself that she would slap James in the face at some point in the very near future, assuming she had one. Charlotte took a deep breath and went deep inside herself, trying to seek the quiet place in which she’d always been able to find truth. She floated there peaceful and oblivious to her immediate surroundings. Charlotte gathered countless fragments of insight from a thousand interactions over the past days and weeks. They all came together in an instant of perfect clarity.
Howard Prime: You will be faced with trials and tribulations
, but trust the incarnations I’ve left you.
Coleman: You will no longer need AR glasses within the Galileo.
Branson: this fuselage is too clunky for a Gulfstream.
Coleman: strictly speaking, ma’am, the Galileo is not an airplane.
Omandi’s eyes snapped open. “The mission commander concurs. Execute Galileo Incarnation!”
Coleman’s eyes burst to light, pupils and irises instantly replaced by twin glowing blue orbs. The Galileo shuddered violently and loud explosions seemed to emanate from throughout the fuselage. The aircraft banked hard left and James craned to look out his port window.
“Uh, we just lost a wing,” said Branson, then added, “make that two wings…and a tail. We should be falling like a rock. What the absolute, feck?”
“Exterior shell has been shed,” said Coleman. “Shuttle command and navigation systems coming online, now.” Panels throughout the cockpit blazed to life with all manner of data streaming across them.
Branson’s eyes danced among the new displays and his mouth dropped open in wonder. “This is impossible,” he whispered, “If these panels are correct we’re in—”
“A short-range space faring shuttlecraft that seems to be powered by some impossibly advanced technology?” Charlotte asked.
Before the pilot could respond, Coleman said, “Galileo base code incorporation complete in ten seconds. Defensive systems offline. Try not to let us be destroyed before then, Lieutenant Branson. Please stand by…five seconds.”
“Oh, they are not screwing around now,” shouted James. “Two, explosive-tipped, fast movers closing in. I’ll just try and goose her a bit to the—” The shuttle bucked and twisted sharply to the right and Charlotte winced as two silver objects streaked by trailing flame. “They will circle back and reaquire,” said James. “I can’t guarantee we’ll be that lucky again.”
“Base code incorporation complete,” said Coleman evenly. “Galileo Incarnation command sequence complete. I now have access to complete ship systems. Offensive systems online. Defensive systems online. Awaiting commands.”
Omandi shook her head and felt like a fool, but she’d always trusted her instincts and they had never failed her before. She took a breath, prayed that Damien Howard was as big a nerd as she thought him to be and said, “Coleman, shields up and transfer power to HID weapons.”
“Aye, Captain. Plasma shielding energized and at 100%. High Intensity Discharge weapons charged and ready.”
“Three more missiles,” cried Branson, “all show as explosive. No way I can evade them all. Shite! Shite! Brace we’re gonna be—” The ship rocked and twin bursts of bright light bathed the windows for several seconds, then faded. “Why aren’t we dead?” asked James.
“Shields holding at 95%,” said Coleman.
Omandi smiled as she felt the ship’s acceleration press her against the seat. “We’re not dead, because Howard-Prime was as big a nerd as he was a genius. We’re alive because he named this ship after a shuttle from the twentieth century TV series, Star Trek. And while you, Mr. Branson, had a mysterious copy of Bladerunner show up in your cloud server, a young Charlotte Omandi had every episode of Star Trek given to her by an unknown family friend.” She reached over and squeezed James’ shoulder. “Now, Lieutenant Branson, I surely hope your previous claims were not just testosterone fueled fever dreams and that you truly can fly anything, anywhere. If so, please, take this ship as fast as it will go and find us a nice quiet place to hide from all the people who seem to want us dead.”
James squinted at one of the panels, moved a lever forward and whooped. “That’s Mach 7 right there. Those F-45s can’t do anything better than Mach 3.2. I know a great hiding place not too far from the beaches of Monaco.”
“At present speed, ETA is approximately twenty-three minutes,” offered Coleman.
“Uh, Charlotte, you're a captain, is that it?” stammered James.
She sighed, “So it would seem.”
“Yeah, well, I’m a live-and-let-live kind of bloke so you go on and call yourself whatever you like. The thing is, twice now you’ve called me lieutenant and I don’t recall signing up for anything other than getting paid to bring you to Monte Carlo.”
Charlotte reclined her chair and closed her eyes. “Coleman?”
“Yes ma'am,” he replied.
“It seems we have about twenty-three minutes. Would you please apprise our newest recruit of the dire straights in which we humans find ourselves. I’d start with the reptilian extraterrestrial video…that one sure got my attention.”
"All I am saying," repeated Damien, "is that it's a bit disconcerting to have one's entire consciousness simply switched off. Imagine how you would feel if you just blacked out during a thunderstorm. Really, you three are not very sympathetic at all."
"Oh, I'm sorry," snarked Misha, "but do try and avoid playing the poor little tin man because I am fresh out of oil to fix your rust problems.“
"Very funny, Sokolov, but you can't throw that reference in my face. The Howard-Prime part of me is the reason all of you were grounded in the cultural things he found unifyingly important." He pointed at the security officer, "including The Wizard of Oz."
Misha frowned at him. "You are such a dick sometimes, Damien, and it’s not because you are artificially intelligent. I don't give one shit if you are artificial or not. The only artificial thing I can't stand is cheese, but I do find it convenient that you blame any dick-moves you make on Howard-Prime.”
Damien pointed at her. "You were not supposed to be the smart one. You were supposed to be the dangerously attractive She-Hulk one."
"Too bad," Misha growled, "I'm both," then tilted her head toward Omandi, "She's the super smart one. I'm just street smart enough to recognize your bullshit for what it is…bullshit.”
The shuttle suddenly rang with the sound of impact, then rocked from side to side. Charlotte and Misha stumbled into each other and the security officer reached over to brace both of them against the cabin wall. "Sorry," called Branson from the cockpit, "I had to make a last minute sideways adjustment and the instruments were not quite as fast as I was." A moment later, the Irishman joined them, and said, "All right then, I did my bit. We're safe. No one is going to find us here. Now give me what I'm owed."
"How far down are we?" asked Charlotte.
James shrugged. "No idea."
Coleman turned to Charlotte and said, "The Hellenic trench is approximately sixteen thousand feet deep, Captain Omandi."
"And you are sure the shuttle is rated for this depth?" she asked. Coleman nodded and Charlotte furrowed her brow at him. "How much deeper could we go?"
The AI's eyes, which had returned to Coleman's normal brown, suddenly blazed to life as they had done when he first interfaced with the Galileo. The pupiless blue orbs focused on her. "I'm accessing the test data now. Just a moment. During its unmanned tests, the Galileo has traversed the Mariana Trench in its entirety. Several stress tests were conducted at approximately thirty-six-thousand feet and over fifteen thousand pounds per square inch pressure."
"Pretty good shields," murmured Sokolov.
"That was without shields, Lieutenant," corrected the AI. "However, several concussive charges were tested while also at that depth. During those tests, shields were deployed."
"Since I know him best," began Damien, "allow me to translate from Coleman to english....we're good."
"Excellent," lilted Branson, as he lifted an open palm toward Omandi, "now give me what you promised." She smiled at him warmly and pressed something into his outstretched hand. The pilot shook his head. "No, we agreed on two so don't try and wriggle out of it now." Omandi placed another object in his hand and Branson nodded. He rolled the two small plastic bottles between his fingers. "Now, I need some ice."
"The food dispenser can create water and flash freeze it," offered Coleman. "Would you like me to--"
The Irishman waved his question away, "No, I'll figure it out. How hard can it be?" With that
he walked toward an illuminated side panel just behind the fourth row of seats. Everyone watched in bemused silence as James began tapping and swiping between menus. He glanced over. "What? The Gal just did a fair imitation of Optimus Prime when she transformed from jet to space shuttle.” He gestured to the food dispenser, “You don’t think her having added a magic microwave is going to give me pause do you? Go. Talk amongst yourselves. I'll be there as soon as--" the dispenser chimed and a panel slid open to reveal a medium sized glass filled with several cubes of ice. Branson emptied both bottles of irish whiskey into the glass, gave it a swirl, then took a long pull. "Now, that hits the spot, ladies and gentlemen, and I'll tell you that for absolutely nothing."
Misha eyed him briefly then looked up at Coleman. "How does that dispenser thing work?"
"For the most part, it functions like a typical, albeit fast, 3D printer for items like the glass. For food, however, instead of resins, this device uses compressed amino acids which are then combined with inorganic elements."
"The ice seems to work," offered James, then wagged his now empty glass at Charlotte.
"No," she said, "the agreement was for two bottles of Jameson and two is what you have been given, Lieutenant."
He laughed, "You can keep on with that lieutenant shite as much as you want, but I haven't agreed to anything." The pilot took a step back as four pairs of eyes bored into him. "Hey now, I didn't ask for any of this. I'm no hero. I'm just a bloke who likes to fly or drive is all." He pointed at Damien who raised his hands in a not-me gesture. "Oh yes, you," chuckled James. "Your dead-self engineered me to be your navigator. Coleman showed me the whole thing and your captain filled in the holes. I'll grant you, it is nice to know I've got a sort of super-power, but I have no desire to use them trying to evade American fighter pilots.”
"The Chinese, European Union, and Russian Federation, are now aware of us. Each are also on heightened alert," said Coleman. "I would argue that the Americans should be the least of your concerns. Some of the Chinese interrogation techniques can be--"
Paradigm 2045- Trinity's Children Page 17
