Paradigm 2045- Trinity's Children
Page 25
“Coffee?” asked Linnea.
Charlotte nodded, “That’s a question you never need ask again, but please, grab a seat. My hands aren’t broken. I can grab my own coffee.” Omandi pulled out the carafe and sniffed. It smelled good. She poured a mug, blew on it, and took a sip. “Oh, my, that is so good,” she said.
Damien placed the platter laden with bacon, eggs, and pancakes on the nearest table and pulled out a chair for Charlotte. She rolled her eyes at him but settled into the offered seat. “I own a small coffee plantation in Chiapas, Mexico,” said the android. “It produces the most amazing beans. They are wet processed and the coffee almost tastes like blueberry cobbler doesn’t it?”
Omandi smiled. “It does...but Damien, to whom were you referring when you said, ‘I own a coffee plantation?’”
He looked confused and glanced around the table. None of the others would meet his gaze, so he took the seat opposite Charlotte and shrugged. “I’m not sure what you mean, Captain.” She said nothing but just stared at him until, several seconds passed, and his shoulders slumped. “I slipped, didn’t I? I don’t know why I said that, especially now that I have this body. Just when I think my thoughts are truly my own, I regress.” She gave him a genuinely supportive smile and reached across the table.
He accepted her hand and she squeezed. “It’s ok, Lt. Smith. We all have a great deal of adjusting to do, perhaps you most of all.” She snickered. “Then again, I have to adjust to being something I never intended to be, a spaceship captain. Just saying it out loud makes me feel ridiculous.”
“Howard-Prime preferred starship,” offered Misha, “You know how he was about Star Trek.”
Charlotte nodded as she released Damien’s hand and pointed at the food. “Please, all of you go first.”
“Don’t need to tell me twice,” said James, and began piling food onto his plate.
Omandi tapped the table with her fork and Damien looked up from where he’d been staring at his plate. “You might have the toughest challenge of us all. Your head is peppered with another man’s memories, but you are not that man.”
He nodded. “I understand, Captain. I will endeavor to do better.”
“No, you misunderstand me, Damien.” Charlotte gestured around the table and back to herself. “It is we who need to do better. We are a team. We are a crew that has been assembled to, quite literally, save the world, as ludicrous as that sounds. Each of us has magnificent strengths, and quite likely, equally magnificent blind spots. It is incumbent upon all of us to bolster each others’ strengths while calling attention to weaknesses so we may overcome them.”
“Including yours?” asked Linnea around a mouthful of egg.
Charlotte chuckled softly. “Especially mine. You may need to do it in private, but I don’t want any of you to feel you cannot, or should not, call attention to my failings. Again, we all have them.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Branson. Omandi frowned at him and the pilot affected chagrin. “Sorry, that was completely inappropriate and uncalled for. I apologize. Let me correct myself. Speak for yourself, sir.”
Misha let out a low rumble and narrowed her eyes at James. “You’re pretty proud of yourself aren’t you?”
“Almost always,” he said with a grin, then popped a piece of bacon into his mouth.
Sokolov pointed her knife at the pilot and spat a string of words in his direction.
He blinked at her, completely nonplussed by the security officer’s tone. “Sorry, love, I don’t speak Russian.”
“Oh,” said Linnea, “ she was wondering how many times your mother dropped you on your head. She also thought that one of those times resulted in your head being lodged up your ass.” Everyone stared at the young communications officer who blushed furiously. “What? Misha said it, I just translated.”
Sokolov pointed at Linnea, “You left out a few of my more descriptive words, Barbie, but I do think you got the gist of it correct.”
Charlotte took another bite of her breakfast and swallowed. “As I was saying, we all have areas in which we could do better and, collectively, we will be better for our mutual association.” Omandi took a sip of coffee, then tilted it in James’s direction, “That is especially true for those of us who have clearly spent their lives without any such positive associations.” Branson grimaced but she tapped the table with her cup, forestalling his objection. “Enough. Now, who wants to explain to me why all of you are in some kind of uniform? Don’t get me wrong, I actually like them. They are a huge improvement over Howard-Prime’s Star Trek fetishwear.”
“Hey,” complained Damien, but when everyone stared at him, he coughed, then added, “that’s a great observation, Captain. I don’t know what that Howard-Prime guy was thinking with his derivatively stupid Star Trek Next Generation uniforms.”
“Exactly, my perspective as well, Lt. Smith,” said Omandi.
Linnea raised a hand. “I had them printed in the foundry, Captain. I wouldn’t say I designed them because I really just took bits and pieces from other designs that were available in the printer’s library.”
“Well, I think she did a great job,” offered Misha. “They are comfortable without looking bland or stupidly sci-fi.”
"Really?" said Charlotte with barely concealed amusement. "A genuine Sokolov compliment, and for Linnea no less. I'm not sure my heart can take it, especially given that you had a design of your own you wanted me to consider."
Misha shook her head slightly and frowned. "Captain, I do have a nice side." She gave Linnea a wink. "I just usually keep it on the in-side. As for the uniforms themselves, her design is just better than mine and has custom elements for each of us. For example, I have lots of nooks and crannies in which to store bladed weapons and micro-explosives. Bottom line, the ensign did an exceptional job."
Sorenson lit up at the praise then said, “I took bits and pieces from each of the movies and television series that Doctor Howard made sure we all saw. There’s Battlestar, and Star Trek, and even a few touches from Lost in Space and Bladerunner. I can have one made for you, Captain. I would have already done so, but didn’t want to presume.”
Charlotte gave her communications officer a wry smile. “In the future, I think it’s safe for you to always presume when it comes to fashion or uniforms. I certainly know what I don’t like, but as for what I do, well, it’s just not one of my strengths. So, yes, I would appreciate your printing me a few of them. In fact, while you are at it—” Omandi pulled out her hand terminal and made several swipes. “I just sent you Richard Carpenter’s measurements. Would you please print out a few uniforms for him as well.”
“Who’s that?” came a chorus from around the table.
“Doctor Richard Carpenter. I hope he will be our newest addition and chief medical officer by day’s end.”
“That is exciting,” said Damien. “Do we know where he is?”
“New Orleans, Louisiana,” replied Omandi. “Apparently, Howard-Prime engineered him shortly after me. I’m only a year older than Carpenter.”
“Well, it’s about damn time,” said Misha and gave the table an enthusiastic slap. “I’m usually the first girl who gets shot, stabbed, or spindled. I vote, hell yes, for some kind of genetically enhanced doctor.” She laughed, then pointed at Linnea. “You should be happy too.”
“Huh, why me? I don’t plan on getting shot, stabbed, or whatever that other thing is.”
Misha shook her head, “No, not that, Barbie. Once the doc joins up, you won’t be the greenest member any more.”
Sorenson grinned as the realization settled in, but it faded when Charlotte stood and looked down at the four of them. “All right everyone, please be ready to go in two hours. I’m going to spend that time putting a few final touches on our approach and will then get your input once we’re all aboard Galileo. James, please run a full diagnostic on all the Gal’s offensive and defensive systems.”
He nodded, “Aye, sir, but are you expecting trouble?”
Misha gave a long sigh. “Well, shit, that’s not good, but at least we’ll have a doctor to patch me up this time.”
Chapter 22
Richard Carpenter
Charlotte watched the barren Antarctic landscape recede beneath them when Branson called over. His tone immediately put her teeth on edge.
"Hey, Captain, I was just thinking..."
"No, James," she said with a sigh.
He tapped several buttons then swiveled his chair to face her. "What do you mean, no? I haven't even told you what I was thinking about."
"Lieutenant Branson," she began, "while you are technically correct, I have learned in our short time together that any sentence beginning with you thinking about...anything....should be summarily rejected."
He frowned. "Fine, don't take the best advice from your navigations officer. Impressive command style that is." Omandi gave him a flat expression and refused the clearly offered bait. He huffed, then leaned forward to place both forearms across his thighs. "Don't you think we should take the Gal into space?"
"No, unless—“ Omandi paused, and James looked hopeful as the captain feigned confusion, then asked, “Wait, is New Orleans located in space?”
“Fine,” he grumbled, “there’s no need to be spiteful about it. Never you mind that we’re flying in a space-shuttle, and have no idea whether that space-shuttle can even operate in…space!”
Charlotte rolled her eyes. “Coleman?”
“Here Captain, how may I serve?”
“Can the Galileo operate in space?”
“Of course, Captain.”
Omandi gestured from Coleman to Branson, who didn’t look convinced, “Pffft, you are going to take the word of a hologram over me?”
Coleman gave the pilot a disapproving glare. “There is no call for rudeness, Lt. Branson, and no need to, as you say, take my word for anything. You reviewed nearly three hours of video and telemetry data from Doctor Howard’s clandestine space worthiness tests performed on the Galileo. Were they not sufficient? I could queue up some additional videos, including one depicting a rather impressive gravity assisted maneuver the shuttle made around Uranus.”
“Really?” asked Charlotte, her voice rising in mock surprise. “Coleman, do you have both video and telemetry?”
“Yes sir,” replied the AI, “Lt. Branson was quite thorough in his review of Galileo's fitness reports.”
She grinned at her pilot. “You don’t say. Well, James, it looks like Coleman has shoved some video and telemetry data right up…Uranus.” Omandi rose and turned to exit the cockpit, but glanced back at James. “Don’t look so forlorn. I was planning on having you take the Gal out for an interstellar spin right after we acquired Doctor Carpenter.”
James’ entire face lit up like a child’s on Christmas morning. “Really, for true? Why didn’t you just say so?”
Charlotte showed her teeth, “Because, Lieutenant, I wanted to teach you a lesson. Don’t try to put one over on your Captain or she will mentally beat you like a circus monkey.”
James offered her a deliberately sloppy salute and said, “Aye, aye, sir. Message received. Consider this monkey sufficiently chastised.” He spun his chair, took back manual control, and hit the intercom button. “May I have your attention please, this is your pilot speaking. We have reached our cruising altitude and are currently traveling at a slothful seven-hundred-sixty miles per hour. I’ve turned off the seatbelt signs and you are free to move about the cabin. However, despite our rather impressive cloaking technologies, please be prepared for unexpected hostilities and fiery death. Thank you for flying Omandi-Air. We should have you on the ground in New Orleans around five pm local time.”
Misha gripped both sides of the cockpit’s frame and glowered at James. “Wait a minute, you are going to land this shuttle on the roof?”
He spared her a quick glance, “Yes, love, I am. Do you have a problem with that?”
“Yeah, I do…love. When we collected Linnea from that hotel in Monaco, Coleman said the Galileo was too heavy to land on the roof.”
“This is a different roof.”
Sokolov glared at him and saw the pilot’s impish expression reflected off one of the displays. It made her blood boil, but she restrained herself. “I know it is a different roof, James. Why is this one safe to land on?”
“It has a helipad.”
Misha furrowed her brow. “So that means it’s reinforced?”
“Yup,” said James.
“Ok, but I imagine a helicopter weighs a lot less than Galileo. Listen, I do not want us falling through the roof. It would bring a lot of unwanted attention.”
Branson chuckled and spun his chair all the way around. “It would also likely crush a few hundred people to death.”
Misha blinked. “Oh, yeah, that too. So, I don’t think you should—”
“It’s fine. I’m positive the roof will support her. Seriously, Misha, you need to relax a little.”
Omandi came up from behind and peered into the cockpit. “Something the matter?”
“No sir,” said James, “I was just explaining to the lieutenant here that the Royal Orleans helipad will support our lovely shuttle without any problems.”
Omandi nodded. “Excellent!” She nudged her security officer. “Let’s go, Misha. Time to get your game face on. Given what’s happened so far, I suspect we’ll find some kind of resistance in or around the doc. I want you and Damien to join me down there.”
Sokolov gave her a curt nod. “Aye, sir. I’ll be right there.” Omandi retreated back into the cabin and Misha narrowed her eyes at Branson. “How do you know the roof can support Galileo?”
He grinned at her. “Because, we’ve been sitting on it since you started bitching at me and we haven’t fallen through.” Misha’s face darkened and James rocked back in his chair. He raised both hands placatingly but couldn’t stop from laughing at the clearly irate security officer. “Easy, don’t let your cossack blood pressure boil over. Do I tell you how to kill and maim people? No, I do not. Seriously, Misha, you need to trust me.”
Sokolov blinked several times, grumbled something in Russian, then turned to follow Omandi who was engaged in some kind of conversation with Damien.
“You’re right, it’s a good point,” said Charlotte, “No sense calling more attention to ourselves than necessary. I should have thought of it.”
Damien shrugged noncommittally and smiled at Misha as she joined them. “Should have thought of what, Captain?”
“Clothes,” Omandi replied. “I forgot we were all still decked out in our Sorenson specials.” The communications officer glanced up at the sound of her name.
She pulled out one earbud. “I’m sorry, did you need something, Captain?”
Omandi shook her head. “No, you keep reviewing those personnel files. I just mentioned that Misha and I need to change out of the uniforms you designed for us.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Linnea, “I assumed you would. I printed normal clothes and stowed them in the…” she stumbled over her words, “the trunk of the Galileo. I don’t know what the back should be called.”
“Aft storage area,” said Misha and clapped Linnea on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it, Barbie. Trunk’s fine too.” The security officer turned to Charlotte. “Okay, Captain, let’s you and I slip into our civvies and find us a medical doctor.”
Misha gestured to a small, free standing, brick building that lay across the street from the café where they sat. “Why don’t we just walk over to his office and knock on the door?” asked Misha. “We’ve been sitting here for almost two hours.” She tapped on Charlotte’s hand terminal as it rested on their table. “It’s after eight o’clock. How late does this guy work?”
“If you had taken the time to read his personnel brief, you would know that,” said Damien.
“I read the re
port,” she replied sneering, “just not the whole thing. I read the threat assessment.”
Charlotte shook her head. “Really? He’s a child pediatrician and psychiatrist. If I recall correctly, that threat assessment consisted of one word, none.”
Misha raised her hand in an attempt to catch their server’s attention, then murmured, “Well, I read it.”
Omandi sighed. “He often sees patients until nine or ten o’clock. We just need to wait and be patient ourselves. It will do us no good to burst in there while he’s dealing with a distraught family member or their child.”
“I just don’t see—” Misha broke off as the server walked over.
“May I help you?” he asked pleasantly.
Misha smiled. “Yes, I’d like another order of those donuts please and some more of that special coffee. What is it, again?”
“Cafe au lait, ma’am,” said the server indulgently.
“Yes, that’s it,” said Misha, “It has an interesting bite to it that I really like, but I’m not exactly sure why.”
“That’s the chicory, ma’am,” said the server.
“Chicory?” Misha turned to Damien and Charlotte. “Did either of you know that?”
Charlotte shook her head, but Damien said, “Yes, it’s the root of a flowering plant. The French used it in the early nineteenth century during Napoleon’s blockade. They roasted the root, ground it, then added it to their extremely limited supply of coffee.”
“If you hadn’t noticed,” snarked Misha, “we aren’t in France so I don’t see—”
“Your friend is correct, ma’am,” interjected the server. “New Orleans was originally settled by the French and when the Civil War made coffee scarce, here, we all went back to how we extended our coffee the last time.” He paused and looked a bit bashful. “I’m sorry, it’s just that my family goes back over two hundred years. It’s made me kind of a local history buff.”