Daniel removed his hat and sat down at the captain's table on command.
"Gentles, if you would introduce yourselves...?"
"Daniel Doverton-Hawke of New Yorkshire, Londinium." Daniel began, "And it's an honour, captain. If I may, to what do we owe the pleasure of dining with you tonight?"
Spoiler: THE REPLICANTS
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The person who introduced himself to the Captain, under the name "Llewellyn Caesaro" was a computer records clerk and amateur holo-tennis fanatic, who had been saving for three years for this trip of a lifetime. He was obviously none too successful with the ladies, and with a social nervousness bordering on the gauche. He was honored beyond words to be seated at the Captain's table, but slightly worried as to who was steering the craft while the Captain was at dinner - and he hoped the other diners would pardon his ignorance, but he knew absolutely nothing about spaceships!
It was a cover story he'd rehearsed carefully, the only thing accurate about it being his name - since he'd served in the navy and followed later, less respectable careers, under other names.
He half thought about sending his gazpacho soup back, on the grounds that it was cold, but decided this would be gilding the lily. He made a mental note to use at least one wrong set of cutlery through the meal, though, just to be on the safe side.
"Daniel Doverton-Hawke of New Yorkshire, Londinium." Daniel began, "And it's an honour, captain. If I may, to what do we owe the pleasure of dining with you tonight?"
"Thank you. The Chief Steward has the computers pick passengers at random, although," Captain Sharp added, momentarily glancing at John Paris who was already downing his second whiskey, "Passengers in our Nova cabins get first preference. Most nights I have absolutely no idea who will be sitting at this table when I get here."
"Not at all, Mr. Caesaro," Captain Sharp replied, fixing a slightly pained professional smile on his face. Why couldn't that blasted computer have selected at least one woman to be here? "We have a bridge crew standing rotating watches, even in Interspace, and they monitor the ship's systems and ensure we're on our programmed course. If there's any problem, they'll contact me."The person who introduced himself to the Captain, under the name "Llewellyn Caesaro" was a computer records clerk and amateur holo-tennis fanatic, who had been saving for three years for this trip of a lifetime. He was obviously none too successful with the ladies, and with a social nervousness bordering on the gauche. He was honored beyond words to be seated at the Captain's table, but slightly worried as to who was steering the craft while the Captain was at dinner - and he hoped the other diners would pardon his ignorance, but he knew absolutely nothing about spaceships!
A phone buzzed under the table.
"Rather like that, actually," Captain Sharp replied, a little surprised as he reached under the table cloth to unhook the brass and ebony handset.
"Usually they just page me on my Omni," he told his guests. "But it's customary to use the phone when I'm at dinner or in my cabin."
"What is it, Bridge?" he demanded into the handset."
"Sir, sorry to interrupt you..." the slightly faint voice of the Officer of the Deck began, crackling over the sound-powered network.
"Spill it."
"Sir, we've found a stowaway."
"A stowaway? On my ship? Are you sure?" he demanded
"She's not on the passenger manifest, sir. Security says she was wandering on the Promenade deck in a prison outfit...."
"Promenade deck in a prison outfit?" Sharp roared, momentarily forgetting where he was. John Paris choaked, spraying the table with whiskey while all conversation nearby stopped.
"We're not holding any prisoners, are we?"
"No sir!"
"So where is she from? Don't tell me those idiots back at Port Charles lost control of a prisoner!"
"Security didn't say, sir. They've taken her down to Sickbay...."
"Sick bay! What the hell happened?"
"They want the doctor to take a look at her, sir. She doesn't speak and seems confused!"
The Captain swore an oath that would turn a space pirate pale.
"Tell Security I'm coming down," he ordered, then hung up the phone.
"If you would excuse me, gentles," he growled as he stood up.
"Actually..." drawled John Paris, playing the bored playboy to the hilt, "This is the first time I've ever heard of someone stowing aboard. Why don't we join you? If you gentles don't mind?"
"Mr. Paris, this is hardly...."
"Please Captain, just think of the stories that Mr. Caesaro could share with his workmates when he gets back! Or Mr. Doverton at his club? Or these others? While they might not be used to the pleasures aboard ship, I am somewhat all too familiar with them and look forward to something else to divert myself with."
"And besides," Paris drawled, a triumphant smirk on his face, "as I own ten percent of the Zodiac shares...."
"You're a shareholder?" Captain Sharp demanded, turning pale.
"An investment for my... retirement."
"Very well then," the captain spat. "Gentles, if you would follow me?"
Last edited by Enigma; 08-22-2011 at 03:04 AM.
Spoiler: ¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤ √Ăłł Єѵïł ¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤
"Thank you. The Chief Steward has the computers pick passengers at random, although," Captain Sharp added, momentarily glancing at John Paris who was already downing his second whiskey, "Passengers in our Nova cabins get first preference. Most nights I have absolutely no idea who will be sitting at this table when I get here."
“A lottery?” Daniel smiled, “I can imagine it adding some...excitement to your day, captain.”
The computers pick the guests, his mind raced behind the smile, Well, computers could be hacked. Perhaps tonight's oddly-convenient mix of guests was indeed no coincidence.
As he took a small sip from the water glass that had been set for him, Daniel flicked his gaze between his target, Caesero, and the wild card, Paris. The rogue TID operative was downing 18-year-old Scotch in straight shots – a criminal waste of good whiskey. As a callback to the carelessly extravagant playboy days that the others seated at the table would most likely know him for, it was an excellent cover; but Daniel doubted that the agent would allow himself to ingest a debilitating quantity of alcohol without taking some sort of antidote beforehand. Sure enough, John Paris displayed none of the red flush that should have begun to show in his face by now if the alcohol really was taking effect. It was a common tactic for agents in both the SIS and the TID, putting their opponents off-guard with apparent drunkenness, only to snap to action perfectly sober at the crucial moment. Personally, Daniel usually opted to remain tee-total – partly because the counterholic pill was a recognised tactic whose signs might be spotted by an experienced enemy agent, and partly because his usual cover story as a stuffy Londinian gentleman gave him an excuse to refrain from drinking anyway.
Caesero was good as well, better than Daniel had expected. His cover was almost perfect, down to picking up the wrong cutlery when the starter arrived as if nervous or inexperienced in naval dining etiquette. Any genuine nervousness he was feeling was effortlessly passed off as that of a slightly awkward youth unused to mixing with new and distinguished company. If he had not been informed in advance, even Daniel might not have worked out who he really was. Except for one detail – the tiny tubular bulge in the inside breast pocket of the man's zirconium jumpsuit, suggestive of the barrel of a gun. A very small gun, but a gun nonetheless. Caesero was armed. No innocent civilian would smuggle a weapon onto the Scorpio, and they certainly wouldn't bring it to the captain's table. Idly, Daniel wondered how the smuggling had been accomplished. Bribing a guard? No, that was too risky. A plastic gun, that wouldn't show up on the metal detectors at Port Charles? Perhaps. Manufacturing plastics of sufficient toughness was tricky, but possible. An x-ray-shielded briefcase, such as the one Daniel himself used? Maybe. A pirate needed somewhere to hide their prized possessions, after all.
Daniel talked at length with the the alien called Michael, and watched with polite interest as the captain exchanged words with Caesaro, the former trying valiantly to hide his ever-increasing exasperation. And then the disturbance came.
“That sounds like a girl I met down there just half an hour ago.” said Daniel, the surprise in his voice genuine this time, “I thought she was lost.”
“Actually...” drawled John Paris, playing the bored playboy to the hilt, “This is the first time I've ever heard of someone stowing aboard. Why don't we join you? If you gentles don't mind?”
That immediately set alarm bells ringing in Daniel's mind. Paris' justification was tenuous at best, but his tone was insistent. What did the rogue agent want with this girl? Daniel might not have any orders on the matter, but here was something that needed looking into. He kept the silver-topped cane with the concealed needler held lightly but firmly in his hand as he got up and followed the others, being sure to stay within arm's reach of both Caesaro and Paris.
Spoiler: THE REPLICANTS
If you have a question for me, or just like alliterative thread titles, go here.
More alliteration! And character profiles.
"Well, this is exciting," said Kes. In fact, it was more relieving than anything. A whole evening spent making small talk with strangers - and having to watch every second that he didn't inadvertently reveal his naval background - was not his idea of a fun time. And with not a woman in sight into the bargain... at least this stowaway or whatever she was might be worth looking at.
And he had other problems, too. That Doverton-Hawke guy had been looking at him suspiciously, and the expression on the Londinian's face - one that said "I've got you filed, docketed and receipted, my lad" gave Kes a squeezed feeling in the guts. He was racking his mind frantically, wondering if they'd met before. Did he owe the guy money? Had he dallied with his daughter or sister - or mother, come to that? Had he worked a scam on him.
All in all, the Captain's Table was a lottery prize he wished he hadn't won. Yes, indeed, a trip out to the corridor to see this stowaway was a most welcome interlude. He flung his napkin down on his plate, and tagged on eagerly.
The elevator dinged softly as the doors slid open onto the Life Deck. The mid-deck reception area was mostly empty, only the one live crewman standing his post at the Hotel Reception desk. He stiffed as he caught sight of the Captain.
"This way, Gentles," growled Captain Sharp, waving the party to the left.
Around the corner was the door to sickbay. It slid open at their approach, revealing an empty waiting room.
"Sir?" called out a nurse at her station. "The prisoner is back here."
"Thank you," Sharp nodded.
He frowned when he stepped into the hospital ward and saw the guard stationed next to the quarantine room. Sharp glanced back at the passengers that had followed him, then stormed over.
"Guard, why is the prisoner in quarantine?" he demanded.
"That would be my doing," a voice interrupted. The doctor and the girl were staring at them through the window. He was wearing a full-encounter suit.
"This is merely a precaution," the doctor crackled via the sickbay loudspeaker. "We're running tests to see if she has any unusual viruses or bacterium to account for her condition."
"And just what exactly is her condition?" Sharp growled warningly.
"Amnesia."
"Amnesia?"
"She doesn't speak any known language, so I thought I do the blood tests before we put her through the body scanner."
Paris stepped past the others to stare hungrily at the girl in the window. It was her! Revenge was soon to be his!
Spoiler: ¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤ √Ăłł Єѵïł ¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤
"Oh, crud!" Michael stood up, coming out of his trance, since he was told to stand up when the captain came, but since he noticed that the captain, and all the other guests, already left, he looked around and sat back down. "A fast food president shouldn't daydream about a blitzball (Final Fantasy 10 reference) match" He sighed and facepalmed.
Everything shall be perceived to be of similar difficulty to rocket science.
You must defeat Sheng Long to stand a chance.
“That's definitely her.” Daniel offered, “Poor girl, I had no idea that she was amnesic and not just lost.”
As he pretended to stare at the girl through the bulletproof glass, he caught Paris' expression out of the corner of his eye, and didn't like it one bit. What the reason was he couldn't fathom, but the fact that a dangerous rogue agent wanted the girl was reason enough to deny him. At least until he found out what was really going on.
Spoiler: THE REPLICANTS
If you have a question for me, or just like alliterative thread titles, go here.
More alliteration! And character profiles.
"Kind of cute," thought Kes, irrelevantly, trying hard not to stare. She'd have looked better in a swimsuit, of course, or an evening dress. Hell, even a sweater and jeans would have been an improvement. Those orange coveralls were not a good look. Nor, for that matter, was the look on her face - blank, yet wild, like she was not only lost, but had forgotten she had ever not been. And the paper slippers were just plain ridiculous!
Yet under it all, she was a looker, of sorts. Even allowing for how long it had been since he'd truly appreciated a woman. The vulnerability of her position made her somehow appealing, like you wanted to scoop her up and carry her to safety, fighting off Sarnuzian winged dragons en route.
Kes stole a glance at the man named Paris. He didn't like the look he saw there. It was at once predatory and self-satisfied, as if Paris had the power to punish the girl simply for being lost. The look of smug, self-righteous authority, the we're-doing-this-for-your-own-good expression that meant that some sadistic punishment was on the way. The look that would not take well, I'd rather you didn't thanks as an answer.
Poor girl.
The faintest of scowls appeared on John Paris' face. The girl didn't recognize him. He'd changed somewhat since he'd seen her last, but she didn't look a day older.
Unconsciously, his fist balled up at his side. It wasn't fair - everything he suffered through, and she was completely oblivious. The mere sight of him should have been enough to strike fear into her heart, making her sleepless wondering when and how he was going to take his revenge for the hell she'd put him through.
"Is it permanent?" he demanded. "No hope for recovery?"
The doctor behind the window frowned.
"We don't know," he admitted. "More tests might lead us to a break through, but we're not set up for anything on this level."
Spoiler: ¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤ √Ăłł Єѵïł ¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤¤
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