Orn turned the car hard, the engines letting out a high-pitched whine and spitting sparks—almost as if the vehicle was skidding through the air itself. He threw it into reverse, shifted his blaster to his left hand, and started taking aim at one of the hover cars in the back.
They responded in kind. Blaster fire filled the air, bolts of energy streaking past in brilliant flashes of red and blue. But Orn kept his blaster trained on the same car, his focus absolute as he kept firing. Every shot hit the same spot—over and over again, methodically targeting the engine housing.
For some reason, the shots from the assassins kept going wild. Their aim was off, their bolts curving away at the last second as if deflected by an invisible force. It was expected, really. Powerful Psionics had their own orbit, like they were stars burning bright in the void, surrounded by a sort of metaphysical field that made it difficult—though not impossible—for ordinary people to hurt them.
The engine of the targeted car exploded in a shower of sparks and flame. The vehicle careened to the side, trailing thick black smoke as it plummeted toward the forest below. Seconds later, a distant explosion echoed up from the canopy.
Lightning came blasting toward Orn, aimed directly at his exposed hand outside the vehicle.
He wrenched the wheel hard to the side. The lightning blasted into the side of the car instead, leaving a garish burn mark that glowed orange-hot. The systems went haywire—alarms blaring, displays flickering. Orn tried to regain control, but it was easier said than done. He'd already damaged the systems with the Psi-Pulse, and now this lightning strike had fried what was left. The vehicle sputtered, and suddenly Orn began an uncontrolled drop from the sky.
He felt his heart plummet to the pit of his stomach.
At this height, if they crashed, the injuries would be significant. And while it wouldn't kill him—probably—it would incapacitate him long enough for his assassins to come down and finish the job.
Orn grabbed the disruptor rifle. It had a full sniper charge now. He looked out the window and his eyes widened as the tops of the trees rapidly drew closer, the details of individual branches becoming horrifyingly clear.
He smashed his right hand onto the eject button and shoved the blaster back into the waistband of his pants—with the safety on, of course. Both he and the android were ejected out of the car with explosive force. For a moment, a loud whoosh of displaced air blew past his face as Orn turned in midair, his body rotating with practiced grace as he leveled the disruptor rifle at the car that held the lightning Psionic.
At that moment, it seemed as if the entire world had paused—or slowed down to a crawl.
Lightning was blasting in his direction from the Psionic's outstretched hand. Half his body hung outside of the car, rage and anguish etched into his features as tears slid down his cheeks. Orn could see it all from here—the raw emotion, the fury, the grief. Maybe the telekinetic had been a family member? A lover? A friend?
It didn't matter.
What mattered was that in this moment, Orn felt unfettered. One with the wind, at peace in the air, free and untouched by gravity—if only for a heartbeat. His eyes glowed softly behind his mask, and at just the right angle with the sun behind him, his light brown skin seemed to catch fire with golden light. His curly black hair was tied behind him in a ponytail, his signature military fade exposing the brand of the Order of the White Ones burned into the left side of his temple. And then there was the half-face mask his father had made him wear for ten good years.
As he squeezed the trigger, in the eyes of the other Psionic, it seemed as if Orn had swallowed the sun—or become it himself.
The youngest admiral of the empire looked larger than life, larger than the galaxy itself. His own solar system. A sun burning bright in the void.
The disruptor rifle went off.
Half of the Psionic's body was blasted to pieces, blood and gore spraying outward in a crimson mist that rained down over the trees below. The remaining half of the body tumbled from the car, lifeless.
As for Orn, the recoil from the shot blasted him backward through the air until his back slammed into the top of one of the massive trees. Pain exploded through his spine. Gravity attempted to impose its authority, dragging him down with merciless force, but Orn had a different plan.
He stretched his left hand out and grabbed at the wind itself.
The sound of extreme tearing filled the air—fabric of reality straining against his will. The gravity on Deimos was actually stronger than standard, so his power over the wind wasn't enough to let him glide as he normally could. Instead, he had to settle for a controlled fall, pushing away from the tree to avoid the worst of the branches as he sailed through the air. He created layers upon layers of compressed air under his feet and body, each one slowing his descent by fractions.
He crashed to the ground—which was, surprisingly, a paved path.
The impact drove the air from his lungs. He rolled several meters, his body tumbling over itself before finally being stopped by a street lamp at the edge of the path. Pain radiated through every inch of his body. Ironically enough, he could see the android regaining proper function just a few feet away, her systems rebooting as her eyes flickered back to life.
Orn groaned. He might not have broken anything—he hoped—but he was sure he had bruises and probably some internal injuries to go with it. He had no power suit or biological enhancements to augment his body. Psionics generally avoided such things—most equipment interfered with their powers, or their powers interfered with the equipment. Any biological enhancements usually ended up with the Psionic dying painfully or losing their Psi for good.
So he was still a good old-fashioned Aegean—which meant lots of squishy, vulnerable parts.
"Umm... Master Orn?" Thirteen's voice was cautious as she walked toward him, her arms clasped together in a sign of deference and servitude. "What happened to the car?"
Orn grunted as he forced himself back to his feet, his body protesting every movement. But whatever moment of relief he might have gotten was ended by the sound of rapid gunfire coming from above them.
Relying on pure instinct, he tackled the android off the path and into the shrubbery beside them, diving under the cover of the trees as he dragged her back several meters. He slung the rifle behind him—until it had at least half a charge, it was useless. The blaster would have to be enough, but he was already halfway through the charge on his second clip.
He really should have grabbed more weapons from the car before it went down.
It didn't take long for his new acquaintances to land their vehicles. Both cars settled onto the plaza nearby, still intact—but with no more pesky Psionics to cause him problems. It was protocol in any fight to take out the Psionics first. They were the most dangerous factor in any conflict.
But then again, it wasn't as if you could find Psionics on every street corner, which was what made this whole assassination attempt so significant. Even if they were hired guns, a team with Psionics couldn't be cheap. Even for his father, this would burn a serious hole in his pocket. This level of assassination would be enough to make someone a landlord and buy them a small paradise planet somewhere in the upper rims.
It seemed the plot was thickening. He doubted he could trust anybody now.
And it was strange how whatever force was responsible for policing Deimos hadn't shown up yet.
This didn't completely eliminate his father from the list of people trying to kill him, but it at least put things in a bit of perspective and reduced the likelihood that he was actually behind this. Still, whoever had sent these assassins really wanted him dead. Only Psionics could reliably deal with Psionics, and they'd sent him two—one to hold him down, the other to kill him. But they'd underestimated him.
His father had impressed upon him the need to be secretive about everything. As long as you can keep enemies guessing, you've already won more than half the battle.
Orn held a hand out to the android, signaling her to be quiet as he held the blaster close to his chest and crouched low. There were six individuals left, and they'd landed not too far away. The path had led to a sort of plaza with a fountain in the middle of it. Their own hover car had crashed a few meters away, looking like it might still be in working order.
That baffled Orn enough that he had to study it for a second. Damn shame about the car, though. Looked like it really had been state-of-the-art, just as the android had said.
"Where the hell is he?" one of the assassins was saying, his voice carrying across the plaza. "Damn it, no one said anything about him being this powerful! Are we sure we got the right guy?"
Proof that they were either very unprofessional, or Orn's display had seriously shaken their confidence.
One of them—a woman—was looking through a handheld device, scrolling rapidly. "Calm down, JJ. I'm looking through the Empire's secured database right now. I'm running facial recognition, and we should get additional information in about—"
The woman suddenly fell silent.
The largest of their group—a cyborg with massive cannons for arms—turned to her. "Well?"
"Shit!" the woman muttered.
The one called JJ rushed to her side. "That doesn't sound good. What is it?" He looked at the screen and his face went pale. "Oh shit! He's an Admiral! Who the hell is this guy? Isn't he just some new idiot the Princess decided needed to be taught a lesson? Is he famous?" He scrolled frantically. "Oh, Aegean skies, he is!"
The cyborg placed one of his cannon arms on JJ's shoulder, the weight of it making the man stagger. "Calm down, JJ."
But JJ did not seem willing to calm down. He began to read off the achievements on the tablet, his voice rising with each line. "Youngest Admiral in the empire's seven-thousand-year history. Top of his class—cited as a poor battlefield commander but one of the deadliest single combatants in existence. It says here that one of him without Psi is worth a hundred special-forces-trained soldiers, and with Psi, he's worth ten high-rank Psionics!" He was nearly hyperventilating now. "The son of the Grand Imperator George Reese! We're so dead! Son of former Grand Reverend of the Order of the White Ones, Grand Reverend Cassandra Omaye Reese—a freaking Synalese! Dual Psi of Fire and Wind, but he did so much more than that, we should—"
"Stop listing out my achievements so that I can kill you all with a simple conscience, if you get scared it takes the fun out of it."
Orn stepped out of the shadows, the android reaching out for him in shock, trying to pull him back. He ignored her.
He held the disruptor rifle in assault mode, the blaster ready in his left hand as he walked slowly toward them. His eyes—no longer hidden by the optical camouflage—took on a deep blue glow. A wispy haze of heavy Psionic activity began to waft off his body like smoke, distorting the air around him.
The six remaining assassins scrambled into defensive positions, weapons raised. But it meant nothing to Orn. Even if he closed his eyes, they wouldn't be able to beat him.
He was a priest of the Order of the White Ones—and even if it was just an honorary title due to his mother's past with the order and his father's growing influence, he'd still studied with them. He'd ingrained many of the core teachings. The moment someone perceived you as stronger in their minds, or as dangerous—as a Psionic, that meant you'd already won the fight.
Battles involving Psionics covered more than just the physical aspect. There was an intense mental component to it. Well-trained Psionics knew how to manipulate and affect the mental state of their opponents. It was one of the things that made Psionics so dangerous and feared—they sometimes won their battles without ever lifting a finger.
Orn stopped in the middle of the plaza, the fountain behind him casting dancing shadows across his form.
"So we can do this a couple of different ways," he said, his voice carrying easily across the space. "It doesn't matter to me what you choose. But I can either take one of those hover cars and be on my merry way, you can deliver that android back to her owner, and we all forget that my own wife sent assassins to kill me on the way to our first meeting." He paused, letting that sink in. "Oh, I'm sure the tabloids would love that story. Especially those conspiracy sites that have been saying the Grand Princess is a fraud. Guess they were right."
He tilted his head, the movement predatory. "So which will it be? A peaceful resolution where you all walk away with your lives?" Another pause. "Or painful deaths? Decapitations. Dismemberment. Disembowelment. Immolation. Punctured arteries and aneurysms." His voice dropped, becoming almost conversational. "And each and every single one of you will die in exactly one of those ways. I've already decided which method goes to whom."
The Psionic energy around him intensified, the air itself seeming to vibrate with potential violence.
"So... deal or no deal?"