Orn could feel the creep of paranoia at the back of his
neck—a constant itch he couldn't scratch, a weight he couldn't shake. Not that
it was much of his fault after the whole altercation with his future wife and
her hired assassins. He'd been trying to watch his back ever since, seeing
threats in every shadow, danger in every glance.
But then again, there was a future now—wasn't there?
He raised his head to look at the massive signboard
that dominated the port's central plaza. His picture and that of the Grand
Princess were displayed side by side, both of them looking like the happiest
couple in all of the galaxy. Smiling. Radiant. Perfect.
He scoffed beneath his mask. Guess royalty had no
shame.
They were trying to spin the narrative in their favor
in case he wanted to go public with the fact that the princess herself had been
responsible for all twenty-six deaths of her previous husbands. But instead of
exposing her, here he was, playing along with their little charade.
Orn sighed as he looked at the giant holographic
billboard with its three-dimensional rendition of their "happy
union." He was currently on the port of Aegean Prime—the beating heart of
the empire, where ships came and went by the thousands every hour. At the
moment, he was keeping a low profile. If he left immediately, it would be seen
as suspicious, but at the same time, he needed to be ready to leave at a
moment's notice.
He'd already delayed his departure long enough. He had
every intention of leaving tonight.
The image on the billboard changed to that of an AI
broadcaster—its features perfectly symmetrical, its smile unnaturally wide. The
chipper voice and exuberant excitement of the artificial intelligence could be
heard echoing across the port as it delivered what it called "the biggest
headline in almost thirty years."
"My fellow brothers and sisters of the Aegean
Empire and all of her annexed territories!" the AI announced, its voice
dripping with manufactured enthusiasm. "It is a momentous occasion! Just
two days ago, the new husband of our beloved Grand Princess was attacked by
assassins!"
Orn looked around. Practically no one was interested.
People moved through the port with their heads down, focused on their own
business, their own lives. The image above still showed him with his half-face
mask on—a signature look for him among the empire's young elite. At the moment,
he wore only a plain white mask with the symbol of a priest of the Order of the
White Ones painted in blue with golden highlights across the front.
So far, he was here in an official clerical capacity.
Not one of the soldiers, workers, or passengers in the port was bothering him,
and it was more than enough to keep his identity secure.
The scene showed the AI broadcaster looking somber now,
its expression shifting with perfect dramatic timing. For those who were paying
attention, the shakes of heads and exhausted looks on their faces showed that
they were expecting the news of another failed marriage—another dead husband to
add to the princess's growing collection.
"But!" the AI said, its voice rising with
renewed excitement. "Do not despair, my friends! For this time, even the
will of the First Father and our Mothers of the illustrious Aegean Empire has
been done! They sent us a hero!" It paused for effect. "And to our
Grand Princess... they sent a husband worthy of her devotion! Our very own
Priest of the Order! The youngest Admiral in Aegean history! High Priest
Admiral Cornelius 'Orn' Reese! The First Star in the birth of a new galaxy!"
The AI's voice reached a crescendo. "He lives! And
his assassins—like all enemies of the empire—have fallen!"
At that moment, the scene on the billboard changed.
Clips from the assassination attempts started playing, carefully edited and put
together like some sort of action movie. Dramatic music swelled. Explosions
bloomed in slow motion. Orn's figure moved through the carnage with impossible
grace.
Cheering broke out across the port and spread far out
into the city beyond.
Orn cursed softly under his breath and picked up his
pace, weaving through the growing crowd. He had a small transport ship in
storage somewhere around here that he could use to get up into orbit. He would
meet up with the ship that had been assigned to him at the empire's shipyard—a
space station built into and out of the Aegean moon Amaka.
He was still a soldier, and he had to report to duty
and put some things in place before he left for the outer rim. He also had to
pick his officers, but he'd do that on the way. There was no more time for
delays.
The clips being shown were, thankfully, edited
carefully. Parts where he'd used the Psi-Pulse had been removed entirely. If
the Grand Princess had this much footage on her hands, then the odds were high
that she also had footage of him using his extra Psionic abilities. Yet none of
that was mentioned in the video.
It was a message. An apology of sorts.
Exposing his full capabilities would put him in more
danger and shed even more light on his existence. There would be an even
greater spotlight on him than there already was, and his life would probably
end up being one military campaign after the other, with no time for his own
goals. Orn wouldn't mind that too much, honestly—wars would keep him away from
the princess and whatever sick game she was playing.
But he did pay attention to the fact that he'd just
been promoted to High Priest. He'd have to visit a temple as soon as possible
to take up the mantle and responsibilities that came with it.
"Our empire has been blessed by a divine son with
the destiny of a First Star!" the AI broadcaster continued, its voice
reaching an almost religious fervor. "The Grand Princess and her new
husband ask for some measure of privacy during this period as they try to
acclimate to a prosperous and happily married life together. But across the
empire, one and all—old and young, worthy and unworthy—celebrate this momentous
occasion! For our future Pontifex is now ready to step into the most sacred of
roles within our empire..."
A dramatic pause.
"The role of a Matriarch!"
Orn rolled his eyes behind his mask and stopped
listening to the propaganda being spewed. Guess this was as good a time as any
to get the hell off this world, at least for a while. He would have some
much-needed time to think while stuck in space traffic trying to get to Amaka.
However, at that moment, the Aug-Relay hanging from his
ear in the form of an earring vibrated softly. An incoming call. His father.
Guess the old man had seen the news too.
Orn didn't want to talk to him—especially since he
still wasn't sure his father hadn't had anything to do with him almost getting
killed. But he knew George Reese well enough to know the old man wouldn't stop
calling. And the longer Orn kept avoiding him, the angrier he would become.
Orn accepted the call with a thought.
"What the fuck do you want?" he snapped, his
voice low and dangerous.
A small haze of Psionic energy escaped from his body
involuntarily, and a passing family of tourists suddenly stumbled, leaning to
the side in a dizzy spell. One of their children almost fainted before Orn got
himself under control, reining in his emotions and his power.
"You need to meet me," his father's voice
came through, calm and measured as always. "I'm in orbit above Aegean
Prime with your appointment documents and ship placements." There was a
pause. "I've also taken the liberty of making the bids for your officers.
Recruitment for your army will be carried out over the course of the next two weeks
across the empire and her colonies. I'm already in talks with a suitable
recruitment officer."
Another pause, more deliberate this time.
"And the princess is sponsoring it. She wants to
make peace, Orn. You're no longer of value to her dead, so you don't have to
worry about retaliation or any more assassination attempts."
Orn scoffed. He tried holding back the wave of anger
that suffused him at that moment—he tried, he really did.
But he failed.
"That's bullshit!" Orn yelled, his voice
rising and spreading out across the port, drawing the gaze of everyone around
him. "They tried to kill me! I almost died!"
If there was anything Orn needed right now, it was not
being swarmed by enthusiastic civilians who wanted to see the "Hero of the
Empire" up close.
But his father, on the other hand, simply sighed—a
sound of infinite patience worn thin. "You almost died... but you didn't,
did you?" His tone was matter-of-fact, almost clinical. "In fact,
I've seen the footage. Well done on keeping the fact that you might have three
Psionic manifestations hidden from the public eye. The last time such a
phenomenon was recorded was more than five hundred years ago. And before that,
only the First Emperor Aegean himself had more than two Psionic manifestations."
There was something that might have been pride in his
voice. "You were never in any real danger, Orn. I know for a fact you were
prepared and waiting for something like this to happen. I thought you better
than to panic over a simple test of your abilities. A Reese is never caught
unawares."
A pause.
"You have made me proud, son. I am proud of
you."
Orn looked like, if his father were standing here right
now, he would swallow the man whole due to the sheer intensity of his anger.
His hands clenched into fists, his Psionic energy crackling around him like
static electricity.
"Go to hell!" he snarled.
And he cut the call off.
There was only so much nonsense he could take. Of
course, this would make their meeting later very tense, but Orn didn't care
anymore. His father was very fond of playing games with his life—treating him
like a piece on a board rather than a son—and while that normally wouldn't have
shaken him so much, he was extremely unhappy with the fact that his father
didn't even seem to care that he'd almost been killed.
And yes, he hadn't been in any real danger. Dying to
those assassins would have been an insult to everything he'd trained for. But
still—any normal parent was supposed to be angry and upset about the fact that
their child's life had been threatened.
But not George Reese.
For him, all he cared about was profit, power, and a
bloody seat in the Senate. Everything else—including his own son—was just a
means to an end.
Orn turned to continue toward his transport ship, but
almost immediately he stopped.
Not too far away from him stood his father, a phone to
his ear, looking directly at him.
Orn paused. There was no way the man hadn't recognized
him, despite the mask. And more than that, the people present around them were
starting to recognize him too. Whispers spread through the crowd like wildfire.
George didn't move. He simply inclined his head toward
where a drop-ship was anchored at one of the military docking bays—a clear,
silent command.
Orn could either follow him willingly, or they would
carry him aboard themselves.
Orn scrunched his eyebrows in annoyance as he noticed
the telltale shimmer of a targeting laser—a red dot sight aimed directly at his
chest, visible only to his enhanced perception. Sniper. Probably more than one,
positioned on the surrounding structures.
His father wasn't taking any chances.
Orn changed his trajectory and started moving toward
the drop-ship, passing by his father without a word, without even a glance. He
ignored the guards at the entrance and stepped inside.
"Admiral on deck! Salute!"
"Hoorah!"
Orn paused just inside the drop-ship. It was a small
craft, but still large enough to carry his father and a small fire team as an
escort—eight soldiers in full combat gear, their weapons held at the ready. Orn
was a soldier through and through. The salute that was given, he returned by
standing straight and holding his right arm horizontally across his chest—the
traditional Aegean military salute.
He picked a seat near the rear as his father entered
the drop-ship and walked toward him, then took a seat beside him without asking
permission. They were both sitting at the rear of the craft, and while there
wasn't much privacy, these soldiers were his father's personal guards—loyal to
George Reese above all else. They'd seen and heard things far more sensitive
than a family argument.
Not too long after, the drop-ship's engines came alive
with a low thrum that vibrated through the hull. The craft lifted off from the
port and started ascending at a rapid pace, breaking through the atmosphere and
heading for orbit.
It would take them another hour to reach General George
Reese's flagship—aptly named Stellar Heart.
"Are you going to ignore me?" his father
asked after several minutes of tense silence. "You're not a child, Orn. We
should talk like men do."
Orn turned and looked at his father—long and hard for a
good fifteen seconds. The atmosphere in the drop-ship became extremely awkward.
Even the soldiers present had no idea how to act as they tried and failed to
pretend they weren't paying attention to the drama being played out between the
general and his son.
Orn was no child. And if he chose not to say anything,
it wasn't because he was being childish. It was because he was mature enough to
know that opening his mouth to talk right now could end up with him saying
things he would probably regret later.
Things that couldn't be taken back.
He just wanted to get the hell away from this place—and
away from his father.
"I understand your anger," George Reese said
finally, his voice quieter now, almost gentle. "And for the first time in
a long time, I realize that I might have been... careless." He took a
breath. "At the very least, discussing it with you and giving you a
warning about what was coming would have been the least I should have done as a
father." A pause. "I have failed you. Failed the values our empire is
built on. So I do hope you will forgive me. Everything I do, I do for
our—"
"Family!" Orn cut him off with a sneer, the
word dripping with bitter sarcasm.
It was slowly beginning to sink in for George Reese
that perhaps this time was different. Perhaps this time was not like the
previous times his son had gotten fed up with his scheming and had an outburst
that would blow over in a few days. Orn was truly angry—angry beyond reason—and
nothing his father would say or do now would change that.
The general was a veteran of many battles. He knew when
to advance and when to retreat. And he wasn't stupid or incapable of
understanding a person's feelings. Everyone had a limit—and perhaps his
ambition had finally pushed his son past the breaking point.
"Well then," George said after a long moment,
his tone shifting to something more businesslike. "Would you rather
discuss business? You are leaving today, after all."
Immediately, Orn schooled his features and turned to
look at his father, his half-face mask still firmly in place. "My
orders?"
His father nodded. "They've come down from the
emperor himself. I was able to convince him to give you missions that would
better serve your... current goals." He pulled a tablet from a bag beside
him. "He's made a frigate fresh out of the assembly line available to you.
The naming ceremony has already been carried out and will be aired tomorrow
morning. You'll only have a skeleton crew on it until you start recruiting, but
the emperor and I have compiled a list of suitable candidates for you."
He offered the tablet to Orn. "You'll need to
choose your officers as soon as possible. And if you don't want to talk to
me..." A faint, sad smile. "You can just do that right now."
Orn took the tablet without a word. He didn't stand on
ceremony. As it stood, he would much rather do something—anything—else than
talk to his father.
After all, it was going to be a long ascent to space.
And he had an army to
build.