Orn stood there in the sudden silence, absolutely fuming.
His emotional equilibrium had been shaken by the sheer derision and contempt in her voice as she'd systematically stripped him down and reduced his ego to nothing. She'd laid out the power dynamic with brutal clarity—and worst of all, she'd been right about everything.
Whatever Psionic technique she'd been using to keep their conversation private, to prevent his crew from hearing the details—she'd deliberately removed it near the end. She'd wanted them to hear. She'd made absolutely certain that every last person on the bridge had heard every single word of that final exchange.
And with them knowing—especially the interim civilian crew—their time walking among the living was now severely limited. They were witnesses to imperial secrets that could never be allowed to spread.
Orn turned toward his father's hologram, seeking... what? Support? Guidance?
But Grand Imperator George Reese could only shake his head slowly, his expression unreadable. He opened his mouth, paused, then simply let out a single heartfelt curse before his own hologram also winked out without another word.
"Fuck."
"You've doomed us all, Admiral!"
Hera's sharp, biting voice cut through the shocked silence on the bridge like a whip crack.
Looks like she'd found her fighting spirit again. Good. They would desperately need it for the bloody mission they were about to undertake.
Orn looked at the interim crew members with something approaching pity. The expressions of absolute horror on their faces had certainly earned their place there. Even the regular soldiers from his father's 77th Cohort looked like they'd just swallowed something profoundly sour.
The truth was that the public images of people at the very top of the empire's power structure were carefully curated, meticulously maintained. Many people had vanished into thin air—disappeared without a trace—for far less than what Orn had just done. Questioning the Empress Dowager. Demanding answers. Speaking to her as if he had any right to bargain.
But at the same time, Orn really couldn't bring himself to be properly scared—not in any meaningful way. Because he knew, deep in his bones, that someone like the Empress Dowager could be bargained with. She was ruthless, yes. Cruel, absolutely. But she was also pragmatic. She valued useful tools.
He could tell she'd been trying to teach him a lesson about his place in the grand scheme of things.
The problem with her lesson, though, was that she seemed to think the potential deaths of anyone currently on this ship—at this particular moment in time—meant anything significant to him on a personal level.
He had goals. Clear, defined objectives. He didn't have the luxury of time to worry about people who meant nothing to him beyond their immediate tactical utility.
This was life in the Aegean Empire. This was the brutal reality his father had thrown him into headfirst.
So if the Empress Dowager had it out for them, then George Reese could lie in the bed he'd made for his son.
"Set a course for the source of the distress signal," Orn commanded, his voice cutting through the tension on the bridge with crisp authority. "All hands to battle stations. Major Hera, assemble a boarding team—five soldiers, fully armed and armored. Depending on what condition we find the senator in, we may need to conduct a hostile boarding operation on his vessel."
His orders were delivered with precision and clarity. He didn't sound remotely like anything catastrophically life-threatening had just occurred—much to the visible shock of everyone present.
The interim pilot, however, turned out to be the one with enough courage—or perhaps foolishness—to voice what everyone else was thinking.
"Need I remind you, sir, that we are a civilian crew?" His voice carried an edge of desperation. "We have no combat experience and are not properly outfitted for military operations. Our contracted job was simply to deliver you and your ship safely to the Keres jump gate. We are ill-equipped and lack sufficient personnel to undertake something as monumentally dangerous as engaging a Norkel and trained assassins from the Theocracy!"
Orn shrugged, the gesture casual and dismissive.
He turned to Hera, who was already moving to leave the bridge and gather the other soldiers. "Major Hera, please document an official demerit for the interim civilian pilot. If he speaks out of turn again, arrest him immediately on charges of insubordination during a combat operation."
He turned back to face the pilot directly, his mask hiding whatever expression might have been on his face. "As for whether you're 'fit for combat' or not... perhaps you'd prefer to be the one to personally explain your concerns to the Empress Dowager? I'm sure she'd be absolutely fascinated to hear your professional assessment of the situation."
The pilot's face went pale.
"But if you have nothing else constructive to contribute," Orn continued, his voice dropping to a dangerous quiet, "then I suggest you do your job and move my damn ship. Now."
Orn had made his position crystal clear. He was a soldier of the empire—ambition or personal feelings aside, you followed orders. Even if those orders came from the woman who had just openly admitted to trying to have you murdered.
The crew immediately scrambled to their stations and got to work. The bridge became a hive of focused activity.
Orn made his way toward the ship's armory, his stride purposeful. He could feel the Honest Star responding to the helm, the ship accelerating as it changed course and shot through space toward their destination.
Dealing with seven or eight enemy Psionics was challenging enough on its own. But having to do that with a Norkel actively involved in the combat situation was going to be genuinely problematic.
In fact, if he was being coldly realistic about it, the odds of everyone surviving this encounter were hovering somewhere around five percent. Maybe less.
But Orn actually liked those odds.
He hadn't faced a truly significant challenge recently—nothing that pushed his abilities and his mind to their absolute limits. And this seemed like just as good a time as any to test himself.
If things became too overwhelming for him to handle, if the situation deteriorated beyond any possibility of success, Orn would abandon the empire's interests without a moment's hesitation. He would prioritize survival and escape.
He would not be dying before achieving all his ambitions. And right at the very top of that list was discovering the truth about what had happened to his mother and sister.
The armory was already a scene of controlled chaos—soldiers moving with practiced efficiency as they donned armor and checked weapons.
They were all going to have to rely on their personal equipment for now. A combat mission this early in their journey had never been part of the original plan. Orn had intended to acquire proper supplies and ammunition at the Keres jump point before moving on to the Stellaris Cluster.
Now he was heading into an extremely high-risk combat situation, barely equipped and with almost zero logistical support.
Just as that somewhat depressing thought crossed his mind, Hera was the one to voice it out loud.
"She's still trying to kill you."
Orn raised his head. Hera was standing in front of her chosen boarding team—five individuals Orn recognized in passing, having served alongside and commanded them occasionally as part of his father's army during various campaigns.
He nodded at her assessment. "Yeah, I suspected as much. I really wasn't supposed to survive the first assassination attempt back on Deimos. She's hoping she can either rectify that failure with this impromptu suicide mission..." He paused. "Or determine whether I'm actually worth investing in as a useful pawn rather than just eliminating as a potential problem."
Hera furrowed her brow, genuine concern breaking through her usual antagonism. "This is a test? For you? We could all lose our lives just so she can evaluate your performance?"
Orn shrugged, the gesture conveying a fatalism born of harsh experience. "I can't pretend to fully understand how those politicians in the Senate think—or how the royal family operates, for that matter. To them, we're all just tools. Pieces on a board. To be used, expended, and discarded as they see fit."
He began checking his own equipment, his movements methodical. "It is what it is, Major Hera. We're soldiers. We don't get the luxury of questioning orders." He looked up, meeting her eyes directly. "Plus, you're all part of my army now. And considering the things I have planned for our collective future, you might as well sit back and try to enjoy the ride."
A slight pause for emphasis. "Because going up against seven or eight enemy assassins and a Norkel? That's going to be small compared to the feats we'll accomplish in the future."
He could see the doubt and fear in their faces. He needed to address it directly.
"If the Empress Dowager wants to play games with the lives of her soldiers," Orn continued, his voice taking on a harder edge, "then we'll respond by playing games with the lives of her pawns and assets. We fight for this empire not just because of personal ambition or because we're following orders blindly."
He straightened, his presence seeming to fill the armory despite his relatively average height. "We fight because we believe in the foundational values this empire was supposedly built upon. Family. Loyalty. Honor."
His voice rose slightly, carrying to every corner of the space. "But if our own Empress Dowager can casually order my death—not once, but twice—and not even spare a thought for the innocent people who would be caught in the crossfire of her schemes, then it's painfully obvious that she has forgotten those sacred values."
Orn let that sink in for a moment, watching their faces.
"So I think it's about time we remind them—remind her—what it truly means to be Aegean."
Orn was acutely aware that absolutely no one on this ship was happy about the sudden, catastrophic turn of events. This mission was almost certainly a death sentence, a one-way trip.
But he needed their heads fully in the game. One critical mistake, one moment of hesitation or panic, and this would definitely turn into an unmitigated disaster.
There was a small chance they might actually survive this—but only if they could all function as a cohesive unit. Only if they trusted each other and executed with absolute precision.
The Empress Dowager had orchestrated this entire situation and then left Orn to bear the full brunt of his crew's discontent and fear. She'd set him up to fail, to be blamed for leading them into a suicide mission.
But Orn had been raised by George Reese—a master of battlefield tactics and psychological warfare. He'd been trained by the Order of the White Ones since he was a child, even before the disaster that had shattered his family.
Careful wordplay and subtle emotional manipulation were skills he'd been forced to develop. Especially when those techniques were mixed with genuine truth and sincere conviction.
Orn needed to make his soldiers understand, on a fundamental level, that regardless of whatever personal ambitions each of them harbored... in this moment, in this crisis, it was Them and Him against the entire universe.
United.
Or dead.