Psion Omega (Psion series Book 5)

by Jacob Gowans

  “Can’t we just shut down power to the two white floors?” the Queen asked. “Isn’t that something we can do from here?”

  “The white floors aren’t powered through the—”

  The Queen got in the girl’s face and screamed, “What can you do?”

  “I—I—I don’t know!”

  “What options do I have right now?”

  “If—if they’ve already gained access to the room … security will have to remove them.”

  The Queen called Chad again. “How quickly can we get major explosives sent up to Orlando and Rio?”

  Still no answer.

  “CHAD!” The Queen swore and threw her com across the room. “Will someone tell me what is going on at the Hive?”

  One tech was brave enough to speak. “Everything is offline. Possibly shut down by an external network breach.”

  “Get a team of cruisers and have them destroy the satellite dish on the Hive.”

  “What?” one of the techs asked. “We can’t—”

  “DO IT!”

  She would not let Sammy succeed. The Hybrids were going down to fight him now. They would not prevail. They were too green, and Sammy’s prowess in combat was all but unmatched. The Hybrids had their Achilles’ heel. It took years for a Thirteen or an Aegis to prepare for combat with a Psion. With only a two-year lifespan, the Hybrids simply didn’t have enough time to train.

  But Sammy was near her. Only a hundred floors below. Wearing down with each body she made him kill. Soon … where they have failed, I will succeed. I nearly beat Sammy in hand-to-hand combat without Anomalies Eleven and Fourteen. Now, with them, I will destroy him.

  * * * * *

  With Jeffie’s knee hobbled, the Hybrids posed a more difficult challenge than the Thirteens. They were not as skilled at attacking, but much better at defending due to their blasts. Sammy forced himself to play a purely defensive game. The battle wasn’t the only thing on his mind. The batteries on the projectors were down to little more than twenty-five percent, and he had less than an hour remaining before it was time to launch the signal. Of the nine Hybrids, only one was dead.

  Between fatigue, Jeffie’s injury, and the Hybrid’s ability to shield the bullets from the drone guns, Sammy wasn’t certain he and Jeffie could clear the room in time to send out the code signal at 1000.

  There is a way, Sammy. I can help you. You are going to die anyway. What does it matter if you let me help you get there?

  I want control.

  You want to release your rage.

  The voice was right. The emotion—the anomaly—was right there beneath the surface. And it grew each time Sammy looked into his own eyes—his cloned eyes. All Sammy had to do was let it rise a little more and it would erupt. The fatigue would disappear, and Sammy could destroy these sick clones, these unnatural copies of himself made without his permission. He could tear their hair out, rip out their eyes …

  Ignoring the voice, Sammy drew closer to Jeffie. Three of the Hybrids had hand cannons. Two had jiggers. The other three had automatic rifles. They were picky with their shots, shooting only when they saw an opportunity, which Sammy and Jeffie had to close quickly.

  “Enter Mode Two,” Sammy told the drones. Mode Two was a purely defensive holographic projection designed to protect the holograms from attack.

  “Why did you do that?” Jeffie asked.

  “To save battery.”

  “And what about saving our lives?” she yelled.

  “Do you trust me or not?” he yelled back over the sound of two hand cannons firing simultaneously.

  “Do you really have to ask?” Jeffie crouched low to shield herself while pushing the Hybrids back with blasts. They grew closer now that the drone guns were off. Sammy blasted back two Hybrids and shielded the fire from two more. Shrapnel from one hand cannon whizzed over his head.

  The Hybrids pressed and pressed, pushing Sammy and Jeffie back. Sammy’s plan was to get the enemy used to having the drones off. Then he and Jeffie would blast over them and get near the elevator doors. Once the Hybrids had turned their backs to the drones, Sammy would reactivate the drones and obliterate the Hybrids from both sides. However, Sammy wasn’t sure he could get to the opposite side of the room.

  Each time he tried to elevate himself with blasts, the Hybrids shot him backward with blasts of their own. Jeffie stood even less of a chance with her bad leg.

  There is still a way.

  Sammy ignored the voice and checked his com. Less than forty minutes remained until the time to activate the signal.

  You’re not going to make it in time. All those people are counting on you to send out the code.

  Sammy gritted his teeth and blasted back two more Hybrids. His mind searched for options, desperate to see the way to win this battle quickly. The Hybrids continued to use their blasts effectively, shielding themselves well and taking regular shots at Sammy and Jeffie.

  For one instant, Sammy saw an opening and took advantage of it, blasting himself off the wall to his left and then up against the ceiling, firing down bullets and blasts. As he did so, he drew his feet up to use his foot blasts as shields. The Hybrids closest to him shot their blasts back to knock him down. Jeffie caught one of them in the ribs, but he continued to fire at Sammy, grazing his leg and tearing a hole in his zero suit. Sammy cursed and dropped into a defensive stance when he landed. Jeffie saw what happened and shook her head.

  Minutes ticked away. The Hybrids pressed them back until Sammy and Jeffie’s backs were almost to the wall. The voice in Sammy’s head screamed at him to unleash the rage, the Anomaly Thirteen, and win the battle once and for all.

  What if it’s for the best? I can’t finish the mission if I’m dead. He looked at Jeffie. I won’t hurt her. I can control it that much.

  He took a deep breath.

  Yes, that’s it. Do it! the voice urged.

  Sweat cascaded down Sammy’s temple. He licked his dry lips with a dry tongue as he made up his mind. But before he could do anything else, two Hybrids fell dead. Then two more. All died from expert headshots to the back of the skull.

  Vitoria!

  The other four turned to her and returned fire. As soon as they gave Sammy and Jeffie their backs, the duo went to work. Another Hybrid fell before the other three gave up shooting and started shielding on both sides. By then it was too late. Jeffie continued firing while Sammy used several blasts to get above the Hybrids and force them to adjust their shields. As soon as they did so, Vitoria or Jeffie capitalized on the error. Within five minutes of Vitoria’s arrival, the Hybrids were dead.

  The same time the last Hybrid hit the ground, so did Vitoria. Sammy and Jeffie ran to her. When Sammy saw Vitoria’s white face and the blossoming circles of red in her chest and stomach, a vision of Toad flashed in Sammy’s mind.

  “You’re not dying,” he told her. “You’re not dying. Jeffie, get the med pack.” He clutched Vitoria’s hand. “Just give me a second to fix this.”

  “No.” Vitoria gazed up at him with bloodshot eyes, face wrinkled with pain. Her voice was unnaturally wheezy and wet. “Don’t try to save me.”

  “Why?” Sammy asked. Jeffie returned with the med kit and dumped it in his lap. “Why can’t you live? Isn’t it enough that Toad died?”

  “I miss him. I miss my mommy and daddy. I miss them all. There’s no place for me here. I’m too—I’m too … old.”

  Sammy shook his head at such nonsense. “You’re just a kid. You have to live your life!” He let go of her hand and fumbled with the kit, but Vitoria’s hand slid over his, her grip weak.

  “You gave me something better than what I had. Thank—” Vitoria coughed up blood. Sammy lifted her head onto his lap and stroked her hair as she struggled to breathe. As the blood and fluid filled her lungs, drowning her, Sammy watched, numb and stunned. Her eyes closed softly, but he continued to stare.

  Finally Jeffie shook him. “We need to patch up your suit and get the bodies out for the last part. You sa
id she’s coming. Remember? The plan, Sammy …”

  A desire to strangle Jeffie energized Sammy’s limbs. But instead, he hugged her.

  24. Leadership

  Tuesday, November 11, 2087

  ALBERT WASN’T LIGHT, and Commander Byron wasn’t young. The fight with the Thirteens had taken a lot out of him. Years, perhaps. The commander had reassured his son that everything was going to be fine. That he was going to take care of everything. The words were identical to what he’d told Albert as a baby when rocking him the day after Emily died. He’d baptized his son’s face with his tears that night.

  A little over an hour left. He had no time for tears. The clock was ticking; he and Albert had to move.

  The first time Byron tried lifting his right arm above his head, he almost retched. The arm moved fine despite the break, but the sensation of the pieces of his shattered clavicle bone rubbing against each other turned his stomach.

  “Not to worry,” he told Albert even though Albert was still unconscious, “I will be fine.”

  It took him three tries and ten minutes to lift Albert up through the elevator hatch using careful, steady blasts, but he finally did it. Once Albert was atop the elevator, Byron joined him and worked at the doors to the white floor. Prying open the elevator doors took some work and muscle, but once he cracked them a few centimeters, Byron used his blasts to shove them apart.

  Everything was so white it was hard to tell where one wall ended and another began. Byron rubbed his eyes. The only thing not white were the smears of dried blood left wherever he touched. He dragged Albert to the back of the room to the small door in the center of the wall. Both he and Albert had practiced this part—cutting the door in such a way that they triggered the failsafe mechanism that opened the door. But Albert was better at it than Byron, his hands steadier.

  The commander propped his son up against the wall next to the door and pulled the plasma blade back out of the bag. Then he removed a tape measure and found the spot on the door ninety centimeters from the bottom and forty centimeters from the left side. Byron marked this spot with a blue pencil. The bone in his shoulder bulged his skin every time he raised his arm too high.

  Once he was ready, Commander Byron pressed the tip of the plasma blade against the marked spot on the door. His right arm trembled. He switched hands, but the left arm was worse from the tear in his muscle.

  I can do this. I am not useless.

  The cut into the door had to be shallow enough to avoid destroying the failsafe mechanism but deep enough to reach it. Byron closed his eyes and said a short prayer before igniting the plasma blade. Then he made the cut into the door, pressing the blade deeper into the metal as it softened from the heat. He stopped abruptly, suddenly afraid that he had gone too far into the door. His throat went dry as he removed the plasma blade from the cut. Shining a light into the door, he saw the failsafe switch, slightly melted, but still intact. Sighing with relief, he flipped the switch. When the datacube port next to the door slid open, Byron inserted the cube and waited for it to do its work. Once it was done, the white door opened to reveal a small workstation with a desk, chair, and an older model computer and holo-screen.

  “Looks just like my first office.” Byron smiled at his son, then frowned. He knelt beside his boy and checked his pulse for the fourth time. It was there. And he was breathing. Byron opened Albert’s eyes and checked the dilation of his pupils. Taking Albert’s hand in his, the commander held it up to his chest. “Everything is going to be okay, son. I think you have a serious concussion. Possibly a cracked skull. But I promise you will make it out of here. Okay? I promise.”

  He propped Albert up behind the desk and sat in the chair. The screen flashed.

 

  All right, Samuel. The ball is in your court. We believe in you. Byron checked the time. They had exactly one hour. Sixty minutes. This could have been a lot worse.

  As soon as the thought passed through his mind, a Hybrid dropped down the elevator shaft.

  * * * * *

  An hour and a half before sunrise, Brickert and Natalia sat outside on the balcony of the small studio motel room crammed with a dozen people sleeping on the floor, couches, and beds. The pair held hands and cuddled, partly because the November air in D.C. had a bite to it, but mostly because they wanted to be close. Natalia’s head rested on his shoulder, and Brickert’s head on her crown. Her smell was light like honey, something he savored. He pulled her a little tighter to him.

  “You like my new hair color?” she asked, examining the now chestnut colored strands closely.

  “Yeah. It looks … normal. I can’t remember the last time it was like that.”

  “It’s been a while. I just—just wanted to blend in.”

  Brickert gave her a small hug and nodded. In a crowd of people, blue or purple or even deep black hair would stick out to snipers and gunmen. Natalia played with Brickert’s fingers, occasionally kissing them. Every minute or so, she would tremble against him, though not from the chill. Brickert nuzzled the top of her head and whispered, “I love you.”

  Natalia sighed. “Thanks. I love you, too.”

  As they held each other and listened to the sounds of the city, Brickert wondered how many people would arrive to help march on the capitol. Were they on their way right now? Or was the resistance alone? If so, the resistance would be nothing more than the wind. Here one instant and gone the next.

  “You think they will come?” he asked Natalia. “You think the speech worked?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “How many are going to show up?”

  “A million!” Natalia said, laughing. “Honestly, I don’t know. A lot, I hope.”

  “What if it’s only hundreds? Or dozens? And they’re all crazy homeless people.”

  “Then we might lose,” Natalia said. The mirth was gone.

  “People are too scared or skeptical to show up. You’ve seen the news.”

  A long silence passed between them before Natalia spoke again. “People believe what they want to believe. Not what they learn or see.”

  “What do you believe?” Brickert asked.

  Natalia turned to him so she could look him in the face. Her eyes were red, and her nose dripped. She’d been crying.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “I think I’m going to die today.” Her voice squeaked when she admitted this. “I don’t know why, but I have this awful feeling about it. I’m not even sure if it means we’re going to lose the battle, it’s just—it’s just me.”

  Brickert tightened his embrace. “No, no, everything’s going to be fine. You have to stay focused and positive.”

  “I am focused! I want this to be over. I want to go home and see my family again. That’s another thing we never talk about. What’s going to happen to us when this is over? There’s no Beta headquarters. There’s no Alpha. There’s hardly any Psions left!”

  “Commander Byron will figure it out,” Brickert said.

  “He’s practically on a suicide mission! I don’t think he’s coming back either.”

  “Why are you suddenly so scared?”

  Natalia shook her head. “It’s just this feeling in my gut.” She sat up and faced him. “Promise me something, okay?”

  “What?”

  “Just promise me, then I’ll tell you.”

  Brickert chuckled, but no smile played across his lips. “That’s never a good idea.”

  Natalia flashed a vanishing smile. “No, it never is. But do it anyway.”

  After rolling his eyes, Brickert said, “All right. I promise. What?”

  “The mission comes first.”

  Brickert understood what she meant. “What makes you think I’d do otherwise?”

  “Because you risked your neck for me on the mission in Colorado Springs, remember? That stunt you pulled almost got you and everyone else killed.”

  “Hey, I saved your life!” he said.

  “No. I’m not saying that. I
’m grateful.” Natalia put a hand on his face. “I’m so grateful. When I first became a Psion, I thought it was just silliness. We had neat powers, we played cool games … and it was like a dream. A dream that I was in a select school. You woke me up, opened my eyes.”

  “By saving your life?”

  “I’m talking about before that. You took training so seriously. Especially after we thought Sammy had died in Rio, I didn’t get it. You did. When we started dating, I began to understand your passion. I started trying harder, and it saved my life in Orlando when we were in the garage. Now I need to know that you’re going to let me die if—if the mission requires it.”

  Brickert understood that she was referring to the opposite scenario as well. If Brickert got into trouble, Natalia would not come to his rescue if doing so endangered the mission. So he nuzzled her forehead and said, “Okay. I promise.”

  Natalia smiled sadly. Then she kissed him. Brickert kissed her back hungrily knowing that it might be the last time. Minutes later they were interrupted by Justice. “Rise and shine, folks,” he said without his usual gusto, his mouth set in a hard line. “Time to grab a quick bite and go over the plans one more time. Operation Old MacDonald starts in less than ninety minutes.”

  The operation name was Thomas Byron’s idea in memory of his wife who grew up on a farm in Iowa. All resistance teams were named after farm animals. Friendly snipers were called geese, friendly cruisers were eagles, and enemy cruisers were hawks. Brickert was in charge of Sheep Team.

  A half an hour before sunrise, the resistance headed to their starting points. For Brickert that meant the rundown shopping mall at Prince Georges. Brickert had been given a flashy white convertible to drive with as much explosive and ordnance as the demolition crew could pack under the hood. Justice Juraschek would start from the mall, too, with Strawberry as his Psion.

  “Snipers are already getting into position to provide cover,” Justice said. “Once they see us speeding toward the barricades, they will start firing. Be alert. Let’s go over the routes again.”