Prologue
Orion
Above Tabora airport, Tanzania, 2:30 local time
"You awake back there?"
Orion stirred, noticed the subtle shift in air pressure as the private jet slowly descended "Nope, completely unconscious." He called back, fumbling for his communicator to request support from the Guardian Angels. He couldn't see Gabriel, but knew he was smiling. Even if he couldn't see Orion's sluggish display, Gabe loved flying with all his heart, and this operation gave him the opportunity to span the Atlantic three whole times.
"Good, you might want to stay that way. Control tower isn't accepting our clearance. We'll have to fly around the city for a little bit." Orion sighed in annoyance, then saw the silver lining. The report could wait a little longer. It was the middle of the night over at their headquarters, and Logos was uptight enough during the best of times.
"Hey, c'mon, what's that for? We've got the fuel to spare. The view isn't that mediocre."
"Yeah, I guess you're right" Orion glanced at the photo on his laptop, which was staring back at him with bloodshot eyes and a smug expression as he gestured towards the limp, lifeless corpse of an endangered species of zebra.
Gwandoya Mwenye was the name listed on the dossier. He was a two-bit warlord operating in a rural region a few hundred miles northeast of the city of Tabora. He used his militias to oppress various small villages in the area. He was vicious, cruel, and for the sake of the New World, he had to die.
He found his communicator after a bit of searching and tapped into the frequency reserved for side operations. He then entered the subfrequency of the Department of Intelligence. To call it a department was a bit of a misnomer, as it was staffed by one person, but Logos was exceptional. Up until about the era of the World Wars he kept the technology of the organization almost a century ahead of the mortals. Then the Archduke was assassinated, and the world entered a fever pitch of development, desperate militaries all over the world shoveling money towards everything and anything that might let them outwit, outgun, or outlast their many foes. Logos was still several dozen years ahead, but strived to make up the difference and restore the organization's technical dominance to its former glory. If it were any other person, Orion would have said it was sulking, but Logos didn't sulk. Subordinates across all of the divisions considered him more machine than man, with his deadpan expression and constant, vigilant focus. If Orion wasn't one of the organizations' original 7 founders privy to how the entity known as Logos came to be, he might have agreed.
The Guardian Angels, or the massive network of support satellites that spanned the lower atmosphere, had cellular communications hubs mounted on them used exclusively for their organization. A call to any other operative stationed anywhere on the world was instant, free, covert, and of the highest quality. Logos responded to the tier one request immediately.
Formally, this was a report, but there was nothing that Orion could say that Logos didn't already know or could deduce. The dossier on Mwenye was only encrypted with a substitution cypher, which was to say the Tanzanian government had basically rolled out a welcome mat. Orion's own biometric readings would put him some 6000 meters above Tabora airport which coincided with the flight information of various incoming flights being delayed due to a fuel leak on part of the runway. Really, all Orion was doing was announcing that he would be borrowing the infrared feed from the satellite closest to Mwenye's compound.
Logos was, as always curt, almost brusque in his reply. One of the many reasons why so many believed he was a robot was his constant, almost fanatical obsession with efficiency.
"Take the satellite feed. You'll need it. New intel suggests that Mwenye has a buyer for all of those slaves he's been collecting. I'm sending the details to your computer now. The second target is a small time oil tycoon operating in Saudi Arabia, goes by Youssef Fayaz Al-Khuwalidi. The purchase takes place in 22 hours, and I know you usually mount your assaults at the crack of dawn, so you'll have a bit more time to prepare. Will you need any other supplies?"
Orion took a second to think about it. "Well, let's see, I have…"
"You took one of the sniper rifles from your collection, 200 corresponding .308 caliber Winchester rounds in 10 20-round box magazines, a Heckler and Koch USP with 60 .45 ACP cartridges in 5 12-round magazines from the armory, a few MREs, a combat knife, a voucher for a rental car, and mission funding adding up to $300." Logos rattled off from his eidetic memory.
It took Orion a few more seconds to go through his mental checklist. "Yeah, yeah I think I can do it, but I can't guarantee there will be no civilian casualties."
Logos was completely nonplussed. "Good, you'll have something to shoot for besides the heads of disorganized militia men. Your green light is still good." A click and then silence as the transmission terminated.
With that ordeal over Orion gazed out the window of the small luxury Lear jet, staring directly at the sun. Even though the window wasn't tinted in any way, Orion was fine. Better than fine, in fact. An otherworldly strength started flowing through his limbs, as if the sun somehow made him more powerful. A lot had changed over Orion's life, but the sun never faltered. He took a moment to appreciate the simplicity. He was a hunter then, he was a hunter now.
Gabe's voice jarred Orion back to reality. "Hey, don't you have a disguise to prepare?"
A thin old man with the name Jacob Colt on his passport hobbled out of the Lear jet. He had a long white beard and long white hair that concealed a good deal of his face, and moved across the terminal slowly, even with the aid of a glossy black cane. He wore an exquisite Armani suit, but was hunched over so none could appreciate it. His suitcase was brought in by the pilot, a good natured man who tried to stay with Colt as long as possible but needed to attend to his fuel supply.
"And what will you be doing here in Tanzania?" asked the customs officer, a middle aged woman with a kind smile.
"Exploring the world, seeing the sights." Orion rasped, surreptitiously sliding seventy American dollars over the counter. He was quietly waved through the security checkpoints, the whiny beeping of the metal detectors quickly muffled by hungry attendants looking for a share of the bribe. Due to the economic downturn that was being felt all over the world, seventy dollars could cover food for a month in Tanzania if you knew where to look. Besides, arms dealers were not only commonplace all over Africa, but made plenty of return visits and had deep pockets. The taxi ride to the hotel was equally quiet. Orion's Swahili was rusty, and he never really considered himself fluent anyways. Orion limped his way to the hotel counter, all smiles.
"Excuse me, miss, I have a question." He started, careful to mask his true voice with a veneer of careless senility.
"Yes, sir, may I help you?" the attendant offered, correcting her slouch as she was forced out of her daydream.
Orion concentrated to suffuse power into his words. He was the only one who could see the Mist around him bend to his will, its invisible tendrils slithering upon his command into the receptionist's ears. He disguised this brief pause with a hacking cough. "My daughter, she should have arrived here a couple of days ago. Her name is Lisa Thompson, we have a reservation for room 305"
Lisa Thompson, of course, did not exist. There was a brief moment of confusion and hesitation as the front desk computer revealed room 305 was actually reserved for some scientific firm or other from the Netherlands, but her eyes glazed over as her will was dominated. The words on the screen danced in front of her eyes until she saw what Orion wanted her to see, that the room was reserved for an American doctor and his family, in Tanzania for humanitarian efforts. The attendant dutifully beckoned a concierge over.
Once in his room, Orion took off the wig and neatly disassembled his cane, which in truth was the cold, unforgiving stainless steel of a gun barrel concealed by a thin wood veneer. He took off the suit, taking several small nuts, bolts, and screws from the pockets and lining. Finally, he opened his suitcase, revealing the sleek black frame of a FN Ballista Sniper rifle. And so the hunt began.
15 hours later, rural Tanzania
Gwandoya Myenwe's compound was a 19th century military base, built by Germans and ceded to the British in the aftermath of World War 1. About 10 years later, British Parliament had bigger fish to fry than keeping a small fort in one of the poorest countries in the world up to date, and in the midst of World War 2, the fort was abandoned entirely as troops were moved northward to fight Italians in Egypt and Libya. The stone and brick foundations were once solid and well-constructed, but had not aged well over the past century. Myenwe had attempted to reinforce his fort with limited amounts of success, and the main building was now surrounded by a small group of huts made of corrugated sheet metal.
After some food, some sleep, an early checkout, and a drive into the wilderness, Orion arrived at the outskirts of the compound at around 10:00 AM local time, 2 hours before the tradeoff was scheduled.
He was sure the car was far enough away that he didn't attract any attention, but just to be doubly sure, he focused on the Mist around him. In his mind's eye he created a tarp, roughly 4 meters by 4 meters. He draped it over the rental car, where it did two things. Firstly it bent the light around the car, making it invisible to mortals. Second, if anyone were to approach the general area the car was in, the Mist would find some way to repulse them, like a pungent odor or a disgruntled lion. Satisfied, Orion began to prepare.
First, he took his communicator and accessed the satellite feed. The Guardian Angels could not directly distinguish friend from foe, but had a combination of other perks that amounted to the next best thing. First, the satellite near the compound was at an angle, so the feed wasn't strictly from a bird's eye view. With this unique perspective, Orion could see the postures of every living person in the compound. Those that had their arms positioned as though they were carrying a rifle could immediately be identified as hostile using the communicator. Second, the satellite was detailed enough to show pulses of heat in the human body, from which Orion could extrapolate heart rate. The captives about to be sold into slavery had an understandably higher BPM count than those who did not, and so Orion could identify hostages as well. His list of targets and civilians was still muddled, but workable enough that Orion could start picking off stragglers.
He gently removed the Trijicon 4x40 ACOG from the Picatinny rail of his sniper rifle. He originally planned to take out targets from 400 or so meters away, entering the compound only to finish off the final remnants of the militia and get the kill confirmed. However, with hostages in play, Orion had to get in close and rely more on his sidearm. Orion paused once more and repeated the maneuver that he used on the car, concealing himself in a robe of distorted light. Orion kept his rifle at the ready and skulked invisibly into the compound.
Although Orion was invisible, he still had mass, and a guard would be alerted to him if they made physical contact. Luckily, the Guardian Angels gave him an eye in the sky, making him effectively impossible to flank. It also helped that he stowed himself away in a low-traffic corner, singling out particularly hapless guards who strayed too far from the pack. His first target walked into his sights about 10 meters away, prepared a syringe and plunged it into his arm. It was the last high he was ever going to have.
Orion took a deep breath, 7 seconds in and 7 seconds out. As he exhaled, he blew a bubble in the Mist. It was about the size of a basketball, and yellow, practically transparent in the sun. He took the bubble in his hand and moved it, immersing it in the barrel of his rifle. He took the briefest of seconds to aim at his inebriated mark, and fired.
Neither his rifle nor his sidearm were equipped with a silencer, but the bubble was much more efficient anyways. It stretched as the bullet flew, following its flight to the militia man's temple. As the bullet struck true, the bubble also engulfed the guard. The guard let out a death rattle, a sudden astonished grunt, but like the retort of the gun, it was contained in the bubble, gently reverberating as it echoed within. Orion hustled over and picked up the lifeless corpse, which also became invisible when it came into contact with Orion. Orion called the bubble back to him. It was slightly larger and the color of autumn, yellows and oranges swirling around as the gunshot continued to ricochet, with the slightest signs of an angry red hue.
Orion continued to cut into the base, assassinating stragglers as the bubble grew larger and darker. 19 guards now lay in a crumpled heap in the now-deserted section of the compound, and Orion was ready to tackle the slightly more disciplined troops guarding the hostages. The various small huts the hostages were imprisoned in were guarded in pairs. There was some idle chatter between the pairs, usually, but they were frightening enough with their AK-47s to silence any pleas for help from within, and prepared enough to actually show up to their posts sober. No doubt Mwenye thought that two guards would be sufficient for small groups of unarmed civilians, but unfortunately, bullets traveled in a line, and a line by definition goes through two points. Given Orion's invisibility, it was a simple matter to position himself in such a way that he could kill two mercenaries with one shot.
The harder part was attempting to communicate with the hostages. By then, the bubble was a deep crimson and the size of a minivan, and Orion rolled it into the small huts immediately after scoring the pair of kills to silence the panicked yelps. He entered the hut and willed himself to be visible again. More screams. They tried to run past him out the door, and he was forced to draw his gun. The bubble pulsed and grew again. Orion put his finger to his lips, which he was pretty sure was universal sign language for politely telling someone to shut up. He waited for a moment or two for their mouths to stop moving, then rolled the bubble back outside. He took out his communicator and hurriedly typed out a short phrase; all of his work would be for nothing if someone discovered the 2 guards' bodies, still visible and exposed. Orion hit two buttons, one to translate and one to play back. A tinny recording of Swahili played, which hopefully meant "Stay here. When you hear the gunshots, run." He left, assuming they got the message because they didn't follow him. All in all, it was a deeply awkward encounter.
Once the Guardian Angels confirmed that all of the hostiles outside the main building of the old fort were dealt with, and the convoy of slaves all waiting on his signal, Orion decided he was ready to kill his primary targets. The bubble was 5 or 6 meters in diameter, and was now a deep, inky violet. He climbed some convenient if rudimentary scaffolding and scaled the outer wall, slowly working his way towards the largest concentration of red dots on the satellite feed. The conference room had a window, which was a horrible tactical decision in the present day, but when the fort was built, airstrikes weren't a thing, and the base surrounded by flat plains with short grass so you could see infantry coming from a mile or two away. Orion's timing was a little off, but sufficient; sniping and disposing of the bodies along with passing messages to all the hostages had taken a little over two and a half hours.
Orion focused once more and tapped into the bubble of mist, the top of the bubble at his side even when the bottom touched the ground three storied below. The noise was a hurricane, an untamed force of nature, but Orion had to act fast to rein it in, lest the empty compound arouse suspicions. A few minutes passed, and the bubble was about the size of a half-dollar coin if you spun it around. Orion grabbed the bubble and pushed it into the glass of the window. The glass pane shook violently in its confines, which earned a few odd looks, but both the shaking and the attention spans of those inside were brief. The slaver and the oil tycoon were at the tail end of their meeting, getting up to shake hands. Orion ducked out of the way, slacking his jaw, creating 2 more bubbles to serve as earmuffs, and willing the bubbled to be in between their hands as they shook. Unaware of its existence, the two men squished the bubble until it broke and all hell broke loose.
The ensuing blast didn't have the shrapnel or the firepower of a conventional bomb, but the endless ricocheting of gunshots and screams being released all at once certainly had all of the concussive force. The guards standing around the perimeter of the room were flung into the walls, and those whose brains weren't dashed on the wall were concussed, either way, they could not defend their charges. The windows shattered, glass shards flying into the afternoon sky like glittering buckshot. Those that didn't slacken their jaw like Orion had broken teeth and mutilated gums. Ears began to bleed, unable to endure the barrage of sound that assaulted them. Orion slipped in the window, finishing off those that stubbornly clung to life with his pistol as his ear-bubbles blocked out panicked screaming from outside; the hostages were running for their lives. He used his communicator to take two hurried snapshots of his two main targets as proof of the kill, and escaped through the window as the weathered old base crumbled to dust, the foundations destroyed by the sound bomb.
It was symbolic, Orion thought on the flight back. Men of the Old World, entombed within a relic of the Old World, powerless to fight back against the gods. Not the Greek gods, but the real gods, entities so exceptional they transcended mortality. They transcended the limits that the old gods accepted, the ones that held them back. And soon, they would even transcend this old world, creating a new one in the ruins of the old, where the great and the exceptional were identified, cultivated, celebrated. A new golden age. A New World Order.