Aion of Olympio Ch. 05

== 5 -- Extreme Encounter ==
After visiting the two biggest stations sharing Jove's orbit, Aion had looped back around to Jove Station with his final travel along a warp filament.
Three more messages to deliver. Not exactly time critical stuff, but he was eager to get to his dance lessons, and of course the gym.
The teen-psycher slipped into a gondola across the chasm between Jove's main habitat and one of its few minor add-ons. The vessel was all glass, with a banister around the inside to hold on.
The gondola was crammed with cum-leaking hunks, skin slick with sweat. A projector Brain pushed danceable sounds into Aion's awareness. The muscleteen quickly had his hands on two dickheads, another one burying into his hole and -- when meeting no resistance -- sliding the full length inside.
A quartet of zap engines ahead lit up and threw a rainbow tunnel into the distance. Inertia went weird as the gondola took off at sonic speed without the hunks experiencing much of it. Polychrome streaks zoomed by.
The floor was an absorption-mat, so Aion thought nothing of sending his piss at the glass ceiling. A few other hunks pissed with enough splatter to drench him. Some dude went soft and pissed down his own leg.
A faint swirl of colorful leaves spun at the ceiling - an omen of anticipation. Aion could tell that many of these musclemen had appointments with women. About half had a mate-mark or more.
On arrival at the small Eros habitat, most gondola riders ducked through a devouring basin. Aion watched them walk ahead while he requested the path to Telemach the Starling.
One more flux ride and dull concretanium gave way to a much richer area. Gold spires and white streamers lined the low buildings of the Eros habitat's core. Only a thousand males properly lived here but nearly as many women did. It was Jove's most desirable destination.
Pipes rising on building walls bled neon. The stark colored liquids ran down canals along low white stairs and collected but refused to mix, turning to swirling rivers of demi-plasma. The air felt brighter here, movement easier, any scent more pleasant. Angled mirror walls reflected the nacreous clouds of the cosmic welkin but felt almost faint by contrast to the neon creeks.
Aion gave his image a flex and kept walking.
Befitting the place, the local music was easy and mellow with a resonant warmth.
A lot of dudes here were burning arc-dust, floating and zooming about, glitter-trailed. Likely gifts for pussy well fucked.
But none were dusty like Aion. The danger of males using dust for dumb, addictive or disruptive purposes was too great. Mostly their precharged arc-dust was stored in thin arm or leg braces, bangles and tokens on leather straps from where it burned in minuscule amounts.
Aion felt fine taking flight, striding in long hops across the polished pavement.
The amount of fuck-marks was always amazing, too. Some musclemen had a dozen. That meant sex -- with a women -- every two or three days. Potentially with orgasm if permitted, and not losing discipline status.
The herald had half a mind to make random hunks high and try to make them fag into him. Mess up their streak. But he'd get in more trouble than it was worth.
As he wandered between hunks, he felt the faint visions of straight sex oozing off them. Women traveled overhead as shooting stars, often in small clusters.
He stepped into a street of light-scattering crystal poles holding up flat roofs. A Brain hung between gold wall-spires, immense and gray and wrinkled.
Aion got observed for just a brief moment, seeing two Parakeet hunks making gentle morning love in their dorm, before he was allowed to step through the membrane into Eros' only carnalium.
Hunks laid next to each other in groups of three to five, slack-jawed, sharing delusions, sometimes slowly assfucking. Two liberated and a homo hunk knelt before musclemen in individual egg chairs and gave slow throat jobs.
Aion advanced to the back, which was guarded by a white-skinned Penguin with yellow hair and a leather circlet. The guard stopped sucking his own cock and straightened.
"Herald here for a delivery, sir," Aion said.
The muscleman crossed his leathercuff wearing arms. "Fucking seriously? You can't wait till the jizzer is done? Don't think I can let you the fuck in without paying the toll, cunt, sorry."
"I'll be quick as jizz," Aion said. "Just keep an eye on me?"
The muscleman grabbed Aion by the neck and pulled him into a rough tongue kiss. "Checks out, herald cunt. Get the fuck in and out. Don't pull shit like this again."
"Gotcha, sir," the psycher said a little embarrassed. He hadn't checked the business hours of his recipient. He was slightly behind from the favor to Magna. Plus he'd have expected Telemach to still be at the trade analysis office.
Instead, the analyst was broad legged in a private alcove, enjoying his chosen delusion, gently stroking his dick as he licked toward the ceiling. If the muscleteen focused his dust-enhanced psych powers Maltepe Escort he could vaguely see a women riding on his face and another sitting on his dick.
Aion requested a pause on the psy-bubble, knelt down and licked Telemach's shaft dry.
The Starling hunk had bronze skin, emanating masculine odor from his cut muscles. His color was cherry, with nipple studs matching the nose ring and mohawk. He also gave an *impression* of cherry, the fruity smell unobtrusively mixing with his light sweat. It got projected from a silver arc-dust-bangle on his right ankle.
As a Solarfrost trader, he probably had the money for it. His three fuck-marks -- cherry strips on his chest -- were another proof of his status.
His dick slightly softened to prevent climax and leaked a splash of precum.
The psy-bubble paused, its mercury-like wiggling coming to a halt.
Telemach blinked heavy. "Shit. You gotta be a homo. Almost got me fagging."
"Yes, sir. Message for you," Aion said. "I'll be quick."
He laid on top of the hunk and pressed their foreheads together. Sensitive data about out-of-system market volumes rushed through the herald's head and into Telemach's. Both quivered and spasmed on each other's smooth skin.
Aion rose from the now unconscious trader and lapped up the precum trail on the hunk's bronze abs. Then he left with a slap on the guard's ass.
###
Chants of the Arcana, verse 119:
The lonesome Arc who vibrates with instinct. The madness-shattering Arc who soothes the wrathful. A thousand times a thousand eyes upon humanity, twinkling with motherly kindness.
###
Fulgor, the industrial area of Jove, was a downward spire below the main habitat - a long, extensive stretch of pipework like a forest of thick, gray trees, interspersed with platforms and minor docks, narrowing toward a tip where warp ribbons lead to other places across Olympio.
Gaps in the slimming pipe forest allowed a glimpse of the rainbow hued cloudscape drifting eternally in the system, the light of the suns breaking the webbing of load-strands and the long chi-threads.
Neon rust clung as a polychrome gunk to the pipes where rough transmundane refuse collected in corners.
Aion had a secondary target before his delivery.
He navigated the indulgent workers and the dull-eyed, six armed liberated, all exchanging an immense half-pipe, ankle deep in a milky substance like molten wax.
The soundtrack for the area, chosen by a Brain on behalf of Queen Pomona's 'Stratos Corporation', was a frantic but stirring choral to keep you walking and working at a sharp clip.
Aion snuck through a dozen workers, burned a tiny bit of arc-dust and shoved an invisible faux-dick into a certain Robin's ass, who yelped in surprise and swirled around, his semi-hardon flopping. The cyan mohawk was in disarray under a sweatband, his body drenched.
"Hey, fagger," Aion said.
Gordian's angry glare turned friendly. "Fag off, cunt, haha. Delivery in the area and shit?"
"Cumshot, cock-boy. Not exactly a place for disciplined cunts like yours fucking truly, huh? I gotta drop of some Solarfrost engineering shit."
"I fucking bet," Gordian said. "Too much pressure on the old pipes. You're standing in the fucking result and..."
The indulgent muscleteen noticed that the psycher was standing *on* the liquid instead of wading through it.
"You're dus-"
Aion put a finger to his lips. "Shush. Wanna get high before I run out?"
Gordian grinned wide. He yelled toward a potent Hillstar. "Tacitus, I'm taking a break before the centaurs show the fuck up."
Aion grabbed his dorm-mate's shoulders and Gordian gave the psycher a sloppy suckjob while the dust invisibly crept onto the indulgent cock-bitch.
Aion let a shot of precum go and rode the edge of orgasm for a bit. When his dick softened, he took it as a sign to pull away. "Have fun, void-jizzer."
"Will do, cunt."
"At least don't fag yourself."
"No promises," Gordian said with a smirk, already pushing his semi-hardon into his own ass, 20 centimeter (8'') deep.
Aion moved on with an eye roll. He knew even Gordian wasn't going to stop that low.
He passed into a darker area, where thick pipes stood like towers on all sides and an entropic ward totem sucked up the transmundane processing refuse from nearby furnaces in a gleaming maelstrom overhead.
He walked toward an elevator that led deeper into the heart of the Fulgor down-spire. His remaining arc-dust prickled. No, it *stung*.
Ahead of him was a hound. Two heads, jackal-like. Pitch-black and solid. Even the neon rust seemed to darken around it. The air vibrated with howling.
This was no mere omen. He was having a premonition.
Aion turned the other way and fell into a jog. He stroked the junctura constellation on his arm and its twinkling stars blurred to a rising image. He thought of his sister, Lady Ambrosia. The connection flickered into existence and-
He froze. Reality melted away.
He got observed. Okay, fine. Maltepe Escort Bayan He'd wait a few seconds, paralyzed, then ask the Brain where-
He was seeing the vision of a naked lady, dancing with a smile on her lips, her tits flying. This wasn't right. The Brains didn't give homos delusions of pussy. And how was he getting observed on the way *back* when he'd gone *to* the elevator just fine?
Aion burned dust and pushed against the vision. He broke paralysis.
His sight reestablished, glitter whirling around him as the remaining arc-dust settled on his skin again.
Three musclemen stopped in their tracks as the herald moved.
They wore iridescent hoods over their heads, going through the whole rainbow as their faces turned to each other in confusion. Their dicks were soft - battle ready.
The hoods were the mark of raiders. They granted 360 perception, silent communication between wearers, target seeking sight and they blocked Brain observation.
One of the raiders was tall as a knight at 240 centimeter (7'11''), a thick white glove across his entire right forearm, holding a Brain in a bubbling vat that was merely the size of a head, with calbes running between the container and the glove.
So the false 'observation' had come from some hijacked projector Brain, making him hold still in cooperation until they were ready to knock him out. And if he had been hetero it would have fucking worked.
Above the faux knight spun a red wheel, sparking occasionally as if grinding against an invisible wall - a Shroud Halo, any Brain's attempt to detect the situation bouncing off it.
The second raider, black skin and wide shoulders, held a wand. The third one, slim muscled, held out a slightly thicker device. Their traveling order tattoos were false ones, too. Phoenixes, the mark of false princess Electra.
Now the herald saw the device up close. An extractor tube.
Shit, they were after the contents of his final delivery.
Aion grabbed his own forearm where the constellation tattoo swirled. "Getting packjacked in Fulgor. Three raiders with a baby Brain. Love you."
He had no time to open a two-way link. The constellation collapsed, its message sent. Unless the shroud halo somehow interfered with the sending.
Aion burned dust and sent a punch of unreality against the tallest dude.
With a violent shatter, transmundane flecks tore off the titan and -- lacking the will of the arc behind it -- the false knight's body alteration was ripped off him.
Now down to 190 centimeter (6'3'') in one violent rip, the hunk was no longer large enough to fit the glove and it slipped off his arm as he tumbled backward, struggling to get the cables off him.
The Brain in a jar dropped, its container cracking. The red wheel fell, too, clanking on the ground, and went silent.
With the shroud halo gone, detection no longer had anything to bounce off of. The Brains knew what was happening here now.
But Aion still had to survive this intact.
He let his dick soften as he threw himself at the hunk with an extractor tube. Their bodies crashed together and the tube jumped from the criminal's hand into the psycher's with a glint of dust passing between them.
The medical device was 2.9 dimensional. Just as Aion had expected, the packetjackers would have wanted to get rid of the evidence after pulling his memories out. He twisted the tube out of existence.
A wand touched his back and paralysis took hold of the muscleteen, together with electro-pain. He fell over, pumping arc-dust through his system to keep from falling unconscious.
He caught himself on landing, stretched his foot toward the dude with the wand and reversed his personal gravity. The raider got a foot-punch to the balls.
The slimmer muscleman who'd brought the tube ran.
The wand-bearer raised his implement and erected a shield that followed him as he retreated. The reduced knight scrambled to carry glove and Brain-jar with him.
Fuck no. They weren't getting away.
A 'real Robin' would have fought them, and even thought Aion didn't need to impress women with his manly deeds, he still had his pride.
The muscleteen dashed through the pipe forest, following the heavy footsteps of three fleeing hunks. The forest grew less dense toward the edge, neon rust flecks drifting in the evaporative light of Olympio's suns.
He arrived at a docking rail, where three speeders were lined up, like hut-sized teardrops with frilly tailfins, the pointy front-lances aimed upward. A stark red one was powering up, its panels flaring with energy. It had an open hatch.
Aion ran after the Phoenix just climbing in.
Someone jumped him from the side. An ambush.
The former knight grabbed Aion by the neck, wrapping the herald's face in his massive biceps. Aion struggled to keep his spine from snapping.
With a mere token of arc-dust, the psycher lashed out with a mind attack. Stun, hurt, confuse. It had been forever since Aion had taken lessons in using his powers for Escort Maltepe sparing. He was only a level two psycher, he hadn't seen much reason to train.
The attacker let go and tumbled back, his hands clutching his head, tearing at the iridescent hood. He was oddly silent as he writhed, which had to be the hood's doing.
With a kick, Aion sent the muscleman into a pipe and ran off.
The speeder's hatch was closing. He wouldn't make it.
A string of precum squirted onto Aion's thigh as he jumped, his semi slapping around freely.
The muscleteen grabbed an extended propulsion panel as the bright red vehicle rumbled. A rainbow shot up from the rail beneath, fully enveloping the speeder in a pillar of vibration and color.
The panels focused a bright beam toward the charred ground just as Aion climbed higher to grab the hatch.
The speeder took off.
Aion burned arc-dust to turn 'sticky' and remain on the hatch. The rainbow pillar bent and the speeder was thrust toward a traffic route where a dozen speeders traced a slight sheen of prismatic exhaust in a belt around Jove's pipeworks.
The raiders had other plans.
The speeder veered to a free flying course away from the station.
Aion felt rather little headwind as the grace of the arc struggled to project air around him. That grace wouldn't keep him safe in the cosmic welkin's unforgiving vacuum forever. And they were clearly moving toward an asteroid belt where the raiders surely had their base.
Jove was shrining fast. He didn't have enough dust left to tear open a speeder hull. He could only hold on.
A ship three times the speeder's size appeared next to them, engine panels bubbling with micro-warp residue. It was golden, extremely sleek and had two decks of black windows.
A hatch opened on the golden ship and a strong jawed face with a seafoam mohawk appeared, holding a wand. Titus, the bodyguard. He wore pauldrons that projected a wobbly membrane down his body.
A gun at the golden ship's side fired. A beam hit the speeder and its engines flickered. So did the lights on the hatch controls. Hacking.
The hatch in the side opposite Aion -- the one he was not stuck to -- opened and the black-skinned raider climbed out. He remained unaware of the herald riding on the outside, facing Titus instead.
The Phoenix and the Pigeon shot at each other, wands sending dull thumps through the thin, unreal air of the cosmic environment.
Aion started to climb toward the enemy's wide back. Another gun shot from the golden vessel was blocked by the Phoenix' quick wand-swing but that left him open to an attack by Titus.
Blinding light made the speeder rattle and the criminal fell out of his hatch, drifting and flailing.
To his credit, the masked raider lost barely a second before firing his wand I lieu of a thruster and pushing himself toward the golden ship. He seemed to notice Aion as he floated rapidly toward Titus, spinning to evade gun fire. But even though his covered face seemed to linger on the muscleteen, it was too late to turn back.
While the Phoenix crashed into Titus, Aion got ready to slip into the speeder.
Meanwhile the other hatch opened -- the one Aion had originally been holding onto and moved away from.
The psycher ducked into the vehicle to remain unseen by whoever would climb out the other side.
The interior was a mess of fluttering knickknacks on threads in the minor wind now rushing through the speeder. With both doors open, artificial atmosphere tried to extend past the interior. Haphazard cable bundles swayed over soft benches.
Aion could tell that the muscleman at the opposite hatch was the slim Phoenix hunk, wrapped into the prismatic geometry of a trail harness that kept him tethered to the ship. So much for getting rid of him with one good kick.
Even worse, the raider seemed to have a perdition pump. The massive device was mostly outside the speeder, so Aion couldn't quite see it but-
His vision darkened as the pump drowned out all light and sound. Blackness struck the golden ship and it pulled away.
Something landed on the speeder with a metallic thud. The perdition pump and the Phoenix were pulled fully out of the hatch, onto the outside.
Had Titus jumped ship?
Aion slapped cables away to reach the other side. The person in the pilot chair swiveled around. Right, somebody had been flying this thing.
Half a scream died in Aion's throat as he saw the pilot.
The green-skinned, bug-eyed reptile in a shabby overall warbled alarmed from the tentacle-like mouth flaps. It raised its two arms and razor blade claws twisted into existence at the tips of its webbed fingers.
A lunarican! The raiders were cooperating with the lunaricans.
The alien pilot couldn't let go of the console altogether. It had to at least keep its feet on some of the five pedals, even if its hands were free to swing at the psycher, the joysticks on a fixed course.
Aion was nearly out of glitter on his body. He had enough power for one big move.
As he tumbled into the cables hanging all over the ship, he glanced around for his options. He could maybe cut the trail harness' attachment points and make the Phoenix float away, helping whoever was fighting that raider outside. He could injure the lunarican, perhaps.