Morning Star

by Pierce Brown

  “So this is what it’s like to feel fat,” Sevro says with a grunt as he takes a small jump in the heavy gravity. “Disgusting.”

  “Quicksilver’s from Earth,” Victra says. “Jacks it up even higher when he’s negotiating with anyone from low-grav birthplaces.”

  It’s three times what I’m used to on Mars, eight times what they prefer on Io or Europa, but in rebuilding my body, Mickey jacked the simulators up to twice Earth’s gravity. It’s an unpleasant sensation weighing nearly eight hundred pounds, but it works the muscles something horrible.

  We strip our oxygen tanks and stow them in the engine rim of an old space shuttle painted with the flag of pre-empire America. So we’re left with our small packs, scarabSkin, demonHelms, and weapons. Sevro pulls up Victra’s crude maps of the tower’s interior and asks Pebble if she’s found Quicksilver yet.

  “I can’t. It’s odd. The cameras are off in the top two levels. Same with biometric readers. Can’t pinpoint him like we planned.”

  “Off?” I ask.

  “Maybe he’s having an orgy or wankin’ off and doesn’t want his Security to see.” Sevro grunts with a shrug. “Either way, he’s hiding something, so that’s where we’re headed.”

  I cue Sevro’s personal line so the others can’t hear us. “We can’t wander around looking for him. If we’re caught in the halls without leverage—”

  “We won’t wander.” He cuts me off before addressing the Howlers. “Cloaks on, ladies. Razors and silenced scorchers. PulseFists only if shit gets dirty.” He ripples transparent. “Howlers, on me.”

  We slink from the museum into a maze of otherworldly hallways, following Sevro’s lead. Floors of black marble. Walls of glass. Ten-meter-high ceilings made from pulseFields, which look into aquariums where vibrant reefs of coral stretch like fungal tentacles. Reptilian mermaids one foot long with humanoid faces, gray skin, and skulls shaped like crowns swim through a kingdom of scalding blue and violent orange. Hateful little crow eyes glare down at us as they pass.

  The walls are moodGlass and pulse with subtle alternating colors. Now heartbeats of magenta, soon rippling curtains of cobalt-silver. It’s dreamlike. Amidst the maze are little alcoves. Miniature art galleries showcasing works of contemporary dot holographs and twenty-first century AD ostentaciousism instead of the reserved neoclassical Romanism so in vogue with Peerless Scarred. Recharging our battery packs to our ghostCloaks, we duck into a gallery where lurks a gaudy purple metallic dog shaped like a balloon animal.

  Victra sighs. “Goryhell. Man’s got the taste of a tabloid socialite.”

  Ragnar cocks his head at the dog. “What is it?”

  “Art,” Victra says. “Supposedly.”

  The tone of condescension Victra strikes intrigues me, as does the building. It pulses with artifice. The art, the walls, the mermaids, all so on the nose of what the Peerless Scarred would expect of a newly moneyed Silver. Quicksilver must know Gold psychology intimately in order to have been allowed to grow so wealthy. So I wonder, is this extravagance all something far more clever? A mask so obvious and easy to accept that no one would ever think to look beneath it? Quicksilver, for all his reputation, has never been called stupid. So perhaps this tawdry dreamscape isn’t for him. It’s for his guests.

  Which makes me think something here is amiss as we reach an unlit atrium with unpolished sandstone floors perforated by pink jasmine trees and slink across the floor in a V formation toward the set of double doors that leads to Quicksilver’s bedroom suite. Cloaks deactivated so we can better see. Razors rigid and held out, metal drifting centimeters above the sandstone.

  This isn’t a home. It’s a stage. Made to manipulate. Sinister in the cold calculation with which it was constructed. I don’t like it. I key Sevro’s frequency again. “Something’s wrong here. Where are the servants? The guards?”

  “Maybe he likes his privacy…”

  “I think it’s a trap.”

  “A trap? Your head or your gut talkin’?”

  “My gut.”

  He’s quiet for a breath, and I wonder if he’s speaking to someone else on the other line. Maybe he’s speaking to all of them. “What’s your rec?”

  “Pull back. Assess the situation to see….”

  “Pull back?” He snaps the question out. “For all we know, they just dropped nukes on our people. We need this.” I try to interrupt, but he steamrolls me. “Shit, I’ve run thirteen ops just to get intel on this Silvery asshole. We leave now, that’s all slagged. They’ll know we were here. We won’t have this chance again. He’s the key to getting the Jackal. You gotta trust me, Reap. Do you?”

  I bite back a curse and cut the signal short, not sure if I’m angry with him or with myself, or because I know the Jackal removed the spark that made me feel different. Every opinion I have feeble, and malleable to others. Because I know, deep down, beneath the intimidating scarabSkin, beneath the demon mask, is a callow little boy who cried because he was scared of being alone in the dark.

  Purple light suddenly floods the room as a luxury vessel cruises past the wall of windows at our backs. We hastily line up to either side of the door to Quicksilver’s suite, preparing to breach. I watch the vessel drift along through my black optics. Lights pulse on one of its decks as several hundred Pixies writhe to some Etrurian club beat that’s all the rage on far-off Luna, as if a war didn’t wage on the planet beneath this moon. As if we didn’t move to rupture their way of life. They’ll drink champagne from Earth in clothes made on Venus in ships fueled by Mars. And they’ll laugh and consume and screw and face no consequences. So many little locusts. I feel Sevro’s righteous wrath burn in me.

  Suffering isn’t real to them. War isn’t real. It’s just a three-letter word for other people that they see in the digital newsfeeds. Just a stream of uncomfortable images they skip past. A whole business of weapons and arms and ships and hierarchies they don’t even notice, all to shield these fools from the true agony of what it means to be human. Soon they’ll know.

  And on their deathbeds, they’ll remember tonight. Who they were with. What they were doing when that three-letter word gripped them and never let go. This pleasure cruise, this hideous decadence is the last gasp of the Golden Age.

  And what a pathetic gasp it is.

  “Of course I trust you,” I say, tightening my grip on my razor. Ragnar’s watching us, even though he can’t hear our signal. Victra’s waiting to breach the door.

  The light fades, and the ship disappears into the cityscape. I’m surprised to realize I don’t feel satisfaction in knowing what’s about to happen. In knowing their age will fall. Neither does it bring joy to think of all the lights in all the cities across this empire of man dimming, or all the ships slowing, or all the brilliant Golds fading as their buildings rust and crumble. Would that I could hear Mustang’s take on this plan. Before, I’ve missed her lips, her scent, but now I miss the comfort that comes knowing her mind is aligned with mine. When I was with her, I did not feel so alone. She’d probably chastise us for focusing on breaking rather than building.

  Why do I feel this way now? I’m surrounded by friends, striking at Gold as I have always wished. Yet something itches in the back of my brain. Like eyes watch me. Whatever Sevro says, something is wrong here. Not just in this building, but with his plan. Is this how I would have done it? How Fitchner would have done it? If it succeeds, what do we usher in after the dust has settled and the helium no longer flows? A dark age? Sevro is a force unto himself. His rage a thing to move mountains.

  I was once like that. And look what that got me.

  “Kill his guards. Stun the Pinks. Smash, grab, and go,” Sevro is saying to his Howlers. My hand tightens on my blade. He gives the signal, and Ragnar and Victra slip through the doors. The rest of us follow into the dark.

  The lights are off. It’s tomb silent. The front room empty. An electric-green jellyfish floats in a tank on a table, casting weird shadows. We move through to the bedroom, smashing through t
he gold filigreed doors. I guard the door with Pebble, crouching on a knee, silenced railgun cradled in my hands, sheathing my razor on my arm. Behind us, a man sleeps in a four-poster bed. Ragnar grabs him by the foot and jerks him out. Clad in expensive sleepwear, he sprawls onto the floor. Waking midair and screaming silently into Ragnar’s hand.

  “Shit. It’s not him,” Victra says behind me. “It’s a Pink.” I glance back. Ragnar kneels over the Pink, blocking him from my view.

  Sevro hits the bedpost, cracking it. “It’s three in the morning. Where the hell is he?”

  “It is four p.m. market time on Luna,” Victra says. “Maybe he’s in his office? Ask the slave.”

  “Where is your master?” Sevro’s mask makes his voice warble like a steel cable struck by an iron rod. I keep my eyes trained on the living room until the Pink’s whimper makes me look back. Sevro’s got his knee in the man’s groin. “Pretty pajamas, boyo. Wanna see what they look like in red?”

  I flinch at the coldness in this voice. Knowing the tone all too well. Hearing it from the Jackal as he tortured me in Attica.

  “Where is your master?” Sevro twists his knee. The Pink wails in pain, but still refuses to answer. The Howlers watch the torture in silence, bent, faceless stains in the dark room. There’s no discussion. No moral question at play, I know they’ve done this before. I feel dirty in the realization, in hearing the Pink sobbing on the ground. This is more a part of war than trumpets or starships. Quiet, unremembered moments of cruelty.

  “I don’t know,” he says. “I don’t know.”

  The voice. I remember that voice from my past. I rush from my post at the door and join Sevro, pulling him off of the Pink. Because I know the man and his gentle features. His long, angular nose, rose-quartz eyes, and dark honey skin. He’s as responsible for making me what I am as Mickey ever was. It’s Matteo. Beautiful and fragile, now gasping on the ground, arm broken. Bleeding from his mouth, holding his groin where Sevro beat him.

  “The hell’s your damage?” Sevro snarls at me.

  “I know him!” I say.

  “What?”

  Taking advantage of my distraction, and seeing nothing but the black demon visages of our helms, Matteo lunges for a datapad sitting on the bed stand. Sevro’s faster. With a meaty thud the hardest bone density in the species of man meets the softest. Sevro’s fist shatters Matteo’s fragile jaw. He gags and falls convulsing to the floor, eyes rolling back into his head. I watch in a haze, the violence seeming unreal and yet so cold and primitive and easy. Just muscle and bone moving the way it shouldn’t. I find myself reaching for Matteo, falling over his twitching body, shoving Sevro back.

  “Don’t touch him!” Matteo’s been knocked unconscious, mercifully. I can’t tell if he has spinal damage or brain trauma. I touch the gentle curls of his now-dusky hair. It has a blue sheen to it. His hand’s clutched tight like a child’s, a slender silver band on his ring finger. Where has he been this whole time? Why is he here? “I know him,” I whisper.

  Ragnar’s bending beside him protectively, though there’s nothing we can do here for Matteo. Clown tosses the datapad to Sevro. “Panic switch.”

  “What do you mean you know him?” Sevro asks.

  “He’s a Son of Ares,” I say, in a daze. “Or he was. He was one of my teachers before the Institute. He taught me Aureate culture.”

  “Goryhell,” Screwface mutters.

  Victra toes his wrist where little flowers embellish his pink Sigils. “He’s a Rose of the Garden. Like Theodora.” She glances to Ragnar. “He costs as much as you, Stained.”

  “You’re sure it’s the same man?” Sevro asks me.

  “Of course I’m bloodydamn sure. His name is Matteo.”

  “Then why is he here?” Ragnar asks.

  “Doesn’t look like a captive,” Victra says. “Those are expensive pajamas. He’s probably a paramour. Quicksilver’s not known for celibacy, after all.”

  “He must have turned,” Sevro says harshly.

  “Or he was on an assignment for your father,” I say.

  “Then why didn’t he contact us? He’s defected. Means Quicksilver has infiltrated the Sons.” Sevro spins to look at the door. “Shit. He could know about Tinos. He could know about this bloodydamn raid.”

  My mind races. Did Ares send Matteo here? Or did Matteo leave a sinking ship? Maybe Matteo told them about me before Harmony did….It’s a knife in the gut thinking that. I didn’t know him long, but I cared for him. He was a kind person, and there’s so few of those left. Now look what we’ve done to him.

  “We should get the hell out of here,” Clown is saying.

  “Not without Quicksilver,” Sevro replies.

  “We don’t know where Quicksilver is,” I say. “There’s more to this. We have to wait for Matteo to wake up. Someone have a stimshot?”

  “Dose would kill him,” Victra says. “Pink circulatory system can’t handle military crank.”

  “We don’t have time for talking,” Sevro barks. “Can’t risk being pinned in here. We move now.” I try to speak, but he rolls on, looking to Clown who is using Matteo’s datapad. “Clown, waddya got?”

  “I’ve got a food request on the internal server’s kitchen subsection. Looks like someone has ordered a whole host of mutton and jam sandwiches and coffee to room C19.”

  “Reaper, what do you think?” Ragnar asks.

  “It could be a trap,” I say. “We need to adjust—”

  Victra laughs scornfully, cutting me off. “Even if it is a trap, look who we’re packing. We’ll punch through that shit.”

  “Bloodydamn right, Julii.” Sevro moves toward the door. “Screwface. Bring the Pink and stow him. Fangs out. Ragnar, Victra in front. Blood’s comin’.”

  —

  One level down, we meet our first security team. Half a dozen lurchers stand in front of large glass door that ripples like the surface of a pond. They wear black suits instead of military armor. Implants in the shape of silver heels stick out from the skin behind their left ears. There’s more patrolling this level, but no servants. Several Grays in similar suits took a coffee cart into the room a few minutes earlier. Strange that they wouldn’t use Pinks or Browns for delivering coffee. Security is tight. So whoever is in Quicksilver’s office must be important. Or at least very paranoid.

  “We’re flowing quick,” Sevro says, leaning back around the hallway corner where we wait thirty meters from the group of Grays. “Neutralize those shitheads, then breach fastlike.”

  “We don’t know who is in there,” Clown says

  “And there’s only one way to find out,” Sevro barks. “Go.”

  Ragnar and Victra go first around the corner, ghostCloaks bending the light. The rest of us follow at a dead sprint. One of the Grays squints down the hall at us. The implanted thermal optics in his irises throb red as they activate and see the heat radiating from our battery packs. “GhostCloaks!” he shouts. Six sets of practiced hands flow to scorchers. Far too late. Ragnar and Victra tear into them. Ragnar swings his razor, cutting off one’s arm and severing the jugular of another. Blood sprays over the glass walls. Victra fires her silenced scorcher. Magnetically hurled slugs slam into two heads. I slide forward between falling bodies. Stick my razor through a man’s rib cage. Feeling the pop and give of his heart. I retract my blade into whip form to free it. Let it stiffen again back to my slingBlade before the man drops.

  The Grays haven’t managed to fire a single shot. But one has pressed a button on his datapad, and the deep throbbing sound of the tower’s alarm echoes down the hall. The walls pulse red, signaling an emergency. Sevro cuts the last man down.

  “Breach the room. Now!” he shouts.

  Something’s wrong. I feel it in my gut, but Victra and Sevro are propelling this forward. And Ragnar’s kicking in the door. Ever a slave to momentum, I plunge in after him.

  Quicksilver’s conference room is less flamboyant than the rooms above. Its ceiling is ten meters high. Its walls are of
digital glass that swirls subtly with silver smoke. Two rows of marble pillars run parallel on either side of a giant onyx conference table with a dead white tree rising from its center. At the far end of the room, a huge viewing window looks out at the industry of the Hive. Regulus ag Sun, hailed from Mercury to Pluto as Quicksilver, richest man under the sun, stands before the window, mauling a glass of red wine with a fleshy hand.

  He’s bald. Forehead wrinkled as a washboard. Pugilist lips. Hunched simian shoulders leading to butcher fingers that sprout from the sleeves of a high-collared Venusian turquoise robe embroidered with apple trees. He’s in his sixties. Skin bronzed with a marrow-deep tan. A small goatee and mustache accent his face in a vain attempt to give it shape, though it seems he’s stayed away from Carvers for the most part. His feet are bare. But it’s his three eyes that demand attention. Two are heavy-lidded and Silver. An earthy, efficient shade. The third is Gold and implanted in a simple silver ring the man wears on the middle finger of his fat right hand.

  We’ve interrupted his meeting.

  Nearly thirty Coppers and Silvers pack the room. They’re formed into two parties and sit across from one another at a giant’s onyx table littered with coffee cups, wine carafes, and datapads. A blue holo document floats in the air between the two factions, obviously the object of their attention until the door shattered inward. Now they push back from the table, most too stunned yet to feel fear, or to even see us as the Howlers enter the room in ghostCloaks. But it isn’t just Coppers and Silvers at the table.