Morning Star (Red Rising Saga 3)

The ramshackle gymnasium has been our second home since Mickey Carved us. It was weeks of recovery in his ward as her nerves remembered how to walk and both of us tried to put on weight again under the supervision of Dr. Virany. A gaggle of Reds and a Green watch us from the corner of the gym. Even after two months, the novelty hasn’t worn off seeing how much two chemically and genetically enhanced Peerless Scarred can lift.

Ragnar came in to embarrass us a couple weeks back. Brute didn’t even say a word. Just started piling weights onto a barbell till no more would fit, power-cleaned it, and then gestured for us to do the same. Victra couldn’t even get the weight off the ground. I got as far as my knees. Then we had to listen to the hundred idiots who flocked after him chant his name for an hour. Found out afterward Uncle Narol had been overseeing bets on how much more Ragnar could lift than I. Even my own uncle bet against me. But it’s a good sign, even if the others don’t think of it this way. Gold can’t win everything.

It was with Mickey and Dr. Virany’s help that Victra and I regained control of our bodies. But regaining our sense in the field has taken just as long. We started with baby steps. Our first mission out together was a supply run with Holiday and a dozen bodyguards, not for the supply run itself, but for me. We didn’t do it with the Howlers. “Gotta work your way up to the A squad, Reap. Make sure you can keep up,” Sevro said, patting my face. “And Julii has to prove herself.” She slapped his hand when he tried petting her.

Ten supply runs, two sabotage missions, and three assassinations later Sevro was finally convinced that Holiday, Victra, and I were ready to run with the B squad: the Pitvipers, led by my own Uncle Narol—who has become a bit of a cult hero to the Reds here. Ragnar’s a godlike creature. But my uncle is just a rough old man who drinks too much, smokes too much, and is uncommonly good at war. His Pitvipers are a motley collection of hardasses specializing in sabotage and thievery, about half are ex Helldivers, the rest are a spattering of other useful lowColors. We’ve completed three missions with them, destroying a barracks and several Legion communications installations, but I can’t shake the feeling we’re a snake eating our own tail. Every bombing is twisted by the Society media. Every pinprick of damage we do seems only to bring more Legions from Agea to the mines or the smaller cities of Mars.

I feel hunted.

Worse, I feel like a terrorist. I’ve only ever felt this way once before, and that was with a bomb on my chest walking into the gala on Luna.

Dancer and Theodora have been pressing Sevro to reach out to more allies. Trying to bridge the gap between the Sons and other factions. Reluctantly, Sevro agreed. So earlier this week, the Pitvipers and I were dispatched from the tunnels to the northern continent of Arabia Terra, where the Red Legion had carved themselves a stronghold in the port city of Ismenia. It was Dancer’s hope I could bring them into the fold in a way Sevro hadn’t been able to, maybe pull them away from Harmony’s influence. But instead of finding allies, we found a mass grave. A gray, bombed-out city shelled from orbit. I can still see that pale bloated mass of bodies writhing on the coastline. Crabs skittering over the corpses, making meals of the dead, as a lone ribbon of smoke twirled and twirled up to the stars, the old soundless echo of war.

I’m haunted by the sight, but Victra seems to have moved past it as she plows through her workout. She’s pushed it to that vast vault in the back of her mind where she compresses and locks away all the evil she’s seen, all the pain she’s felt. I wish I were more like her. I wish I felt less and was less afraid. But as I recall that ribbon of smoke, all I can think is that it presages something worse. As if the Universe is showing us a glimpse of the end we’re rushing toward.

It’s late night and the mirrors have fogged with condensation when we’re done with our workout. We wash up in the showers, talking over the plastic dividers. “Take it as a sign of progress,” I say. “At least she’s speaking to you.”

“No. Your mother hates me. She’ll always hate me. Not a damn thing I can do about it.”

“Well, you could try being more polite.”

“I’m perfectly polite,” Victra says in offense, turning off her shower and exiting the stall. Eyes closed against the water, I finish shampooing my hair, expecting her to say more. She doesn’t, so I finish rinsing the shampoo out and exit the stall when I’m done. I feel something’s amiss the moment before I see Victra naked on the floor, hands and legs hogtied behind her back. A hood over her head. Something moves behind me. I whirl around just in time to see a half dozen ghostCloaks slipping through the steam. Then someone inhumanly strong slams into me from behind, wrapping their arms around mine, pinning them to my sides. I feel their breath on my neck. Terror screams through me. The Jackal’s found us. He’s snuck in. How? “Golds!” I shout. “Golds!” I’m slick from the shower. The floor is slippery. I use it to my advantage, wriggling against my attacker’s arms like an eel and lashing back with my head in his face. There’s a grunt. I twist again, feet slip. I fall. Smacking my knee on the concrete floor. Scramble to my feet. Feel two attackers rushing me from the left. Cloaked. I duck under one, putting my shoulder into his knees. He catapults over my head and smashes through the plastic barriers that divide the shower behind me. I grab the other by the throat, blocking a punch, and throw him into the ceiling. Another slams into me from the side, prying at my leg with his hands to take my balance. I go with it, jumping in the air, twisting my body in a Kravat move that steals his center of gravity and puts us both on the ground, his head between my thighs. All I need do is twist and his neck breaks. But two more sets of hands are on me, thumping me in the face, more are on my legs. GhostCloaks rippling in the vapor. I’m screaming and thrashing and spitting, but there are too many, and they’re nasty, punching the t

endons behind my knees so I can’t kick and the nerves in my shoulders so my arms feel heavy as lead. They shove a hood over my head and bind my hands behind my back. I lay there motionless, terrified, panting.

“Get them on their knees,” an electronic voice growls. “On their bloodydamn knees.” Bloodydamn? Ah, shit. As I realize who it is, I let them lift me up to my knees. Hood is removed. The lights are out. Several dozen candles have been set on the shower floor, throwing shadows about the room. Victra’s to my left, eyes furious. Blood coming from her now-crooked nose. Holiday has appeared to my right. Fully clothed but similarly bound, she is carried in by two black-clad figures and forced down on her knees. A big grin splits her face.

Standing around us in the bathroom steam are ten demons with black-painted faces staring out from beneath the mouths of the wolf pelts that hang from their heads to their mid-thighs. Two lean against the wall, in pain from my rabid defense. Beneath the pelt of a bear, Ragnar towers beside Sevro. The Howlers have come for new recruits and they look bloody terrifying.

“Greetings, you ugly little bastards,” Sevro growls, removing the voice synthesizer. He stalks forward through the shadows to stand before us. “It has come to my attention that you are abnormally devious, savage, and generally malicious creatures gifted in the arts of murder, mayhem, and chaos. If I am mistaken, do say so now.”

“Sevro, you scared the shit out of us,” Victra says. “The hell is your problem?”

“Do not profane this moment,” Ragnar says menacingly.

Victra spits. “You broke my nose, you oaf!”

“Technically, I did,” Sevro says. He jerks his head to a lean Howler with Red Sigils on his hands. “Sleepy helped.”

“You little dwarf…”

“You were squirming, love,” Pebble says from somewhere among the Howlers. I can’t tell which she is. Voice resounding off the walls.

“And if you keep talking we’ll just gag you and tickle you,” Clown says sinisterly. “So…shhhh.” Victra shakes her head but keeps her mouth shut. I’m trying not to laugh at the solemnity of the moment. Sevro continues, pacing back and forth before us.

“You have been watched, and now you are wanted. If you accept our invitation to join our brotherhood, you must take an oath to be always faithful to your brothers and sisters. To never lie, never betray those under the cloak. All your sins, all your scars, all your enemies now belong to us. Our burden to share. Your loves, your family will become your second loves, your second family. We are your first. If you cannot abide this, if you cannot conscience this bond, say so now and you may leave.”

He waits. Not even Victra says a word.

“Good. Now, as per the rules set forth in our sacred text…” He holds up a little black book with dog-eared pages and a white howling wolfhead on the front. “…You must be purged of your former oaths and prove your worth before you can take our vows.” He holds up his hands. “So let the Purge begin.”

The Howlers pitch back their heads and howl like maniacs. What comes next is a blur of kaleidoscopic oddities. Music thumps from somewhere. We’re kept on our knees. Hands tied. The Howlers rush forward. Bottles are brought to our lips and we chug as they chant around some weird looping melody that Sevro leads with bawdy aplomb. Ragnar roars with satisfaction when I finish the bottle they bring me. I almost puke then and there. The liquor burns, scouring my esophagus and belly. Victra’s coughing behind me. Holiday just chugs on and the Howlers cheer as she finishes her bottle. We waver there as they surround Victra, chanting as she gasps and tries to finish the liquor. It splashes over her face. She coughs.

“Is that your best, daughter of the Sun?” Ragnar bellows. “Drink!”

Ragnar roars with delight when she finally finishes the swill, coughing and muttering curses. “Bring forth the snakes and the cockroaches!” he shouts.

They chant like priests as Pebble wobbles forward with a bucket. They push us together so we surround the bucket and in the wavering light can see the bottom of it wriggling with life. Thick, shiny cockroaches with hairy legs and wings crawl around a pitviper. I reel back, terrified and drunk as our binds are cut. Holiday’s already reached inside and grabs the snake; she slams it on the floor till it dies.