Morning Star (Red Rising Saga 3)

“PulseTorches,” she says. “Oh, ho.” She laughs. “Silver’s bodyguards are through there. Must have hid them in case things got tense. They’re speaking Nagal.” The language of the Obsidians. And they’re cutting their way through the wall. We’d be dead if the pillar hadn’t fallen and blocked the door.

Pure luck saved our hides. All three of us know it, and it deepens the anger I have with Sevro and calms a bit of the wildness in Victra’s eyes. Suddenly she’s seeing how reckless this was. We never should have rushed into this place without its blueprints. Sevro did what I would have done a year ago. Same result. The three of us share a common thought, glancing at the main door of the room. We don’t have long.

Ragnar and Victra help me pry Quicksilver free. The unconscious man’s legs drag behind him, broken, as Victra carries him back to the center of the room. There, Sevro is readying Clown and Pebble to push out from the room with our prisoners, Matteo and Kavax, who stares at me openmouthed. But Pebble can’t even stand. We’re all in shit shape.

“We’ve too many prisoners,” I say. “We won’t be able to move fast. And we don’t have any EMPs this time.” Not that they’d do anyone any good on a space station when all that separates us from space is inch-thin bulkheads and air recyclers.

“Then we trim the fat,” Sevro says, stalking toward Kavax, who sits wounded and bound with his hands behind his back. He points his pulseFist into Kavax’s face. “Nothin’ personal, big man.”

Sevro pulls the trigger. I shove him sideways. The pulse blast misses Kavax’s head and slams into the ground near the slumped form of Matteo, nearly taking off the man’s leg. Sevro wheels on me, pulseFist pointing at my head.

“Get that out of my face,” I say down the barrel. Heat radiating into my eyes, causing them to sting so I have to look away.

“Who do you think that is,” Sevro snarls. “Your friend? He’s not your friend.”

“We need him alive. He’s a chip to barter. And Orion might be alive.”

“Chip to barter?” Sevro snorts. “What about Moira? Had no problem frying her, but you spare him.” Sevro squints at me, lowering his weapon. His lips curl back from his janky teeth. “Oh, it’s for Mustang. Of course it is.”

“He’s Pax’s father,” I say.

“And Pax is dead. Why? ’Cause you let enemies live. This isn’t the Institute, boyo. This is war.” He jams a finger in my face. “And war is really bloodydamn simple. Kill the enemy when you can, however you can, as fast as you can. Or they kill you and yours.”

Sevro turns from me, realizing now that the others are watching us with growing trepidation. “You’re wrong about this,” I say.

“We can’t drag them with us.”

“Halls are swarming, boss,” Screwface says, returning from the main hall. “More than a hundred security personnel. We’re slagged.”

“We can cut through them if we go light,” Sevro says.

“A hundred?” Clown says. “Boss…”

“Check your juice packs,” Sevro says, squinting at his pulseFist.

No. I’ll not let Sevro’s shortsightedness ruin us.

“Slag that,” I say. “Pebble, hail Holiday. Tell her evac is squabbed. Give her our coordinates. She’s to park one kilometer beyond the glass, ass end our way.” Pebble doesn’t reach for her datapad. She glances at Sevro, torn between us, not knowing who to follow. “I’m back,” I say. “Now do it.”

“Do it, Pebble,” Ragnar says.

Victra gives a small nod. Pebble grimaces at Sevro, “Sorry, Sevro.” She nods to me and opens up her com to hail Holiday. The rest of the Howlers look to me, and it hurts knowing I’ve made them choose like this.

“Clown, grab Moira’s datapad if it isn’t fried and get the data from the console if you can. I want to know what contract they were negotiating,” I say quickly, “Screwface, take Sleepy and cover the hall. Ragnar, Kavax is yours. He tries to flee, cut his feet off. Victra, you got any rappelling line left?” She checks her belt and nods. “Start tying us together. Everyone in the center of the room. Has to be tight.” I turn to Sevro. “Lay charges at the door. Company’s coming.”

He says nothing. It’s not anger behind his eyes. It’s the secret seeds of self-doubt and fear coming to blossom, hate seeping into his eyes. I know the look. I’ve felt it on my own face too many times to count. I’m ripping away the only thing he’s ever cared about. His Howlers. After all he’s done, I make them choose me over him, when he doesn’t trust I’m ready. It’s an indictment of his leadership, a validation of the intense self-doubt I know he must feel in the wake of his father’s passing.

It shouldn’t have been that way. I said I’d follow and I didn’t. That’s on me. But this isn’t the time for coddling. I tried words with him, tried using our friendship to make him see reason, but since I’ve been back I’ve seen him respond to things only with violence and force. So now I’ll speak his bloodydamn language. I step forward. “Unless you want to die here, sack up and get moving.”

His wrinkled little face hardens as he watches his Howlers run to do my bidding. “You get them killed, I’ll never forgive you.”

“Makes two of us. Now go.”

He turns away, running toward the door to plant the remaining explosives from his belt. I remain looking around the broken room, finally seeing organization in the chaos as my friends work together. They’ll all have deduced my plan by now. They know how manic it is. But the confidence with which they work breathes life into me. They put the trust in me that Sevro wouldn’t. Still, I catch Ragnar glancing at the viewport three times now. All our suits are compromised. Not one of us will be able to stay pressurized in vacuum. I don’t even have a mask. Whether we live or die is up to Holiday. I wish there was some way I could control the variables, but if the time in darkness taught me anything, it’s that the world is larger than my grasp. Have to trust others. “Jammers on, everyone,” I say, toggling my own on my belt. Don’t want the cameras outside spotting anyone’s exposed faces.

“Holiday is in position,” Pebble says. I glance out the window to see the transport hovering a click beyond the window. Hardly larger than a pen tip at this distance.

“On my mark, we are going to fire at the center of the viewport,” I tell my friends, making an effort to keep the fear from my voice. “Screwface! Sleepy! Get back here. Put your masks on the unconscious prisoners.”