Morning Star: Book III of the Red Rising Trilogy (45 page)

Don’t help the Sovereign. She is still the most dangerous enemy. You help her, she focuses on you.

Sow more seeds of discord.”

Dancer nods in agreement. “But are we sure the Jackal would actually use the nukes on the planet?”

“The only thing my brother ever wanted was my father ’s approval. He did not get it. So he killed

my father. Now he wants Mars. What do you think he’ll do if he doesn’t get it?”

A menacing silence fills the room.

“I have a new plan,” I say.

“I should bloodydamn hope so,” Sevro mutters to Victra. “Do I get to hide inside anything?”

“I’m sure we can find something for you, darling,” she says.

I nod my agreement.

He waves a hand. “Well, then let’s hear it, Reaper.”

“Hypothetically, assume we take half the cities of Mars,” I say, standing and summoning a graphic

from the table that shows a red tide flowing over the globe of Mars, claiming cities, pushing back the Golds. “Say we crush the Jackal’s fleet in orbit when Orion joins us, even though we are outnumbered two to one. Say we shatter his armies. With the Valkyrie’s help, we fracture the Obsidians away from the legions and have them join us, and we have a groundswell from the populace itself. The machines of industry grind to a complete halt on Mars. We’ve rebuffed the Society’s countless reinforcements

and we have insurrection in every street and we have cornered the Jackal after years of warfare. And it
will
take years. What happens then?”

“The machines of industry don’t stop off of Mars,” Victra says. “They keep rolling. And they’ll keep pumping men and materiel here.”

“Or…,” I say.

“He uses the bombs,” Dancer says.

“Which I also believe he’ll use on the Obsidians and our army if we go ahead with operation Rising Tide,” I say.

“We’ve been prepping the operation for months,” Dancer protests. “With the Obsidians it might just work. You just want to scrap it?”

“Yes,” I say. “This planet is why we fight. The strength of rebel armies throughout history is that they have less to protect. They can rove and move and are impossible to pin down. We have so much

to lose here. So much to protect. This war won’t be won in days or weeks. It will be a decade. Mars will bleed. And at the end, ask yourselves: What will we inherit? A corpse of what was once our home.

We must fight this war, but I will not fight it here. I propose we leave Mars.”

Quicksilver coughs. “Leave Mars?”

Sefi steps forward from the shadows of the stone room. “You said you would protect my people.”

“Our strength is here, in the tunnels,” Dancer continues. “In our population. That’s where our responsibility lies, Darrow.” He glances at Mustang, his suspicions clear. “Don’t forget where you come from. Why you’re doing this.”

“I have not forgotten, Dancer.”

“Are you so sure? This war is for Mars.”

“It’s for more than that,” I say.

“For lowColors,” he continues, voice gaining volume. “Win here and then spread across the Society. It’s where the helium is. It is the heart of the Society, of Red. Win here, then spread. That’s how Ares intended it.”

“This war is for everyone,” Mustang corrects.

“No,” Dancer says territorially. “This is our war, Gold. I was fighting it when you were still learning how to enslave human beings at your…”

Sevro looks at me in annoyance as our friends descend into bickering. I give him a little nod and he pulls his razor and slams it into the table. It cuts halfway through and trembles there. “Reaper ’s trying to speak, you shitgobblers. Besides all this Colorism bores me.” He looks around, terribly pleased with the silence. He nods to himself and waves a theatrical hand. “Reaper, please, continue. You were getting to the exciting part.”

“Thank you, Sevro. I won’t fall into the trap of the Jackal,” I say. “The easiest way to lose any war is to let the enemy dictate the terms of engagement. We must do the thing the Jackal and the Sovereign least expect of us. Create our own paradigm so they’re playing
our
game. Reacting to
our
decisions.

We must be bold. Right now we’ve sparked a fire. Rebellions in almost all Society territories. We stay here, that means we are contained. I will not be contained.”

I transfer the image on my datapad to the table so that the hologram of Jupiter floats in the air.

Sixty-three tiny moons dot the periphery but the four great Jovian moons dominate its orbit. These four largest—Ganymede, Callisto, Io, and Europa—are referred to collectively as Ilium. Around those moons are two of the largest fleets in the Solar System, that of the Moon Lords, and that of the Sword Armada. Sevro looks so pleased he might faint.

I’m giving him the war he didn’t even know he wanted.

“The civil war between Bellona and Augustus has exposed larger fault lines between the Core and the Outer Rim. Octavia’s main fleet, the Sword Armada, is hundreds of millions of kilometers away

from its nearest support. Excepting the Sceptre Armada around Luna it is the greatest weapon Octavia has. Octavia sent our good friend Roque au Fabii to bring the Moon Lords to heel. He has shattered every fleet that has been thrown against them, even with the help of Mustang, the Telemanuses, and the Arcoses, he has beaten the Rim down. On board these ships are more than two million men and women. More than ten thousand Obsidian. Two hundred thousand Grays. Three thousand of the greatest killers alive, Peerless Scarred. Praetors, Legates, knights, squad commanders. The greatest Golds of their Institutes. This fleet has been reinforced by Antonia au Severus-Julii. And it is the instrument of fear by which the Sovereign binds the planets to her will. It, like its commander, has never been defeated.” I pause, allowing the words to sink in so they all know the gravity of my proposal.

“In forty days we’re going to destroy the Sword Armada and rip the beating heart out of the Society war machine.” I pull Sevro’s razor out of the table and toss it back to him. “Now, I’ll take your bloodydamn questions.”

Dancer finds me as I make final preparations to board the shuttle with Sevro and Mustang that will take us to the fleet in orbit. Tinos swarms with activity. Hundreds of shuttles and transports gathered by Dancer and his Sons of Ares leadership depart through the great tunnels to make their migration toward the South Pole, where they will still ferry the Obsidian young and old from their home to the safety of the mines, but the warriors will go to orbit to join my fleet. In twenty-four hours, they will move eight hundred thousand human beings in the greatest effort in Sons of Ares history. It makes me smile thinking how much happier Fitchner would be knowing the greatest endeavor of his legacy was

to save lives instead of to take them.

After covering the evacuation with the fleet, I will burn hard for Jupiter. Dancer and Quicksilver will remain behind to continue what they started and hold the Jackal on Mars till the next evolution of the plan begins.

“It’s haunting, isn’t it,” Dancer says, watching the sea of blue engine flares that flow past our stalactite up to the great tunnel in the ceiling of Tinos. Victra stands closely with Sevro at the edge of the open hangar, two dark silhouettes watching the hope of two peoples float away into the darkness.

“The Red Armada goes to war,” Dancer breathes. “Never thought I’d see the day.”

“Fitchner should be here,” I reply.

“Yes, he should,” Dancer grimaces. “It’s my greatest regret, I think. That he couldn’t live to see his son wear his helm. And you become what he always knew you to be.”

“And what’s that?” I ask, watching a Red Howler jump twice with his gravBoots and rocket off the

edge of the hangar to enter the open cargo hatch of a passing troop carrier.

“Someone who believes in the people,” he says delicately.

I turn to face Dancer, glad that he’s sought me out in my last moments here among my kin. I don’t

know if I’ll ever return. And if I do, I fear he will see me as a different man. One who betrayed him, our people, Eo’s dream. I’ve been here before. Saying goodbye on a landing pad. Harmony stood with him then, Mickey too as they said goodbye on that spire in Yorkton. How can I feel so melancholy for so terrible a past? Maybe that’s just the nature of us, ever wishing for things that were and could be rather than things that are and will be.

It takes more to hope than to remember.

“Do you think the Moon Lords will really help us?” he asks.

“No. The trick will be making them think they’re helping themselves. Then getting out before they

turn on us.”

“It’s a risk, boy, but you like those, don’t you?”

I shrug. “It’s also the only chance we have.”

Boots clomp on the metal deck behind me. Holiday moves past up the ramp carrying a bag of gear

with several new Howlers. Life moves on, carrying me with it. It’s been nearly seven years since Dancer and I met, yet it seems thirty on him. How many decades of war has he faced? How many friends has he said goodbye to that I’ve never known, that he’s never even mentioned? People who he loved as much as I love Sevro and Ragnar. He had a family once, though he rarely speaks of them now.

We all had something once. We’re each robbed and broken in our own way. That’s why Fitchner formed this army. Not to piece us together, but to save himself from the abyss his wife’s death opened in him. He needed a light. And he made it. Love was his shout into the wind. Same with my wife.

“Lorn once told me if he had been my father he would have raised me to be a good man. ‘There’s

no peace for great men,’ he said.” I smile at the memory. “I should have asked him who he thinks makes the peace for all those good men.”

“You
are
a good man,” Dancer tells me.

My hands are scarred and brutal things. When I clench them their knuckles turn that familiar shade of white.

“Yeah?” I grin. “Then why do I want to do bad things?” He laughs at that, and I surprise him by pulling him into a hug. His good arm wraps around my hips. His head barely coming to my chest.

“Sevro might’ve worn the helmet, but you’re the heart here,” I tell him. “You always have been.

You’re too humble to see it, but you’re as great a man as Ares himself. And somehow, you’re still good. Unlike that dirty rat bastard.” I pull back and thump his chest. “And I love you. Just so you know.”

“Oh, bloodydamn,” he mutters, eyes tearing up. “I thought you were a killer. You gone soft on me,

boy?”

“Never,” I say, winking.

He pushes me off. “Go say goodbye to your mother before you go.”

—

I leave him to shout at a group of Sons marines and work my way through the bustle, bumping fists

with Pebble who Screwface pushes on a wheelchair toward a boarding ramp, tossing a salute to Sons

of Ares I recognize, talking shit back to Uncle Narol who walks with a troop of Pitvipers. They’re destined for a sabotage mission against the Jackal’s deep space communication relays. My mother and Mustang stop talking abruptly when I arrive. Both look distraught.

“What’s the matter?” I ask.

“Just saying goodbye,” Mustang says.

My mother steps close to me. “Dio brought this from Lykos.” She opens a little plastic box and shows me the dirt inside.” My little mother smiles up at me. “You fly into night, and when all grows dark, remember who you are. Remember you are never alone. The hopes and dreams of our people

go with you. Remember home.” She pulls me down to kiss my forehead. “Remember you are loved.”

I hug her tight and pull back to see she has tears in her hard eyes.

“I’ll be all right, Ma,” I say.

“I know. I know you don’t think you deserve to be happy,” she says. “But you do, child. You deserve it more than anyone I know. So do what you need to do, then come home to me.” She takes my hand

and Mustang’s. “Both of you come home. Then start living.”

I leave her behind, confused and emotional. “What was that about?” I ask Mustang. Mustang looks at me as if I should know.

“She’s afraid.”

“Why?”

“She’s your mother.”

I walk up my shuttle’s landing pad, with Sevro and Victra who join Mustang and I at the bottom.

“Helldiver…” Dancer shouts before we reach the top. I turn back to find the gnarled man with his fist thrust in the air. And behind him the whole of the stalactite hangar watches me, hundreds of deckhands on mechanized loading trams, pilots, Blue and Red and Green, who stand at the ramps of their ships or on the ladders leading into their cockpits, helmets in hands, platoons of Grays and Reds and Obsidians standing side by side carrying combat gear and supplies—the scythe sewn onto shoulders,