Morning Star

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 the 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.

“Oh, shit,” Victra sputters.

Among the professional Colors rise six Golden knights in full pulseArmor. And I know them all. On the left, a dark-faced older man wearing the pure black armor of the Death Knight, on either side of him are pudgy-faced Moira—a Fury, sister of Aja—and good old Cassius au Bellona. To the right are Kavax au Telemanus, Daxo au Telemanus, and the girl who left me on my knees in the old mining tunnels of Mars nearly one year ago.

Mustang.