Morning Star: Book III of the Red Rising Trilogy by Pierce Brown Read Free Book Online Page A

armpits.
    “Loveyou,kiddo,”Holidaysays.
    “Loveyoutoo,babydoll,”Triggmurmursback,voicetightandmechanicalnow.
    IfeelmoreafraidthanIdidwhenIlayencasedinastarShellinthechamberofaspitTubebefore myrain.Notjustafraidforme,butforVictra,forthesetwosiblings.Iwantthemtolive.Iwantto knowaboutSouthPacifica.Iwanttoknowwhatprankstheypulledontheirmother.Iftheyhadadog, ahomeinthecity,thecountry…
    ThegravLiftwheezestoahalt.
    The door light flashes. And the thick metal doors that separate us from a platoon of the Jackal’s elite hiss open. Two glowing stunGrenades zip in and clamp to the walls. Beep. Beep. And Holiday pushes the device’s button. A deep implosion of sound ruptures the elevator ’s quiet as an invisible electromagneticpulseripplesoutfromthesphericalEMPatourfeet.Thegrenadesfizzledead.Lights goblackintheelevator,outsideit.AndalltheGrayswaitingbeyondthedoorwiththeirhi-techpulse weapons,andalltheObsidiansintheirheavyarmorwiththeirelectronicjointsandhelmetsandair filtrationunits,areslappedinthefacewiththeMiddleAges.
    ButHolidayandTrigg’santiquesstillwork.Theystalkforwardoutoftheelevatorintothestone hall, hunched over their weapons like evil gargoyles. It’s slaughter. Two expert marksmen firing short bursts of archaic slugs at point-blank range into squads of defenseless Grays in wide halls.
    There is no cover to take. Flashes in the corridor. Gigantic sounds of high-powered rifles. Rattling my teeth. I freeze in the elevator till Holiday shouts at me, and I rush after Trigg, hauling Victra behindme.
    Three Obsidians go down as Holiday lobs an antique grenade. Whooomph. A hole opens in the ceiling.Plasterrains.Dust.ChairsandCoppersfallthroughtheholefromtheroomabove,crashing downintothefray.Ihyperventilate.Aman’sheadkicksback.Bodyspinstotheground.AGrayflees forcoverdownastonehall.Holidayshootsherinthespine.Shesprawlslikeachildslippingonice.
    Movementeverywhere.AnObsidianchargesfromtheside.
    I fire the pistol, aim horrible. The bullets skitter off his armor. Two hundred kilograms of man raisesanionAxe,itsbatterydead,butedgestillkeen.Heululateshiskind’sthroatywarchantandred mistgeysersfromhishelmet.Bulletthroughtheskull-helm’seyesocket.Hisbodypitchesforward, slides. Nearly knocks me off my feet. Trigg’s already moving to the next target, driving metal into men as patiently as a craftsman driving nails into wood. No passion there. No art. Just training and physics.
    “Reaper,moveyourass!”Holidayshouts.ShejerksmedownahallawayfromthechaosasTrigg
    follows,hurlingastickygrenadeontothethighofanunarmoredGoldwhododgesfourofhisrifle shots. Whoomph. Boneandmeattomist.
    ThesiblingsreloadontherunandIjusttrynottofaintorfall.“Rightinfiftypaces,thenupthe stairs!”Holidaysnaps.“We’vegotsevenminutes.”
    The halls are eerily quiet. No sirens. No lights. No whir of heated air through the vents. Just the clunkofourbootsanddistantshoutsandthecrackingofmyjointsandtheraspingoflungs.Wepass a window. Ships, black and dead, fall through the sky. Small fires burn where others have landed.
    Tramsgrindtoahaltonmagneticrails.Theonlylightsthatstillrunarefromthetwomostdistant peaks.Reinforcementswithtechwillsoonrespond,buttheywon’tknowwhatcausedthis.Whereto
    look. With camera systems and biometric scanners dead, Cassius and Aja won’t be able to find us.
    Thatmightsaveourlives.
    Werunupthestairs.Acrampeatsintomyrightcalfandhamstring.Igruntandalmostfall.Holiday takes most of my weight. Her powerful neck pressing up against my armpit. Three Grays spot us frombehindatthebottomofthelongmarblestairs.Shovingmeaside,shetakestwodownwithher rifle,butthethirdfiresback.Bulletschewingintomarble.
    “They’vegotgasbackups,”Holidaybarks.“Gottamove.Gottamove.”
    Two more rights, past several lowColors, who stare at me, mouths agape, through marble halls withtoweringceilingsandGreekstatues,pastgallerieswheretheJackalkeepshisstolenartifactsand once showed me Hancock’s declaration and the preserved head of the last ruler of the American