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

andtriestobiteitwithhergums.
    HerworldisalientothehorrorsIknow.Allthechildseesislove.Herskinispaleandsoftagainst mine.She’smadeofcloudsandIofstone.Hereyeslargeandbrightlikehermother ’s.Herdemeanor and thin lips like Kieran’s. Were this another life, she might have been my child with Eo. My wife wouldhavelaughedtothinkitwouldbemybrotherandhersistertogetherintheendandnotus.We werealittlestormthatcouldn’tlast.ButmaybeDioandKieranwill.
    —
    Longafterthelightshavedimmedthroughoutthecomplextoeasetheburdensonthegenerators,Isit with my uncle and brother around the table in the back of the room, listening to Kieran tell me his newdutieslearningfromOrangeshowtoserviceripWingsandshuttles.Diowenttobedlongago,
    butsheleftmethebaby,whonowsleepsinmyarms,shiftinghereandthereasherdreamstakeher wherevertheymay.
    “It’sreallynotthatwretchedhere,”Kieranissaying.“Betterthanthestacksbelow.Wehavefood.
    Watershowers.Nomoreflushes!There’salakeaboveus,theysay.Bloodydamndazzlingstuff,the showers.Childrenloveit.”Hewatcheshischildreninthelowlight.Twotoabed,shiftingquietlyas they sleep. “What’s hard is not knowing what’ll be for them. Will they ever mine? Work in the webbery?Ialwaysthoughttheywould.ThatIwaspassingsomethingdown,amission,acraft.You
    hear?”Inod.“IguessIwantedmysonstobehelldivers.Likeyou.LikePa.But…”Heshrugs.
    “There’s nothin’ to that now that you got eyes,” Uncle Narol says. “It’s a hollow life when you knowyou’rebeingsteppedon.”
    “Aye,”Kieranreplies.“Diebythirty,sothosefolkcanlivetoahundred.Itain’tbloodydamnright.
    I just want my children to have more than this, brother.” He stares at me intensely and I remember how my mother asked me what comes after revolution. What world are we making? It was what Mustangasked.SomethingEoneverconsidered.“Theyhavetohavemorethanthis.AndIloveAres
    asmuchasanyone.Iowehimmylife.Thelivesofmychildren.But…”Heshakeshishead,wanting
    tosaymorebutfeelingtheweightofNarol’seyesonhim.
    “Goon,”Isay.
    “Idon’tknowifheknowswhatcomesnext.That’swhyI’mgladyou’reback,littlebrother.Iknow you’vegotaplan.Iknowyoucansaveus.”
    Hesaysitwithsomuchfaith,somuchtrust.
    “Of course I’ve a plan,” I say, because I know it’s what he needs to hear. But as my brother contentedlyrefillshismug,myunclecatchesmyeyeandIknowheseesthroughthelieandweboth feelthedarknesspressingin.

    It’s early morning as I sip coffee and eat a bowl of grain cereal my mother fetched me from the commissary.I’mnotyetreadyforcrowds.KieranandLeannahavealreadygonetowork,soIsitwith DioandMotherasthechildrendressforschool.It’sagoodsign.Youknowapeoplehavegivenup whentheystopteachingtheirchildren.Ifinishmycoffee.Motherpoursmemore.
    “Youtookanentirepot?”Iask.
    “Thechefinsisted.Triedtogivemetwo.”
    Isipfromthecup.“It’salmostliketherealthing.”
    “It is the real thing,” Dio says. “There’s this pirate who sends us hijacked goods. Coffee’s from Earth,Ithink.Jamaca,theysaid.”
    Idon’tcorrecther.
    “Oy!”avoicescreamsinthehallways.Mymotherjumpsatthesound.“Reaper!Reaper!Comeout
    andplay-e-ay!”There’sacrashinthehallandthesoundofstompingboots.
    “Remember,Deannatoldustoknock,” saysathunderousvoice.
    “Youaresoannoying.Fine.”Apoliteknockcomesatthedoor.“Tidings!It’sUncleSevroandthe
    ModeratelyFriendlyGiant.”
    Mymothermotionstooneofmyexcitednieces.“Ella,douskind.”Elladartsforwardtoopenthe
    door for Sevro. He bursts through, scooping her up. She shrieks with joy. He’s in his undersuit, a black sweat-wicking fabric that soldiers wear under pulse armor. Sweat rings stain the armpits. His eyes dance as he sees me, and he tosses Ella roughly onto a bed and charges toward me, arms outstretched. A weird laugh escapes his chest, hatchet face split with a jagged grin. His hair a dirty, sweat-soakedMohawk.
    “Sevro,careful!”mymothersays.
    “Reap!”Heslamsintome,spinningmychairsideways,clackingmyteethtogether,ashehalflifts me out of the chair,