Morning Star полностью

Soon after, the infamously charismatic Romulus au Raa was elected Sovereign of the Rim. Saturn and Uranus joined soon after that, and the Second Moon Rebellion began sixty years, two hundred and eleven days after the first.

The Moon Lords obviously expected the Sovereign would find herself mired on Mars for a decade, maybe longer. Add to that a certain lowColor insurrection in the Core and one can see why they assumed she would not be able to devote the resources needed to send a fleet of sufficient size six hundred million kilometers to quash their nascent rebellion. They were wrong.

“We’ve got inbound,” Pebble says from her station at the shuttle’s sensor boards. “Three ships. Two-ninety clicks out.”

“Finally,” Sevro mutters. “Here come the bloodydamn Moonies.”

Three warships emerge from the heat mirage on the horizon. Two black sarpedon-class fighters painted with the four-headed white dragon of Raa clutching a Jovian thunderbolt in its talons escort a fat tan priam-class shuttle. The ship lands before us. Dust swirls and the ramp unfurls from the belly of the craft. Seven lithe forms, taller and lankier than I, walk down into the sand. Golds all. They wear kryll, organic breathing masks made by Carvers, over nose and mouths. Looks like the shed skin of a locust, legs stretching to either ear. Their tan combat gear is lighter than Core armor and complimented with brightly colored scarves. Long-barreled railguns with personalized ivory stocks are strapped to their backs. Razors hang from their hips. Orange optics cover their eyes. And on their feet are skippers. Lightweight boots that use condensed air instead of gravity to move their user. Skipping them over the ground like stones on a lake. Can’t get much height, but you can move nearly sixty kilometers an hour. They’re about a quarter the weight of my boots, have battery life for a year, and are dead cold on thermal vision.

These are assassins. Not knights. Holiday recognizes the different breed of danger.

“She’s not with them,” she says over her com. “Any Telemanuses?”

“No,” I say. “Hold. I see her.”

Mustang steps out of the craft, joining the much-taller Ionians. She’s dressed like them, except without a rifle. Joined by another Ionian woman, this one with the forward hunching shoulders of a cheetah, Mustang joins us atop the dune. The rest of the Ionians stay near the ship. Not a threat, just an escort.

“Darrow,” Mustang says. “Sorry we’re late.”

“Where’s Romulus?” I ask.

“He’s not coming.”

“Bullshit,” Sevro hisses. “I told you, Reap.”

“Sevro, it’s fine,” Mustang says. “This is his sister, Vela.”

The tall woman stares down her smashed-flat nose at us. Her skin is pale, body adapted for the low gravity. It’s hard to see her face past the mask and goggles, but she seems in her early fifties. Her voice is one even note. “I send my brother’s greetings, and welcome, Darrow of Mars. I am Legate Vela au Raa.” Sefi slinks around us, examining the alien Gold and the strange gear she carries. I like the way people talk when Sefi circles. Seems a little more honest.

“Well met, legatus.” I nod cordially. “Will you be speaking for your brother? I’d hoped to make my case in person.”

The skin to the side of her goggles crinkles. “No one speaks for my brother. Not even I. He wishes for you to join him at his private home on the Wastes of Karrack.”

“So you can lure us into a trap?” Sevro asks. “Better idea. How ’bout you tell your bitch of a brother to honor his bloodydamn agreement before I take that rifle and shove it so far up your farthole you look like a skinny Pixie shish kebab?”

“Sevro, stop,” Mustang says. “Not here. Not these people.”

Vela watches Sefi circle. Taking note of the razor on the huge Obsidian’s hip.

“I could give a shit and piss who this is. She knows who we are. And she ain’t got a little trickle goin’ down her leg standing toe to toe with the bloodydamn Reaper of Mars, then she’s got less brains than a wad of ass lint.”

“He cannot come,” Vela says.

“Understandable,” I reply.

Sevro makes a grotesque motion.

“What is that?” Vela asks, nodding to Sefi.

“That is a queen,” I say. “Sister to Ragnar Volarus.”

Vela is wary of Sefi, as well she should be. Ragnar is a name known. “She cannot come either. But I was speaking in regards to that hunk of metal you flew here on. Is it meant to be a ship?” She snorts and turns up her nose. “Built on Venus, obviously.”

“It’s borrowed,” I say. “But if you care to make an exchange…”

Vela surprises me with a laugh before becoming serious once more. “If you wish to present yourself to Moon Lords as a diplomatic party, then you must show respect for my brother. And trust the honor of his hospitality.”

“I’ve seen enough men and women set aside honor when it’s inconvenient,” I say probingly.

“In the Core, perhaps. This is the Rim,” Vela replies. “We remember the ancestors. We remember how Iron Golds should be. We do not murder guests like that bitch on Luna. Or like that Jackal on Mars.”

“Yet,” I say.