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I manage to stand, hit a few of my assailants. Someone jams their stick into my skin, impacting the subcostal nerve. I drip down to the ground like melting wax and Karnus kicks me in the head. I bite through half my tongue. Warmth fills my mouth. The ground is the softest thing I feel. Choking on salt. Blood and air spray out of my mouth as Karnus puts his foot on my stomach, then throat. He laughs. Cagney replaces Karnus, sitting on my chest, knees pinning down my arms. I suck down air. She smiles in my face and looks at my hairline, lips parted with excitement of dominating another person.

She twists my hair into her grip. Her hot breath smells like spearmint. He hailed the Augustans. Good Reaper. He flexes his right arm, cursing about his ruined bicep. My world rocks. The sound of twigs over a fire. I wheeze out bubbling, inhuman sounds. Karnus head-butts me again and tosses my aching body to the ground. I feel warmth splash over me and the smell of piss claw into my nostrils. They laugh and Karnus breathes into my ear. Every time you look in the mirror, remember what we did to you. Remember you breathe because we let you. Remember your heart will one day be on our table. Rise so high, in mud you lie. The office walls are of paneled wood, and on the floor lies an ancient rug his iron ancestor took from a palace of Earth after the fall of the Indian Empire, one of the last great nations to stand against Gold. What dread those natural-born humans must have felt to see the Conquerors falling from the sky. Man perfected, but bringing chains instead of hope.

Idly, Nero au Augustus strokes the lion that lies beside his desk. They look like twin statues. Behind them is space. A viewport peers into the blackness, where the ships of the Scepter Armada lie like giant golems in terrible slumber. We pass them on the last leg of our threeweek voyage from Mars. Augustus peers at his desk as a stream of data runs over the wood. It seems so long ago that he took me on a tour of Mars to show me our domains— from the latfundias where highReds toil over crops to the great polar reaches where Obsidians live in medieval isolation. He favored me then, bringing me close, teaching me the things his father taught him. I was his favorite, second only to Leto. Now he is a stranger, and I, an embarrassment. Though my hair has grown back and my broken bones have mended, my reputation has not.

My enemies grow by the day. But these new ones prefer whispers to razors. More and more do I believe the Sons of Ares chose the wrong man. I am not made for the cold war of politics. Not made for subtlety. Two nightclubs. And two Gray police outposts. All bombed since we left Mars. Seven attacks, my liege. Fifty-nine Gold fatalities. The Politico is no Peerless Scarred, never even went to the Institute. His glittering eyes peer out from eyelashes that would put peacock plumage to shame. Muted lipstick coats thin lips. His hair is coiled and scented. His body thin but muscular in a pleasing but utterly facile way beneath a tootight embroidered silk tunic. A child could beat the living hell out of this beautiful kitten of a man.

His power is of a different breed. Where I am kinetic energy, he is potential. Tactus even hinted that Pliny might have put Karnus up to the violence in the garden, or at the very least, arranged a holoCam to record my proud moment. Beside Pliny stands the fourth man in the room, Leto. Truth be told, I rather like the man. But there are spiders, ticks, rats in the worlds. The bombings are crude for Ares, indiscriminate, uncharacteristically violent. Discontiguous from the pattern of technological sabotage and propaganda in his profile. Ares is not capricious, so I struggle believing these acts originate from him. With eighteen billion souls on the census, I hardly think one man has a monopoly on terrorism. Perhaps even a criminal syndicate. The terror attacks that have plagued Mars and other planets make little sense. Dancer spoke of justice, not revenge. These attacks are petty and gruesome—the bombing of barracks, fashion outlets, bazaars, highColor coffee shops, and restaurants.

Ares would never condone them. They draw too many eyes for too little result, daring the Golds to act, to crush the Sons. Just silence. Could he be dead? Or has Ares abandoned me for this new strategy of bombing? Pliny yawns. He could be a woman. Could be a group of individuals for all we know, which would go a long way toward explaining the discordant nature of these new attacks. You should know that. He turns away. Their identity as a people centers around the collection of resources to propagate the embryonic terraforming of Mars. Physically strenuous, grueling tasks performed by men. An Obsidian who, dare I say, has finally forsaken his terror of technology and developed the skills to use a holoCamera? Pliny and Leto share a grin and turn back to Augustus. Ares or not, issue a reply. We should strike now. A brute chops the trunk. A sage digs the roots. Striking training grounds will do nothing except fill the holoNet with pretty explosions.

I tire of political plays. Our strategy must change. With every bombing, the Sovereign grows wearier of my administration. Ours is not a placid planet. What does she expect? I want suicide bombers, not Grays. Find the ugliest, nastiest Reds on Mars, hold their families hostage, and threaten to kill their sons and daughters if the fathers do not do as we command. Focus the suicide bombers on surface areas with high youth density as well as two choice mines. No women bombers. I want social divide. Women against violence. Just words in the air. I want dead Blue and Green children in schools or arcades next to Sons of Ares glyphs. But even I hardly recognize that skeletal, pale boy. And as for names? There are no true records for lowRed names. I had a number designation given to me by some officious Copper administrator. And L17L was hanged from his neck until dead, whereupon his body was stolen by an unknown perpetrator and presumably buried in the deep mines.

Apologies, my liege. But hardly our chief plight. If we do this, we could be pouring fuel on the flames. Our cause is order. We provide stability. The Sons are anarchists. Their cause is chaos. We should use that as our weapon. Not Grays in the night. Bombers among children. Perhaps fashion a media campaign against the Sons. Not until the ArchGovernor acknowledges my presence. He does not value impudence or impropriety unless it benefits him. That is my point. It is simply an adjective of a thing, an action in this case. What you must parse is the nature of the action.

Is it evil or good to stop terrorists who bomb innocents? I suppose. It is a political one. The Sons of Ares are not the threat. Not at all. All they are is a weapon for our political enemies, namely the Bellona, to use as an excuse to claim I cannot control Mars. As you know, the Sovereign has sole power to remove me from the position, even without a vote from the Senate. If she wishes, she can give Mars to another house—Bellona, our allies the Julii, even a nonMartian house. None of these entities would run Mars as effectively as I. And when Mars is run effectively, all benefit— low and high. I am not a despot. But a father must cuff the ears of his children if they make an attempt to set fire to his house; if I must kill a few thousand for the greater good, for helium-3 to flow, and for the citizens of this planet to continue to live in a world untorn by war, then I will.

I bow my head in polite deference. You summoned me? And your purpose here shall be brief. You were a gambit when I took you from the Institute and put you in my employ. You know this? Substantial revenues have been lost due to tariff increases to the Core, where Bellona supporters lie. Houses waver in their commitment to honoring deals made years ago at the trade table. So, as an act of reconciliation to these aggrieved parties, I have decided to sell your contract to another house. This cannot happen. If he strips me of my place, nearly three years of work will have been for nothing. The lion waits for Augustus to snap his fingers before eating. There is no use bandying words with me. So they shall be easy to grasp. Not even a scoff or chortle? You did well … enough. You relish your own celebrity.

Even though they mock you, you bathe in the limelight and cloak this house with shame. We know your datapad search histories. We see you preening at yourself on the HC as though it were your personal mirror. Is it part of your plan to divide daughter from father? You brawl with Bellona in baths set aside for refreshment and contemplation. This we cannot abide. Pliny continues. You do not represent the ArchGovernor and may not use his name to gain access to facilities nor curry favor with young ladies or young men, neither in boast, promise, or threat. Your house datapad will be confiscated. Your lancer ID codes have already been downgraded and you will cease and desist participation in all projects to which you were previously assigned. He pets his lion. Leto stares at the ground. Despite your birth, I would have expected you to understand your place. We are not Pinks or Obsidians to be sold as slaves.

Whoever buys my services cannot protect me from the Bellona. Those curlyhair bastards will hunt me down and kill me. Is that the misapprehension you suffer? In fact, you owe him! Protecting you costs us money. It costs us opportunities, contracts, trade. And that cost has proven too dear. We must be seen to promote peace with the Bellona. The Sovereign wants peace. So now we melt our sword into a plowshare. Now, straighten that spine of yours and leave with the dignity of a Gold who knows he tried his best. Now, my goodman, before Leto throws you out on your preposterously toned buttocks. Some sniveling child to be pushed into a corner? Six times. I square my shoulders. I am a Peerless Scarred. ArchPrimus of the nd class of the Institute of Mars. I answer to the ArchGovernor alone. The length of my temper is well remembered. I warred against Karnus for you. I kept my mouth, the mouths of my men, sealed after you tried to buy your son victory at the Institute.

I proved myself better than your blood heirs. Your family is dead. They left you with no lands, no holdings of resources or industry, no position in government. All was seized as their debts came due, including their honor. What scraps you have been given by your betters, cherish. What favor you curried, remember. My liege, Mustang has left you. Do not make the mistake of severing me from you as well. Eyes belonging to some creature beyond man—a distant, callous calculation fueled by monstrous, inhuman pride. It is the pride of a dozen generations of fathers and grandfathers and sisters and brothers, all distilled now into a single brilliant, perfect vessel that bears no failure, abides no flaws. So they embarrassed me, Darrow. You told me you would win. But then you lost.

And that changes everything. I sit among the lancers, but I am not one of them. They know. Appropriately, they do not speak to me. Whatever bond they could make does not matter. I have no political capital. One lancer says three days. Tactus argues ferociously against the number, showing the true extent of the loyalty I earned from him at the Institute. I always knew his friendship was conditional. I am not one of them. So I sit there in silence, staring out the window as we pass the gathered fleet and wait for Luna to appear. My contract ends on the final evening of the Summit, where all ruling families gather on Luna to deal with matters pressing and frivolous. That is the three-day window I have to improve my stock, to make others think that I am undervalued by the ArchGovernor and ripe for recruitment. But no matter my value, I am marred. Someone had me, then threw me away.

Who would want such a used thing? This is my fate. Despite my Golden face and talents, I am a commodity. It makes me want to tear my bloodydamn Sigils out. Not officially, of course. That is illegal, because I am not an enemy of the state. Yet my enemy is far worse. Far crueler than any government. She is the woman who sent Karnus and Cagney to the Academy. Every night, the tray remains empty. If I were loved, there would be a heart here to sate my hunger for vengeance. If I were loved, my family would honor their brother. But I am not. He is not. They do not. What have I done to deserve such a hateful family? Politics, the very thing I hate, has kept the breath in me. But in three days, that aegis will be a shadow of memory, and all that will protect me are the lessons my teachers have given me.

Then louder. Not if Cassius himself offers it. I put a hand on his forearm and turn slowly to regard the offending lancer. Victra sits behind him, idly watching the scene. He makes a face. Just having a go at you. So gorydamn serious. You used to be more playful. What has changed? Tears swelled in her eyes, though her voice did not waver. Stay for me. Stay for what might be. At the Institute, you made followers of boys and girls who have never known loyalty. Was that what we built in the year after the Institute?

If so, the word stuck in her throat, because she knew, as I knew, that I had not given her all of me. I had not shared all that I am. Greedily, I kept secrets. And how could someone like her, someone with so much self-worth, bare herself and throw her heart at a man who gave so little in return? So she closed her golden eyes, shoved the razor into my hands, and told me to go. She chose politics, governance —peace, which is what she thinks her people need. I chose the blade, because it is what my people need. It fills me with a strange emptiness knowing that I was enough for her when I was never enough for Eo. Roque was right. I pushed her away. I asked him to be stationed with me, then suddenly he was reassigned to Pluto like many of the Howlers, relegated to protecting far construction operations from petty pirate raids.

My path has never felt lonelier. He can still sense my fear. Especially blood-feuds. Even duels are outlawed unless consent is given by the Sovereign herself. There is more than one path to the top. Always remember that, brother. What he wills, she supports. The city moon of Earth. Sticky, polluted wind bends the towering trees near our landing pad. Perspiration quickly beads along the top of my high collar. Already I do not like this ugly place. I seem to float when I walk. And even though coordination quickly returns, my body suffers its own lightness with strange feelings of claustrophobia.

Another vessel lands to the north. I chuckle. He glances back at me. I follow, eyes lingering on the vessel. Sky a hot shade of fresh-forged bronze. For two weeks, the daylight will disappear from this part of the moon. Two weeks of night. And build they do. Beyond the Citadel grounds, the horizon is fenced with towers and cityscape. RungPaths wind everywhere so that citizens can pull themselves through the air with ease. The network of rungs stretch between high towers as would ivy, linking the heavens with the hells of the lowDistricts. Along them, thousands of men and women crawl like ants on vines, while Gray patrol skiffs buzz around the thoroughfares. The household of Augustus is assigned a villa nestled within thirty acres of pines on Citadel grounds.

There are gardens, paths, fountains carved with little winged boys of stone. All that sort of frivolity. Regulus ag Sun is giving the keynote. You hear the rumor about him owning the contracts of two Olympic Knights? Least according to Mother. Reminds me of what Augustus said to the Sovereign at her coronation. Reclusive now, he was the Sword of Mars and the Rage Knight for over sixty years. Peerless Knights across the Society have offered him the deeds to moons if he would but tutor them for a week in his form of kravat, the Willow Way. It was he who sent me the knifeRing that killed Apollo and then offered me a place in his house. I rejected it then, choosing Augustus over the old man. He cherishes these stories of their empire the way I cherished stories of the Reaper and the Vale.

Not the usual banter. His cheeks flush, but he puts a hand over his heart. Several of the other lancers attend the conference with Roque. Obsidian bodyguards trail Golds like shadows. A Pink Citadel steward guides me to my room. I laugh when I arrive. Not Mars. Is that the black poplar of Garden Dryope? Tell her Theodora says hello and would call on her if time is found. All petals wilt. Oh, but do tell me your name. I would so like to commend you to her for your hospitality. Even if everything else is starting to droop. I bite my bottom lip, our signal for spying devices. But the holoNet is … not where you want to be right now. Her bath alone is larger than my bed. I turn to see Victra playing with the thorns of a shrub. She sits smoking some designer burner that smells like a sunset over a logged forest. Her eyes flash with annoyance. A friend? I raise an eyebrow. Is that what I saw on your face as we descended? See, I thought it was dread.

All the truly unsettling things. Because you know this moon will be your grave. Or, at least I find your choice in friends to be odd. Her heels scrape against the aged stone. I understand Roque, even if he is as soft as butter. But Tactus? He asked what it was for. Two weeks later, I discovered he took it and sold it and used the money for Pinks and drugs. He is not my friend. You made him uncomfortable. Just like your sister. I thought it might be Antonia. Good that I was born first, else she might have strangled me in my crib. Different fathers. Mother never saw much point in monogamy. You know Antonia even goes by Severus instead of Julii just to take a piss on Mother. Cantankerous brat. And I get saddled with her moral baggage. I find them odd, contrasting with the Spartan severity of her scarred face. But Victra has always been a woman of contrasts.

I have no station. I have no command. I have no money. And I have no reputation. All the things you value. But you do have a reputation, all right. Thought Tactus was just running his mouth. He counseled Augustus to kill you then and there, or at least try you for the murder of Apollo. Grudgingly, I take the edge of the thin metal slip, but she holds on, pulling me toward the edge of the fountain, between her legs. Her lips part, her tongue playing along the top as her eyes trace my face, up and up to my eyes, where they try to spark a fire. I run it over my personal datapad and an advertisement for a tavern appears on my display. I can. I forgot. You never lie.

Who could afford to purchase my honor? If … one day I become your enemy, I will tell you. And I will tell you why. Trust in chance. Trust in friends. Like the front half of a hammerhead shark. I eye the taller of the Grays warily. Theodora left us there. A Gray scans Victra and me for bugs as we board the ship. Twelve craggy Grays fill the small passenger hold of the shuttle. Just craftsmen of a dark trade. Though there are averages, Colors are diverse in composition due to human genetics and the differing ecosystems throughout the Society. The Grays of Venus are often darker and more compact than those of Mars, but families move and mix and breed. The talent levels in each Color are even more variable than appearance. Some go to the armies.

Some to the mines. But then there are the Grays who were born a special breed of wicked and clever and have been trained all their lives to hunt the Gold enemies of their Gold masters. Like these in the shuttle with us. They call them lurchers —after the mutt dogs of Earth crossbred for uncommon stealth, cunning, and speed, all for one purpose: killing things bigger than they are. So I push their buttons. They eye me with the quiet reserve of a family meeting a stranger on the road. His lieutenant, Sun-hwa, leans toward us, tough and gnarled as an olive tree. Both are Earthborn by the looks of their continentally ethnic features. Looks plasma based. Estimated traveling time: twenty-four minutes. Contingency plans and support have been organized. Shit complicates our ROI. Her voice drones on in a monotone drawl. Staccato sound of steel on steel. Like metal knuckles cracking as magnetic rounds go into chambers. The lurchers conceal weapons in hidden holsters over tight scarabSkin armor.

Three wear illegal wrist weapons. I eye the contraband as I slip into my scarabSkin. It drinks in the light, a strange pupillike black. More the absence of color than anything else. The ship shudders as its main engines overtake the vertical thrusters. Icarus is on the move. No true dark, at least. Snaking public trams and air thoroughfares, flashing communication centers, bustling restaurants, and austere police stations weave into the metal dermis of the city like blood capillaries, nerve endings, sweat glands, and hair follicles. We fall away from Gold districts, forsaking the high reaches of the city where stately shuttles and gravBoots ferry Golds to opera houses atop kilometers-high towers.

We dive down past the wealthy Silver and Copper districts, wending our way through rungPaths and aerial trains, through the midDistricts where the Yellows, Greens, Blues, and Violets reside, past the lowDistrict where Grays and Oranges make their homes. Down and down we go to the gutters of the city where the roots of this colossal steel jungle burrow into the ground. Myriad lowColors ride public transportation from factories to their windowless apartments, some no larger than one meter by three. Only room enough for a bed. Cars rattle out exhaust in clogged beacon-lit boulevards. The deeper we go, the fewer the lights, the dirtier the buildings, the stranger the animals, but the more brilliant the graffiti.

I glimpse Gray police standing over arrested Brown vandals who covered an apartment complex with the image of a hanging girl. My wife. Ten stories tall, hair burning, rendered in digital paint. Yet each time, it strikes me like a physical blow, nerve endings shivering in my chest, heart beating fast, neck tight just under the jaw. How cruel a life, that the sight of my dead wife means hope. No matter our reputations, no enemy would seek us here. No ears to listen. No eyes to see. This is a place of gang killings, robberies, turf battles, drug trade.

That my new friend wants such human privacy, privacy not even a jamField can really offer in the Citadel and the High City, means much. It worries me. Means the rules are void. But Victra was right and Roque was not. Patience will do me nothing. I must take a risk. The team of lurchers has secured an abandoned garage. Refuse and water make bogs out of alleys. Humid air is thick with the sweet musk of rot and the charred soot of burning garbage. Hawkers cry out wares from cracked sidewalks, clogged with Reds, Browns, Grays, and Oranges of all species —urchin, invalid, working class, gangers, tweakers, mothers, fathers, beggars, cripples, children. The lost. Gazing up, I see more than half a kilometer of tenement buildings before the polluted haze makes a ceiling for the human jungle. Clotheslines and electrical lines crisscross overhead like vines. This sight is hopeless. What is there to change here but everything? It is a large, tall tavern with a flickering red sign covered in pithy graffiti.

Fifteen levels, all open and looking down on a central drinking hall of tables and booths filled with some two hundred customers. I can smell the piss in the metal booths, which sag from use. Bottles rattle and glasses clink as swill is slammed back. I pass with Valentin through two bouncers with biomod hands—one Obsidian with skin pale as bleached marble and arms thicker than mine, the other a dark-skinned Gray with a scorcher muzzle built into his arm. The rest of my Grays filter in behind me in staggered intervals. Some wearing contacts, pretending to be other Colors. One even wearing a fleshMask to look pretty as a Pink. They look like they belong here. The Sigils on my hands are covered with Obsidian prosthetics. My hair is white, eyes black. Skin made paler with cosmetics. Victra and I are too large to pass for any other Color.

Fortunately, Obsidians, though rarer than the other lowColors, are not out of place down here. I follow Valentin to a table in an alcove near the back of the hall where a young man lounges behind a pack of mercenaries and a single Obsidian. A deep silence fills me as I watch the Obsidian stand and leave the table to sit at an adjacent one. Others eye him too before remembering themselves and looking down at their drinks—like water birds as a crocodile glides past. The Obsidian is a foot taller than I. And the whole of his face is tattooed with a skull. So much for a low profile. Even Milton knew Lucifer was a petty son of a bitch. I look over at Victra. You boys have fun now. You have to walk through it.

The Jackal watches her leave, leaning slightly to get a better view. Alone in space for months on end. Ship all to yourself. Whatever was there to do? He offers me a bottle of greenish liquor. Enigmatic in his dullness. Face plain. Eyes like smooth, worn coins. Hair the color of desert sand. Lone hand twirling a silver stylus with the quickness of an insect skittering over blasted ground, crack to crack. How we have fallen. He strips the skin with his teeth. We both know how fond you are of the dark. Family all dead. Disgraced, penniless things. No friends remaining. No one who knew you before you slipped into the Institute, so unassuminglike. But how you rose when given a chance. Your bank accounts emptied. He emptied all your funds. But here you sit, at the bottom of a moon. With me, with mine. Throwing insults. My defeat at your hands set me back.

You hurt me and my plans. My sister also wounded me. Gagging me? Binding me naked and throwing me at your feet? That stung, especially when all the grand lords and ladies of our fine Peerless caste got a chuckle at my expense. She sets them before us. I eye the bowl suspiciously. Do you know why? I have been offered a great deal of apprenticeships. They despise me because I ate students. What else was I to do? And then they criticize. I could have studied politics at the Politico School on Luna. I might have been a decent Judiciar if I could stomach Venus. But I will rise without their hypocrisy. Without their schools. Any true? I buy things. I own things. I create. But I am not one of the fading lords of twentieth-century Europe. I understand there is power in being practical, in owning things. So much more important than money. I above all others know the importance of food. We were nearly eighteen when we left the Institute. We are now twenty.

I have been two years in exile, and now I wish to return home. I am the attention. Do you know how much of the communications industry I have acquired? With my silent partner, I own nearly thirty. I feel this was the principal book that I had not been entirely specific of the whole story because of the truth that there are subplots that press their instructions initially that you would not want to have anything to do with the tale. So none the much less, the 2nd quarter really felt rather difficult for me because of the truth that, nonetheless we understand they have grav boots as well as all these amazing advancements, it just kind of jumped out at you that you there was a cosmetology department in this globe that might basically replace your bones as well as eyes.

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Advanced embedding details, examples, and help! You do not represent the ArchGovernor and may not use his name to gain access to facilities nor curry favor with young ladies or young men, neither in boast, promise, or threat. She is the woman who sent Karnus and Cagney to the Academy. He is not. Our flak bursts in a great screen of dull white clouds.

Red rising free download am twenty. Buried her in the fake forest above Lykos mine, where I last made love to her. Well, I want you to imagine media as a pipeline to a city in the desert. I am protected by the Compact. Hard to judge. Not Mars.