Under A Winter Sun Johan Dahlgren (digital e reader .txt) 📖

dust whipping around the ship in the glare from the floodlights. The night is humid like a sauna, and the wind from the engines is a welcome addition. The toxic smell of jet fuel brings back memories of adventure and death.

“You've met Soledad.”

Jagr has to shout over the whine from the idling turbines. “She's our weapons expert, mechanic and medic. She can destroy anything and anyone and then patch 'em back up again.”

“Yeah, I've noticed,” I rub my nose. It's still bleeding feebly. Soledad leers at me through the haze.

Jagr waves her rifle in the general direction of the dropship. “Perez, meet the rest of the team.”

I squint through the light. Another woman is leaning against one of the landing struts, puffing on a cigarette. Her clothes flutter in the wind from the turbines.

Oh, great. I lick my teeth and spit blood on the asphalt. Another clone.

We walk up to the ship.

“That's all?” I glance around. “Three people? Isn't that a bit short for a special ops team?”

A brief hesitation from Jagr. She doesn't look at me. “There used to be more of us.”

“Where are they now?”

Ignoring my question, she points a slender finger at the new woman. “This is Braden. She's our aviator, and the best damn pilot I've ever flown with.”

Braden is taller than the others, but there's no mistaking they are clones. She wears a white, sleeveless hooded top and the same tight combat suit, pulled down and tied around her waist. Wide braces hold up the suit, and long black fingerless gloves with a lot of buckles with no discernible function cover her lower arms. She's a regular goth fashion icon. The top does a poor job of hiding the curves of her toned upper body, and the tight combat suit reveals another curve. There's a swelling bulge at her crotch.

Braden beams. “Yeah, I know, impressive isn't it?”

She pushes off from the ship and flicks her cigarette away into the night. It trails sparks like a miniature meteorite. “Want to touch it?”

I catch myself staring and I tear my eyes away to look up at her face instead. She's got the same severely attractive face as Jagr and Soledad, but with even more distinct features. Below the white hood, I glimpse a blue mohawk and the clean-shaven sides of her head. The neural patch cables of a military-grade ships interface fall like dreadlocks from the back of her head and down over one shoulder. Her full lips are painted blue to match her hair.

She could be a model with that face. And that body.

“Thanks, but not right now.”

“Aw, please?”

She bats her long, blue eyelashes at me. “I've been cooped up with these bitches for months.”

“Another time.” I smile and reach out my hand. “Braden, was it?”

“Corin Braden, at your service.” She shakes my hand and emphasises the service part with a wide smile and a bow. She's got a firm handshake and a delightful smile.

Jagr laughs under her breath.

“I think Braden likes you, Perez. Well, that's the team. Team, this is Asher Perez, also known as the Dread General, the Worldburner, and the Enemy of Man.”

She pops the boot of the car. “I hope he is of a friendlier disposition towards women.”

She throws two bags to Soledad, grabs a bag for herself and stamps up the lowered ramp at the rear of the dropship. She's not wasting any time.

“Come on girls, time to go.”

“Is this all?”

“All what?” Jagr asks through the noise.

“All of you.”

Jagr stops at the top of the ramp. “We have other assets in play, but for all intents and purposes, we're it. We can't send a larger team to Nifelheim without pissing off the Goliaths. This is supposed to be a low-key mission.”

Famous last words, but I can't fault her logic. I incline my head to Braden and Soledad. “After you, ladies.”

Braden the pilot goes first. As she passes me, she leans in and whispers in my ear. “There's room for two in the pilot's chair. If you're a good boy, I'll let you hold the joystick.”

I smile, despite myself. “Too bad I'm not a good boy.”

She winks at me.

Soledad goes next with the bags. She doesn't even glance my way.

I follow her up the ramp into the ship, enjoying the view of three tight, identical backsides.

They are a random bunch of characters, and apart from their obvious genetic affinity, they seem to have nothing in common.

I hope they are as good as Jagr says, or this could be a brief mission. Nifelheim is no place for amateurs.

* * *

All military ships look the same inside, and this one is no exception. Everything is a utility lead-grey colour. All flat, ugly surfaces, devoid of decoration. Random pipes and boxes with no obvious function adorn the walls. As is the navy custom, the dropship uses only muted lighting when in active operation. Like the eyepatches of ancient pirates, the general idea is to allow the troops to adapt quickly to various degrees of ambient lighting when they leave the ship. This custom also makes it less of a necessity to clean up, and this ship is messy like the room of a spoiled child. There's gear everywhere, but there's a method to the madness. Every item has been placed with great care.

We enter through the rear cargo bay. On an assault drop, the bay holds two armoured personnel carriers. Now, it's stacked with dark crates of varying sizes, tied down against the deck with straps and magnetic clamps. Many of the crates appear to contain military hardware. Judging by the amount of weaponry, Jagr expects a minor war. Then again, we're going to Nifelheim. All the weapons in the world might not be enough.

We file through the hold and into the ship's short, wide midsection that doubles as an airlock. There's a heavy door to the outside set in one wall and lockers containing heavily armoured drop suits line the walls. Through the forward door, we reach the troop bay. It's a cramped