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

Braden punches a sequence of buttons on a console above her head and the alarm cuts out.

The sudden noise and shouting bring my body under control and I unclench my fists and stabilise myself behind Jagr's seat.

“What the fuck was that about Perez?”

Jagr turns around and stares at me. “They said you had been in space before.”

“I have.” I forgot for how long. General Meridian was locked into an escape pod and sent drifting through deep space for forty years with no chance of escape and no way of killing himself. He doesn't like the Big Empty.

Drops of blood from my gashed palms float around the cabin like little wobbling crimson planets.

“Sorry. I'm out of practice.”

There's a shout from the troop bay.

“What the fuck happened?” Soledad shouts. “Are we dying?”

Jagr calls back. “That was Perez pushing buttons he shouldn't have pushed.”

“Fucking A. Just space the fucker already.”

I smile. I think Soledad likes me.

Bradden glares at me over her shoulder. The patch cables in her head connect to the neural interfaces in the pilot's seat.

“Don't. Fucking. Do that again,” she says through gritted teeth. “You could have killed us. I think I wet my knickers.”

“Sorry. Won't happen again.”

I grab the backs of their seats and pull myself forward a little between them. I focus on Jagr's profile and not on the shitload of nothing outside the windows. It doesn't hurt to watch her face.

“You called, Massa.”

“Yes. I thought you might like to see where we're going.”

Braden has us in a slow starboard roll. A billion stars revolve above our heads and the golden crescent of Elysium far below revolves with them. The panic wells up again inside, but I lock it down. The golden bow stretches wider as we rise above the planet and then Hope Alpha pokes through the upper layers of my home planet's atmosphere.

“I thought we were going to Nifelheim.” I look back at Jagr again.

“We are.”

She leans back in her couch and puts a boot up on the ledge beneath the screen.

She rests one slender wrist on her shapely knee like a roguish space pirate captain. “But not in this bucket.”

Her leg is a thing of beauty.

“Hey, there's nothing wrong with this bucket,” Braden says. She punches another sequence of buttons arranged above her head. Probably just for show.

“No, the Sundowner is a fine little ship, Braden. But it would take us months to get to Nifelheim in this crate, and we don't have months.”

“OK, so what are we riding on?” I glance from one woman to the other.

Braden grins and banks the ship into a long sweeping turn.

Our second sun breaks through the planet's atmosphere and bathes everything inside the cockpit in brilliant white light.

“That.” Jagr points out the windscreen at a giant starship rolling into view.

Fuck me. I'm impressed.

“That” is the Emancipation class Terran main line battle cruiser Shiloh. Flagship of the Terran Commonwealth and the greatest warship ever built.

“Nice ride,” is the best I can manage.

“It is, isn't it?” There's genuine pride in Jagr's voice. I can tell she is aware of exactly how much power and resources someone has wielded to get her and her little crew where they need to go. If I ever had any doubts that the people in charge consider this mission important, they just disappeared quicker than a virginity in a prison shower. Someone means business and is not afraid to show it.

The Shiloh is berthed at one of the many Terran military stations orbiting Elysium, but you would be forgiven for thinking it was the other way around. The ship dwarfs the satellite. Braden takes us in along the kilometre-long warship at breakneck speed. I can't imagine all the time and resources spent to construct this marvel of modern engineering. A million tonnes of hypercarbon, shaped like a tapered starscraper kicked over on its back, with four immense engines tucked to one end. It's not a beautiful ship, but it's functional.

The radio crackles. We're being hailed.

“Unidentified vessel. This is Commander Hardigan of the UNS Shiloh. You will divert your current flight path and return to your designated approach vector. Fail to comply and you will be fired upon.”

Jagr grabs a microphone from above her head and leans back in the chair. “This is Misha Jagr on the assault ship Sundowner. You will divert your asshole attitude and let us board any way we bloody like. Here are my identification codes.”

She switches hands on the microphone and places her right palm on the console between the seats. The ship reads her ID chip and relays her credentials to Commander Hardigan.

There's a moment of silence as her authority is verified.

Then Commander Hardigan comes back on the line.

“As you were, Sundowner. You may board when ready, ma'am.”

Commander Hardigan is a true professional. His voice is smooth business and there's not even a hint he just threatened to blow us out of the sky.

Jagr flips the Shiloh the finger with the slender hand still holding the microphone. “Fucking navy.” At last, something we agree on.

“Hey, Soledad,” she calls out to the woman in the back. “Get ready to dock. Gear and weapons check and ready to roll on touch down.”

Jagr runs a tight ship. If I was even the slightest impressed by military precision I'd be impressed, but I'm not, so I'm not.

Braden swings us around the Shiloh, providing an impressive view of the four massive barrel-shaped engines sticking from the ass-end of the warship. The stern of the warship is tall as a mountainside.

“Do we have time for a quick beer before we board? I think I'm about to score with Soledad.”

Jagr laughs from her crash seat. “Dream on, Perez. We're on a tight schedule. The Shiloh leaves in twenty minutes, and we need to be aboard and stowed away by then.”

Damn, we are on a clock.

Knock, Knock

The gigantic engine exhausts iris open, exposing the shimmering, iridescent blue of the fusion-powered plasma cores within. Each one of those immense openings could swallow ten Sundowners in formation.

Once the Shiloh's crew start