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

close to the truth they are. Not about the mimes and the accordion players, but the Eternal Patriarchy. The ones pulling the strings. Had the RUF not been such sadistic homicidal maniacs I might even have rooted for them, but I draw the line at killing women and children. At least killing women and children not actively shooting at me. The Front has no such compunctions.

The room goes black.

“Contact.”

Shit. They're already here.

Muzzle flashes light the place up like a dance floor, accompanied by the staccato bark of assault rifles and a chorus of screams. I switch to the thermal scope on the Lensfield. All the cultists are dead or dying.

“All targets neutralised.” They waste no time. The Shady Lady knows some very important people.

“Thanks for the heads-up, Aeryn, but I have eyes in my head.”

“I'm only here to help.”

The room reeks of gunpowder and death. Not an appealing mix, but one I know far too well.

The lights come back on, and a lone soldier in heavy body armour walks up to Lady Shadow. She stands stiff as a board amid the dead. I've got to admire her composure. Most people would scream their lungs out in a situation like this, but not The Shady Lady. From the way the soldier walks, I can tell he's pleased with himself and I can't help being a little impressed. They got into the room under my radar, and few people can do that. I'd toast them if I had a drink on hand, and they weren't Terran bastards. I always knew the special operations soldiers of Earth were good, but I didn't think they had the balls to pull off something like this. They usually worry too much about the negative press generated by mass murder.

The soldier tips his head in greeting to Lady Shadow. He's got a skull painted on his helmet. What a twat. Even with my enhanced hearing, I can't make out what he says to her, but I bet it's “Come with me if you want to live.” They always say that.

He reaches out a gloved hand to her, and I hook my finger around the Lensfield's feather-light trigger. Oh, no. She's mine.

I squint through the scope, crack my neck, and take aim.

I click up the magnification as far as it will go.

The Shady Lady's face fills the scope. She's beautiful. Angular, Slavic features with alabaster skin and full, blood-red lips. With an eternity to perfect your looks, anyone can be beautiful. She smiles at the soldier. It's a smile that has started wars and driven men insane.

They are not truly immortal, you know.

I squeeze the trigger and her smile disappears along with her exquisite face. The back of her head explodes as the hypervelocity bullet tears through the centre of her being.

They may live forever if left to their own devices, but they die by violent means like the rest of us.

What? Didn't think I'd kill a woman?

I can't go around letting immortals live because they sport a set of tits. Where's the gender equality in that? Winger's hard-ass feminista girlfriend would applaud my progressive attitude if she didn't also want to kill me for banging her girlfriend. They have a strange relationship, those two. And that's without adding Christine into the equation.

The Terran soldier doesn't even flinch. He spins around and opens fire on my position while he sprints for cover. Impressive cool. His rounds are eerily accurate, and I drop behind the crates to avoid having my head blown off.

I peer around the box, but he's gone. There's still no sign of his team.

Shit.

They are a little too good, even for Terran black ops. Something's wrong.

Well, they're not on my list, and I need to leave before the Utopian Police Department drops on this place like a ton of bricks. I set the Lensfield on the concrete floor. It's a fine rifle, and it stings my heart to leave it behind, but it's an enormous weapon and it would slow me down. Besides, I could never smuggle it off-world. I hope someone who understands its value finds it and makes good use of it.

There's a shuttle leaving for Elysium in less than an hour. The Utopian Police Department may be corrupt and incompetent, but even they can close the spaceports.

Time to go.

* * *

Four hours later, I float weightless in the third-class lounge of the passenger liner Lady of Heaven. Around me, hundreds of members from the lower tiers of humanity get ready to enjoy the three-day flight to Elysium. The atmosphere is thick with the pungent smell of old sweat and anticipation. It's hot as a sauna, too. Down here in the common areas, we're not exactly swimming in luxury, and they haven't turned on the air-conditioning yet. I could buy better accommodations — hell, I could buy this ship if I wanted to — but I like to keep a low profile. The powers that be don't care about the people down here, which means they don't waste good money on DNA scans of the third-class passengers. That suits me perfectly. It would be a major nuisance if a nosy security algorithm matched my DNA to that of the worst war criminal in history.

The complimentary drinks handed out by disinterested staff are not too bad. It's a generic mix of vodka and citrus-flavoured chemicals, but the booze has a good kick to it. I sip my drink and watch the other passengers. They are all young contract miners on leave. Lean, pale, and hollow-eyed from living underground for months or years on end. Most people in Subburbia are only there to save up for a better life back home. They are a cheerless bunch, and most of them are already well on their way to drunken oblivion. I can't blame them. Working in Utopia's mines is dangerous but lucrative. If you live, you can make enough to buy a second-hand residential pod in the lower levels of Masada. Maybe even earn enough to