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

start a family. Something I could only dream of when I grew up. I can understand they take the risk and sign on. If you don't play, you can't win, like my horoscopes like to say.

The lights dim, and a single harsh spotlight switches on. It wavers around for a second before it finds its target. The entertainment crew down here is not exactly professional. A woman in a billowing white gossamer dress floats at the centre of the lounge. A hush goes through the crowd. She holds a white electric violin and a matching bow in her outstretched arms. It could have been artsy and beautiful had not one man in the audience grabbed a flowing corner of her dress and tried to pull her over. I can tell it's not the first time this has happened. She stabs him in the chest with the bow and yanks the dress from his hand. The hapless customer goes into a spin to the laughter and ridicule of his drinking companions. The woman brings the bow to her violin and the music starts.

I sigh. They had the same show on the trip over from Elysium. I don't know if it's the same violinist, but it could be. There are not that many half-decent musicians who are content entertaining drunks in third class on a planet-hopper. I enjoyed the show the first time. Despite the cheesy tunes and bored expression on the performer's face, it had a sordid, guilty appeal. Like cheap porn. But I'm not sure it holds up for an encore.

The lights flicker out and the lounge goes dark. The music cuts out, and another, deeper hush sweeps through the crowd. One or two voices cry out in fear. The lights flicker back on and the music starts where it left off. I groan. So, it was playback. I should have known. There are a few nervous laughs around the audience.

“There was a spike in data traffic before the blackout. Could be related.”

“Or it was a rat chewing on an old cable somewhere and the spike was a coincidence.”

These old ships are death traps. The only thing standing between us and explosive decompression is a small team of underpaid mechanics.

“Not when the two events happen within milliseconds of each other.”

“Let it go, Aeryn. Someone tried to hack their mainframe. So what?”

“We haven't used mainframes for hundreds of years, Perez.”

“I know that. It's a figure of speech. Let it go.”

“Whatever.”

The show goes on.

I scan the crowd, hoping for something interesting. There is not. Just a bunch of leering men who haven't seen a woman in months. Five security guards with stun rods float at strategic points in the crowd. With trained eyes, they've spotted the potential troublemakers and keep tabs on them. I wouldn't want to be on the receiving end of one of those stun rods again.

Oh, hello there. There's a woman in a black hooded top staring at me from across the open space. She hovers behind the crowd, near the curved wall. Despite the distance and the dim lighting, I note her sharp features and the hint of a fit body hidden under the top and matching loose black slacks. She looks away as soon as I spot her, but too late. She knows she's been compromised. With a kick against the wall, she pushes off and disappears into the crowd.

What was that all about? I'm not that ugly.

“Yes, you are.”

“I'm not, Aeryn.”

“You're not getting any younger.”

“Shut up. I'm not here to find a date. I'm on my way home to my bed and a long shower.”

“Yes, in that dingy little pod flat you call home.”

“Hey, that's my home you're talking about.”

“It's still dingy.”

“Oh, yeah? You've never been there.”

“Winger has,” Aeryn reminds me.

It's right. That one time, after way too much whisky and illegal pipe contents, Winger followed me back to my place. I always hoped she was too drunk to recall the place and what happened there. Not one of my best performances.

“I do not forget.”

“I kind of hoped you did.”

“Sorry to disappoint you.”

“Oh, shut up, Aeryn. Please delete that memory.”

“It is done.”

I can't verify it has deleted it. Or if deleting a memory is even possible for a construct. I must ask someone about that sometime.

I return my attention to the show, but it's already over. Oh, well. I grab another drink from a passing drone servitor. Since I missed the show, I'm entitled to another glass.

I push off against a beam and follow the crowd out.

The wide passageways of the Lady of Heaven do not differ from any other drifting ferryboat. They are only slightly more worn and depressing. White paint has flaked from the walls in places, and the carpet on the floor is scuffed and frayed. The passages lack sharp edges to keep the passengers from injuring themselves. One surface serves as the dedicated floor, used to walk on during the twenty-four-hour acceleration and deceleration phases of the trip when engine thrust generates artificial gravity. The rest of the journey we pull ourselves in endless lines by recessed handholds. Like cattle. There are a lot of collisions between the Zero-G rookies. Same on all flights I've ever been on. Someone bumps into me hard from behind and sends me spinning out of my elaborate trajectory. “The fuck?” I go tumbling into a wall and crack my elbow. A sharp jolt of pain spasms my fingers open and my almost empty glass spins down the passage. It leaves a spiral trail of liquid blobs that splatter the walls and several oblivious passengers.

I twist around, trying to glimpse the arsehole who knocked my free drink out.

“Sorry.” It's a woman's voice.

She's already gone in the crowd.

The buzz of the repair nanites in my blood assures me no lasting harm was done, but it's still annoying. Almost as annoying as losing my drink. With the drink gone, there's nothing to keep me up any longer. I could go to one of the many bars for another drink