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

I report in unison.

“Good.”

A giant shadow stumbles out of the fog and plugs in.

“Hey Finn,” I call.

Finn rumbles something in Old Norse. Hildr coughs a hoarse laugh.

I look around. “Where's the priest?”

“Haven't seen him,” Jagr replies.

Shit. “We have to find him.”

“Where's Tyrus?” Hildr asks.

“I'm here.” Tyrus patches in with Rivera in tow. “Status report.”

“Jagr, green.”

“Soledad, green.”

“Rivera, green.” The priest uses his best tough-guy voice. He's adorable.

“Hildr here.”

“Status?” Tyrus requests.

“Um. Green?”

“Acknowledged.”

“Wagner. Grün.”

“That means green,” I clarify for Tyrus' benefit.

Tyrus turns his skull visor towards me. “I got that.”

I wait for him to say something more. He doesn't.

“Oh, right. Perez. Green.”

“Everyone is accounted for. So, Perez. Where is this enormous ship of yours?”

“You're standing on it.”

Tyrus turns around. “What the …” The ground beneath our feet is not ground at all. It's the armour-plated hull of a starship, stretching away into the fog in all directions.

Tyrus whistles. “You weren't kidding. This thing is huge.”

“Told you so.”

“Now what?” It's Soledad.

Tyrus takes the lead. “We find an entrance. This way.”

I don't know why he thinks there's an entrance that way, but I guess it's as good a direction as any. We follow our self-appointed leader into the darkness.

The ship's hull is not all straight angles and lines, like the Shiloh. We walk along a curved, wide ridge. There are random giant structures out in the mist that have a curiously symmetrical aspect to them. They look like decorations. They look like …

“Hang on.” It's Jagr. “This entire ship is a fucking statue.”

I look around. The ridge we're walking on is the eye socket of a giant skull.

“What the hell …” A vast section of the titanic ship has been fashioned into a leering skull. The architect behind its construction has a flair for the dramatic. He is also mad. Or so confident in the abilities of his ship he doesn't give a damn about stealth. This ship would stand out like an Amish grandpa at a nudist colony. And they don't give a fuck. These people want to be seen.

“What is this ship?” Hildr asks, turning around. “And why have we never heard about it?”

Rivera's voice trembles over the comms. “I am so scared I might soil my suit.”

“Don't,” Tyrus barks. “You'll regret it.”

I grin. “Speaking from personal experience, Tyrus?”

He doesn't reply.

Jagr growls. “Tell me again Perez why you thought it was a wonderful idea to bring the priest.”

Her bravado is all show.

This shit is creeping me out. The one relief is that the skull is human.

“Over here.” It's Tyrus. He's found something.

We scramble over. He points to an airlock entrance in the ground at his feet. It's wide enough to allow a tank. Or a Goliath sentinel.

“Why aren't there any guards?” I don't expect an answer.

Either this place is deserted, or they don't expect anyone to be stupid enough to invade their secret base.

There's a large button next to the airlock.

I point to it with the barrel of my rifle. “Are you planning to push that, or shall I?”

“Be my guest.” Tyrus steps back, raises his assault rifle and points it at the door. The others follow suit.

I put my foot on the button. “Ready?”

Everyone confirms.

“Here goes nothing.”

I push the button with my boot, half hoping nothing will happen.

Nothing does. I try again.

Still nothing.

“Right. It's locked. Can we go home now?”

“Giving up already, Perez?”

Tyrus pushes me aside and stamps on the button. “Or are you scared?”

“No. Are you?”

“I'm in this to the end.”

“Some have been thought brave because they were too terrified to run away, Tyrus. There's no one here. Let's go home. First pint is on me.” I'm not sure I fool anyone, least of all myself.

“We need to find a way inside. Perez, recon. Jagr, defensive perimeter.”

“Yes, sir.” Jagr all but salutes the wanker and sends her team into the fog to set up defences against who knows what.

I make my way along the eye socket and down over the cheekbone until I reach the chin. The teeth are five metres tall and too sharp for comfort. They look like they have been filed into sharp points.

I sling the Aitchenkai on my back and edge closer to the tip of the chin. I lean out over the edge to peer down into the fog. Where I expected to see a landing bay floor, is an abyss. The ship continues down into the fog. It's lit here and there by distant floodlights that grow weaker with distance until the mist obscures them, far, far below.

Oh, fuck.

This ship is standing upright. Like an ancient space rocket.

What we've been exploring is only the foremost surface of the bow. This thing would dwarf the Shiloh.

They must have mined the entire moon to construct this monstrosity. That would explain Braden's anomaly.

“Tyrus. You need to see this.”

“On my way.”

Tyrus and the others lumber out of the mist. I point and he leans over the edge. I have to suppress an urge to kick him into the void.

“Fuck me.”

The others take a peek.

“May God have mercy on our souls.” Brother Rivera crosses himself. Finn and Hildr do their sign against black magic. If it's to call for divine intervention on our behalf or to ward off the priest's incantations, I can't tell. But knowing Goliaths, my money's on the latter.

“Right. This changes things.” Tyrus nods slowly.

He may aim for calm professional reassurance, but the skull on his visor countermands his intention. “New priority. Find out what they are planning to do with this ship.”

Jagr turns to Tyrus. “That's the plan?”

“We go down the hull and find a way inside. There must be documents or records. We have to bring those to Command.”

Great. Leave it to the desk jockeys. “Splendid plan, Tyrus.”

“Unless you have a better idea, this is what we do.” He doesn't even wait for me to present an alternative. “Move out.”

* * *

Climbing down the titanic ship is easier than I expected. The carvings offer ample hand and footholds, and the low gravity of Muspelheim plays into our hands. After about a hundred metres, there's the