Under A Winter Sun by Johan Dahlgren (ink ebook reader txt) 📕

the ignition process, there's no going back. Once set in motion, all that power needs to be released. That sounds like a euphemism. What is Soledad doing later tonight?

I hang on to Jagr's seat as Braden takes us around the warship.

The docking bay is on the underside of the great vessel, and the Shiloh towers above us. Decks on interplanetary starships stack like the floors of a starscraper, perpendicular to the ship's long axis. That way, inertia provides artificial gravity as the ship accelerates and decelerates. As we approach, immense blast doors slide apart to allow us inside. It's a giant airlock, designed to allow fighters and transports to enter and exit the bay.

An airlock on a carrier ship is an excellent idea in principle. It allows you to keep the hangar pressurised to allow the crews to work on the vessels without messing with vacuum suits. It's not such a wonderful idea when the brass vents the bay's atmosphere to launch the fighters faster. I'll never forget when they did that on the Vigilant. She was a repurposed Gray Industries heavy freighter that was shot to shit above Persephone. We were already evacuating the ship when they blew the airlock to allow our fighter ships to escape to fight another day. Hundreds of soldiers about to board their shuttles were blown into space and died hard in the cold and dark. They were expendable, the fighters were not. Those men still orbit Persephone like tiny icy moons. I knew many of those men by name. Years later, Finn and I tracked down the captain of the Vigilant in a Masada bar. I bought him drinks, and he wouldn't stop talking. He told me he quit the corporate navy circuit shortly after that debacle. A few months later, he lost his wife. He lost his miserable drunken life that night. In the end, he wasn't sorry to go. Guilt can be a bitch.

Braden guides us into the airlock and gets us close enough to the floor to engage the landing clamps. There's a soft thump as we're locked down.

“Smooth as my silk panties.” Braden punches sequences of buttons to power down the ship. “I couldn't have done it better myself.”

I nod, impressed. “Smooth indeed.”

Braden reaches behind her, gathers the neural patch cables in one hand and tears them out of the seat with a small, dissatisfied moan. I've heard the connection between a pilot and her ship is almost sexual in its intensity. Braden's face tells me I heard correctly. “Want to see something else that's smooth, Perez?” Braden unbuckles and gets out of her chair. She floats above the seat with the patch cables floating like drugged snakes around her head. I bet Medusa never looked this good.

“What, your baby-soft navy hands?”

She smirks. “Haha, hilarious.” I like Braden.

“One minute, ladies,” Jagr calls to her team as she pushes off from her seat. Braden and I pull ourselves into the troop bay after her. Soledad is already on her way to the cargo area, like a well-trained pet.

Jagr gives me a look. “When we board the Shiloh, you let me do the talking, Perez.”

“Sure thing boss. Wouldn't have it any other way.”

“I doubt that.”

A wall-mounted screen shows the inner door of the Shiloh's airlock sliding open, and the Sundowner shudders and begins to move. We're being towed into the belly of the warship on powerful dollies running along tracks in the floor.

Inside the airlock is a vast, dim hangar. There are at least a dozen dark, mean-looking fighter ships locked down for the long haul to Nifelheim. There's not a single human in sight. The crew will already be strapped down in their acceleration couches to prepare for departure. The dollies haul us into an empty berth where autonomous tethers snake out and anchor our ship to the Shiloh.

“OK, time to move, ladies.”

Jagr punches the button that lowers the cargo ramp and the warship's atmosphere hisses into our ship. It smells of antiseptics and heavy machinery.

We push off from the Sundowner and float out into the main bay of the Shiloh. There's a guide cable supported on metal stands leading from our berth to the nearest bulkhead. Three soldiers emerge through a door and wait for us. They hold themselves stationary by handholds in the wall. “This way,” calls one of them.

Jagr grabs the cable and starts pulling herself towards them. “After you.” I nod to Soledad, and she tags along after Jagr. Braden is still aboard the Sundowner, making last-minute preparations for the trip.

Three long beeps sound over the intercom, and we drift sideways. The immense ship is reversing out of its dock, getting ready to set sail for Nifelheim. It's cute they stick to maritime signals hundreds of years old. That's the navy for you.

As we approach the soldiers, the one in charge salutes us. He's got an awful lot of shiny metal on his immaculate slate-grey uniform. Must be someone important.

“Commander Hardigan, at your service, ma'am,” he greets us as we brake our approach and glide to a halt in front of him. So, this is the arsehole who threatened to blow us out of the sky. He's not so tough now. I could break his neck before his two goons could even react. Commander Hardigan is a man in his late forties, with a narrow, scarred face. His eyes are dead as glass. Maybe they are artificial. He smells of expensive cologne.

The brass greets us in person. What clearance has Jagr's access codes provided us?

“At ease, Commander.” Jagr doesn't return the salute.

Are she and the other girls military? They could be black ops, but they could also be private security. Often, the line between the two is fluid. “Take us to your leaders.”

Commander Hardigan keeps his stone face impassive, and I can't tell if he's an expert at masking his emotions or if he didn't get the joke. Then again, few people know these ancient sayings. I'm impressed Jagr does. Maybe I need to reconsider my