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

“At once, ma'am.” He gives me a quick disapproving glance. I must look like shit, with dried blood all over my face, hair, and clothes. The navy has always frowned on a shabby appearance. That's one good reason to hate the navy.

Commander Hardigan spins around and exits the landing bay. He pulls himself along the guide rails set in the walls, and he appears perfectly at home in the weightless environment. The two soldiers follow him, and we make up the rear.

“Hey. Wait for me.” Braden comes sailing after us.

She catches up with us in the passageway and almost collides with me. A hand grabs my ass and squeezes it. Hard.

“Oops, sorry Perez. My bad.”

“Yeah, sure, Braden. I should sue you for sexual harassment.”

“Oh, yes, and I would go to prison, and you could do conjugal visits. That would be so hot.”

I laugh out loud. “In your dreams, Braden.”

“Mmm, all the time.”

“Shut up, you two.” Jagr gives us an irritated glance as we float after Hardigan. Soledad does not look thrilled either.

The passageways on the Shiloh are far removed from those on the Lady of Heaven. On a warship, they are not designed to prevent drunk passengers from hurting themselves when they miss a handhold. They are built to give maximum structural strength to the hull at minimum weight, and that means crew comfort has to take a back seat. Everything is made of angled and practical slate-grey hyper carbon. No need to add an extra couple of tonnes to the ship by painting the interior surfaces a lighter colour. Every few metres, recessed spotlights provide muted illumination.

We approach another door, and it slides open to let us pass through into another passageway. This one is filled with servicemen and women going about their last preparations to get the ship locked down for the journey. A slight sideways tug tells me the battleship is turning, getting ready to blast off into space.

“Follow me,” Commander Hardigan orders, and we follow. Believe me, if I could have thought of a reason not to, I would have. I don't enjoy taking orders.

We're taken to an elevator. Hardigan puts his hand against a scanner and punches a code to summon it. It arrives in practically no time at all. Officers' override, I assume. A mere grunt would have had to wait his turn. Damn, I hate the military.

We pull ourselves into the elevator. It's more than large enough for the lot of us. As it takes off, a false sense of gravity kicks in, and we all end up standing on the floor. For a moment, it's odd to stick to a surface, but it soon passes. The human mind craves an up and a down to be content.

As always in an elevator with strangers, an awkward tension creeps in and I study my fingernails while Hardigan's cologne fills the space like poison gas.

There's a chime, and we all float towards the ceiling as we decelerate. Then it comes to a full stop, and we're weightless again.

The door opens on what I can only assume is the ship's bridge.

The room is vast. It's more of a chamber than a room. My old pal the Cardinal would not be impressed, but it's large as a fucking church. The only light in the room comes from a light-blue holographic sphere, floating in mid-air. It represents our surrounding space, with tiny blips denoting the other ships coming and going from the station. As we enter the bridge, the larger blip indicating the station floats out of the sphere and disappears. We'll soon have reached a safe distance to ignite the engines.

There's a gallery halfway up the wall where crewmembers sit strapped into crash seats. They punch buttons and make last-minute adjustments to prepare for blast off. It appears everyone except us is already strapped down. We should do something about that.

“Star marshal Crom will be with you shortly,” Hardigan announces. He kicks off toward a man in an even fancier uniform than his own. The man in the fancy suit is in a sombre discussion with two women.

A star marshal? I didn't know we had those anymore.

Braden sniggers. “Did that guy say his name was William Hardigan?”

Jagr's eyes narrow. “Yeah, why? Do you know him?”

“No, but I didn't think anyone was called that.”

Jagr is silent for a moment. “What?”

Braden beams. “I thought it was a joke name. Like Biggus Dickus.”

“What's so funny about William Hardigan?” Jagr doesn't find the name funny at all.

“Knock, knock.”

Jagr sighs. “Who's there?”

“Willie Hardigan.”

“Willie Hardigan who?”

“Willie B. Hardigan.” The corners of Braden's mouth almost reach her ears. “Get it?”

There's an interminable silence, and then Soledad, of all people, lets out a roaring laugh. Several sailors turn to gawk at her. I can understand them. It's not a sweet laugh.

I get it a second later. So do the others, and we all laugh. It's the first time I've heard any of the girls laugh, and it breaks the tension.

Soledad goes next. “Knock, knock.”

I want to play. “Who's there?”

“Mrs Payne.”

“Mrs Payne who?”

“Ophelia Payne.”

Jagr takes the next one. “Knock, knock.”

Braden wants to play too. “Who's there?”

“Mr Bull.”

“Mr Bull who?”

“Terry Bull. Now shut up. Here comes the brass.”

The man in the fancy uniform floats our way, accompanied by Willie B. Hardigan. I can't help myself and I laugh under my breath.

“Zip it, Perez,” Jagr warns, and I put on my serious face.

My serious face has serious issues and I fight to keep it under control.

The older man addresses us. “Welcome aboard the Shiloh.” His Martian ancestry is clear in his accent. He's in his late fifties, tall and severe, with crewcut iron hair. A hawknose and drooping eyelids give him a perpetually tired appearance. There's a dangerous glint in his eyes that betray the keen intellect behind them. He looks splendid in his neatly trimmed uniform.

I expect this must be star marshal Crom. Anything else would be unlikely.

“We are about to set course for Nifelheim, ma'am, so I advise you strap down in your cabins.