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

“You could have switched off the feed. Now hush.”

They say a monomolecular knife is sharp enough to nick a man's soul, and if we had one, I think it would. The edge is so sharp that weird quantum effects occur there. People say strange things happen when you use one of these. Like the time I used this blade to kill Oddgrim Morgenstern and became the saviour of humanity.

What is not so strange is that Diaz comes my way. That's just my usual bad luck playing up.

“Shit, I need to piss,” the man informs the darkness. Why do some have to advertise their every intention when they're drunk?

I glance behind me and notice the symbol on the door. Oh, fuck. I'm standing in the door to the toilet.

“Brilliant plan, Aeryn. Thanks,” I whisper and grip the knife harder.

“There was no way for me to know he needed to urinate.”

“Couldn't you tell from his walking pattern or something?”

“I'm not that good.”

“Remind me why you're on board at all?”

“You need Winger's intel on this place. I can provide that for you.”

I sigh. Sarcasm and rhetorical questions are not something a construct handles well.

Embedding a brain image in your head is dangerous, not to mention highly illegal. Despite the risk of overpopulation in my head, a scan and implant were the only ways to give me instant access to the intel in Winger's head. The six-minute time delay between Elysium and Utopia renders real-time communication impossible, even disregarding the shitty reception down here under kilometres of rock. Besides, I enjoy having Aeryn around. Now that Finn is gone, it's nice to have someone to talk to, and Aeryn reminds me of him. They are at about the same level when it comes to social interaction.

Diaz stumbles and supports himself on the wall to keep from falling over. The guy is pretty far gone, and I raise the knife in preparation. He mutters something about beer and small bladders as he lurches closer. He's younger than I thought. No more than sixteen, with his whole sorry life ahead of him. Fuck.

Maybe I can still avoid bloodshed.

“Thank you.”

“You owe me one, Aeryn.”

I crack the door behind me and inch inside. As he comes up, I push the door wide and stumble into him.

He swears. “Hey, man. Watch where you're going.”

Judging by the bleary eyes and pinprick pupils, beer is not the only thing he's ingested tonight. And here I was, thinking religious extremists were against all earthly pleasures. Perhaps endorsing intoxicants is the unique selling point of the RUF.

“Asshole,” he mutters.

“Sorry.” I push past him into the corridor with my head down.

For once, the universe has my back. As I exit, the crude lights bolted to the rock ceiling waver and go out. The newsfeeds assure us the authorities are looking into the recent power failures, but it would surprise me if they were. The electrical systems in Subburbia are ancient. It was only a question of time before they started acting up. Too bad they had to act up now when I'm here. The lights flicker back on with an unhealthy electrical buzz.

“No bloody manners these days,” the man says as the restroom door swings shut behind him. “And the fucking lights.”

“Yeah, the fucking lights,” I agree to the closed door and breathe a sigh of relief.

“That was close, Perez. Stay frosty.”

Frosty? Who even talks that way? “Mm-hm.”

“Say again?”

I fold the knife closed and pick up the Aitchenkai again. “Never mind. Let's go.”

It's good to hear someone still gives a damn about manners here on Utopia because this place is a shithole. It's the planet closest to our twin suns, and it's tidally locked to them. The planet's dayside is a radiation-blasted nightmare that will melt the flesh from your bones in a minute, while the nightside is one of the coldest places in the system. Right on the terminator between night and day is the only area even remotely habitable.

Except for the cloud cities, that is. Suspended on enormous cables from asteroids in orbit, those aerial metropolises are supposed to be impenetrable. I bet Lady Shadow thought she was safe up there with her minions and WMDs, but boy, was she wrong. She's held her city in the clouds in a well-manicured iron fist for over five decades, but somehow, she got herself taken hostage by these tossers. The Front either have well-informed friends or they got lucky, and in my experience, luck has nothing to do with success in this line of business. Someone must have tipped them off on her whereabouts. Someone who doesn't care about his skin. Lady Shadow is infamous for the creative ways she hurts people. Someone who sold her out like this is likely to become a mythical example of pain. Along with his extended family, friends, and distant acquaintances. If the Shady Lady survives, that is.

Whatever the context of her abduction, the Front now has her launch codes.

“We're close. Make a left here.”

I turn a corner and pass an open door. Inside is a large storage room with crates of varying sizes filling the space from floor to ceiling. They all bear the unmistakable markings of Terran military hardware. I've seen those with a lot of extremist groups recently. It's like they're stockpiling for Armageddon or something. Not my business. Just saying it's odd, that's all. I'll leave it to the cops to wipe up after this mess is over.

A few twists and turns later, I arrive at the auditorium. The staff access at the back is my designated point of entry, and I make haste down the corridor. I risk a glance through the open double doors as I pass, and there she is. Lady Shadow stands chained on a circular dais, centre stage in the vast, spherical chamber. In her sheer, crimson gown she looks like a dragon sacrifice. How apt. Ascending rows of seats circle the deep-set stage, like an ancient amphitheatre.

The Lady stands amid a group of bearded arseholes who