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

look like they won the lottery. They think they are about to receive a king's ransom in a matter of minutes, and there's at least one snake-grass pipe doing the rounds. Amateurs. The weed makes them slow, and when you're slow, you're dead.

Lady Shadow is short a hand. The stump has been crudely bandaged, and there's a mess of blood on her gown. To her credit, the pain is almost indiscernible on her smooth, aristocratic features. Having a hand cut off hurts. I know.

“She had the codes implanted in her palm,” the construct notifies me.

“Thanks, but I figured that out myself, Aeryn.”

“I'm only here to help.”

There's an oven-sized cryogenic container on the stage, next to the hostage. Something resembling a tan glove floats in the slush inside. I hope they were careful when they froze it, or they will have destroyed the codes. No matter. They will not get the chance to use them.

There's a hint of a sneer on Lady Shadow's thin lips. She knows she's getting rescued. The Utopian Front does not understand who their hostage is. Stealing the launch codes to an orbital nuclear arms platform might sound like a large-scale operation to them, but it's not. Not compared to what's going on behind the curtains right now.

“There are twelve of them. Small arms only. No heavy gear.”

“Good.”

I don't plan to take them on myself, but the absence of heavy weapons means less risk of me taking a stray bullet. My body may be immortal, but a high velocity round through the spine will still incapacitate me. That would put a major dent in my self-esteem and bring awkward questions from the paramedics when they try to zip me into a body bag later.

The back entrance is right where Aeryn told me it would be. It's locked, but the access code the construct whispers in my ear opens the door on the first try. Remind me to buy Winger a good bottle of whisky when I return to Masada.

“Open Sesame.”

Inside is a storage area behind the top row of seats, filled with stacks of crates and miscellaneous stage equipment.

“Open what?”

I slip inside and take up position behind the crates. There's a perfect view of the auditorium from here.

“It's a literary reference.”

I drop the Aitchenkai on its sling and get the Lensfield off my back. It's solid and perfectly balanced, the way well-designed hardware should be. “I read, Aeryn.” The rifle smells of gun oil.

“You read horoscopes and beer bottle labels, Perez.”

“So what?” I start to assemble the enormous weapon. “The labels are way more accurate in foretelling the future.”

“They foretell you will spend another night sleeping it off in a back alley?”

“Always reliable, those labels. None of that 'Today could be your lucky day, and if you play, you might win' wank.”

“Why do you read the horoscopes?”

I unfold the rifle's stand and set it on top of a crate. The stage is only fifty metres away. I peer through the scope. Ducks in a pond.

“To pretend there's a grand plan to the universe. And that my life isn't a sequence of chance events on the one-way road to the dirt.”

The Lensfield's high-end optics tag a couple of notable terrorists among the prats surrounding the Lady. This will be a nice catch for the Terrans.

“Eloquent, Perez.”

“Thanks. Now shut up and let me concentrate.” I pull the bolt and load a bullet into the breach. “I have work to do.”

You can't save the world. The best you can hope for is a chance to waste a bad guy or two, to give the universe a breather before another arsehole steps in to fill their shoes.

That works for me.

Now we wait for the clowns to show up to get this party started.

The Centre of Her Being

The Terrans are late.

It's a miracle they can run their empire in anything resembling working order. It's another miracle they reconquered the Hope system as quickly as they did. But then, we had a hand in that ourselves. They say the quickest way to end a war is to lose it, so that's what we did. We lost spectacularly, and, once more, the Hope system is under the Terran boot. All except Nifelheim and Utopia. No one conquers Nifelheim. And Utopia … Well. The first explorers who came here found immense wealth below the surface. They dug down to find refuge from the hostile surface and struck metaphorical gold when they discovered an underground ocean of fresh water. Now, the planet is like a Swiss cheese, riddled with caves, both natural and man-made. The population of Subburbia is as diverse as they come. It's like someone kicked the universe over on its side, shook it around, and everything loose ended up down here. Over the centuries, hundreds of thousands of miscreants and down-at-luck citizens from all corners of the system moved in and set up shop. Subburbia is us, boiled down to a rich broth of the essence of what makes us human. All the hate, the hope, and the anger. The fear, the love, and the lust. Whatever you can think of, you'll find it here. Everything is for sale down here. The Terrans need all that shit too, so they let it go. For now.

Subburbia is the perfect place for groups like the Revolutionary Utopian Front to make their hangout. There are countless more or less revolutionary groups operating down here. They all have names that remind you of some ancient comedy sketch, but the RUF is no laughing matter. They are one of the innumerable neo-libertarian groups who fight for independence from Earth. I guess you could call them Terrarists if you felt the need to be funny. The goal of the RUF is to destroy the Eternal Patriarchy. According to their holy scriptures, the Patriarchy has been yanking humanity's balls since we left the oceans, with the single purpose to oppress women, free thinkers, homosexuals, and people of colour. Probably mimes and accordion players too. If only the Front knew how