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

took out the Utopian Front.”

“Not they, Perez. Him. Brandon Tyrus is one man.”

“Oh, come on. Are you saying one man took out the Front on his own?”

“I am, and he's inbound for Muspelheim, braking into orbit as we speak. He'll meet us on the ground. We'd better get going. He's not a man you want to keep waiting.”

“If he's such a hotshot, you should have called him to do your dirty work instead of me.”

“We did. He was busy.”

“What?”

That hurt my pride. “I was not your first choice?”

“Nope. But you were available.”

Fuckin' A.

Soledad leans close. “You're old, Perez.”

“I'm not old. What the hell kind of name is Brandon Tyrus, anyway? Sounds like the hero in some cheap ass video game.”

“What's a video game?” Soledad looks confused.

“Fuck you, Soledad.”

“Not gonna happen, old man.”

I lower my safety bar.

“Everybody tucked in?” Braden calls from the cockpit.

It feels like Jagr's gaze is drilling holes in my skull, but it's only the injection needles pumping my bloodstream full of chemicals again.

“Muspelheim, here we come in three … two … one …”

The Sundowner's powerful engines ignite.

* * *

Twenty minutes later, we're on our way to Muspelheim. The eight-minute, 20g acceleration from the orbit of Nifelheim was a bitch. The burn to get into orbit around Muspelheim will be even worse. Space flight is no fun when you're in a hurry.

We left the Shiloh far behind, coasting along at a much more leisurely acceleration. Trust those navy softies to ride in comfort. They will arrive in Muspelheim orbit about an hour behind us in case we need them. We don't know what we'll find on that yellow ball, but if our experiences so far are anything to go by, a battleship will come in handy.

I close my eyes and lie back in my seat to enjoy the weightless part of the journey between the burns. Everything goes soft around the edges and I drift off towards sleep. When was the last time I slept? I can't even recall.

A burst of static startles me out of my slumber. A glance at my wrist console tells me I've been out for almost two hours. Shit. We're almost there.

“Perez?” The voice is garbled but legible.

“Is that you, Aeryn?” I sit up in my seat.

“Where am I? I couldn't see. Why couldn't I see?” There's panic in the construct's voice. That's new.

“We're on the Sundowner, heading for Muspelheim, remember?”

“Is that you, Perez? Why was everything dark?” The construct's voice is now clear as rain.

“Yes, it's me. I was sleeping.”

“Why the fuck would that impact my vision?”

“Um …”

“Why can't I move?” The construct's voice rises in panic again. Almost like an actual person.

“You're inside my skull.”

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

“You're implanted at the base of my skull, connected to my cervical cortex with some hi-tech wizard crap.”

“The fuck I am.”

I don't like where this conversation is going. This does not sound like a construct.

“Um … Who are you?”

“It's Winger. You know that, Perez. What the fuck have you done to me?”

Oh, shit. Aeryn said she was being attacked by a virus. If that virus was a part of Mimr, could it have infected her with … sentience? I've seen enough weird shit these last couple of days to rule anything out.

“Well, in a way you are Winger. You are a construct, taken from a snapshot of Winger's brain about two months ago.”

“Stop fucking around Perez. This isn't funny.”

“I'm not joking, Aeryn.”

Silence.

“So, you mean I'm …”

“I'm sorry, Aeryn. You are not Winger. You're …”

I stop myself. I can't bring myself to say “just a brain scan”. That would hit much too close to home for me.

“I'm what?” There are tears in her voice.

“You're you, Aeryn.”

Another lengthy period of silence.

Then she screams.

If ever there was a perfect rendition of existential angst, it is this scream. I clamp my hands over my ears, but I can't shut out the howling.

Eventually, the screams give way to sobs.

“Hey, Aeryn. It could be worse.”

“How could it be worse?” she sobs.

“You could be stuck in Wagner's head.”

“Yes. That would be worse,” she snivels. At least she has stopped screaming.

Why am I calling it “she”?

Soledad has been napping in her seat across the aisle. Now she glares at me. “What the fuck's wrong with you, Perez?”

“Nothing. I talk in my sleep. That's all.”

“Fuck that. You weren't sleeping. You're losing it.”

“It was nothing. Trust me.”

“Nothing?”

“Sorry, Aer. Maybe we should keep this a secret. For the time being.”

She thinks it over.

“You might be right. So, what now?”

“Do you remember where we are? What we're doing?”

“Yes, I remember everything. How is that even possible?”

“Good. Take your time to adjust to your surroundings. When we're back in Masada, we'll talk to Winger about extracting you from my head. You'll be all right. I promise.”

That seems to calm her down.

“Sounds like a plan.”

“And Aeryn?”

“Yes?”

“Let's keep the screaming to a minimum, shall we?”

“Can't promise anything.”

I peer at my wrist console again. Time for the brake. “Now I've got things to do, Aeryn. I'm here for you if you need to talk.”

“Thanks, Perez.”

“Hold on people, six-minute burn starting in three, two, one …”

I read somewhere that an untrained human body can survive a braking force of about 12g for several minutes when facing forwards. That's graphically described as “eyeballs out”. A human can survive 17g when facing backwards, or “eyeballs in”. We're not untrained, we're not human, and Braden knows that. She brakes a lot harder. It feels like someone has parked a starship on my chest.

Six horrible minutes later we're back in Zero-G, in orbit around a sulphur moon in the ass-end of space.

“Welcome to sunny Muspelheim,” Braden announces over the intercom.

How can she sound so chirpy? “It's a sweltering one hundred and seventy-nine degrees C down on the surface. The weather forecast for today is heavy methane clouds with wind speeds up to a hundred metres per second and showers of acid rain. Don't wear your best clothes, boys and girls.”

It sounds like a blast.

I glance around the troop bay.

Jagr and Soledad