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

thin red bands circle it. “With a fairly non-standard payload. When they hit a soft target, they shear into a dozen asymmetrical monomolecular razors.”

“Ouch,” I wince. The asymmetry will make the blades spin and tumble inside the target. That will make a mess. These rounds were designed for one purpose, and one purpose only. To hurt people.

“Yes, ouch. Hit anything soft, and these babies will turn it to mush.”

“So, they should do the trick.” Tyrus grins in my direction. “We only need to cripple those fuckers enough to keep them from killing us. I like it.”

“Good. Braden, take us in.”

“Ma'am, yes ma'am.”

I hand the priest one of the oversized magazines. “Fill this.”

I grab one for myself and fill it with rounds. It's so large it doesn't fit in my hand. Reassuringly heavy, too. I glance at Hildr where she's slumped in a seat. She stares into the wall. If she doesn't want to help, fuck her.

“Are these even legal?” The priest's eyes are wide with horror as he feeds cartridges into his magazine.

“Nope. Not legal at all,” Soledad confirms as she fills a mag of her own. “They are reserved for wet ops. Nobody is aware we have these. They were banned in the Beijing Convention, you know. Along with virus bombs and Archangels.”

The priest leans forward and whispers to me as he fills his magazine. “Wet ops?”

“Wet as in blood,” I whisper back. “Assassinations.”

My mag is full. Twenty rounds of 50 cal ammo weigh a tonne. Or at least a hefty two kilos.

“Oh.” His hand slips and the cartridge he was loading floats away across the bay. “Do we do that?”

“You Terrans do.”

Rivera lets go of the magazine like it burned him. “Dear God.” He puts a hand to his mouth in horror at the barbarism of his government and mumbles a prayer behind his trembling hand. I catch his floating magazine and hand it back to him.

“Oh, come on, Rivera.” The magazine is solid and reassuring as I slap it into place in the rifle. “That's far from the worst your government has ever done.”

“Get ready to get going people,” Braden calls over the PA.

Rivera keeps mumbling about forgiveness and loving thy neighbour as we return to our seats.

“Save your prayers, priest.” I close the safety bar on his couch. “You're gonna need them later.”

“Hold on guys,” Braden says from the cockpit. “We need music for this shit.”

The fucking music turns back on and I smile. Braden stamps on the accelerator and I look at the others.

“Come on. We have a ghostship to kill.”

* * *

Jagr and I climb into the cockpit as we come up along the Naglfar's engine exhaust. Braden uses the superheated particle streams to hide our approach, and the view-screens are almost whited out. A normal ship could never survive the extreme heat, but the Sundowner is built to withstand countless planetary drops.

The ghostly glimpses we get of the Naglfar through the noise do nothing to calm my nerves.

Braden grapples with the controls while sweat runs down her face. “If you're doing something, do it fast. My girl can't take this heat much longer.”

She has us surfing the fine line just outside the core jets. A single slip and we'll be atomised.

Jagr looks at me. “How are we getting on that thing?”

I smile. “They will invite us.”

A Fight For All He Believes In

“What?” Tyrus snorts over the PA.

Jagr shoots me a deadly gaze. I smile. “Braden, give me the mic. I need to make a call.”

Braden studies me with a raised eyebrow. “We have to leave their exhaust to talk to them. They will know we're here.”

Jagr puts a hand on Braden's shoulder. “Do it, B.”

“Okelidokeli.”

Braden nudges the joystick between her knees and the Sundowner inches out of the jet stream. The ship comes to a relative halt a few metres from the stern of the ghostship. It's like parking next to a mountain made of giant fossilised human remains.

Braden hands me the microphone. We're accelerating hard and the mic is a lot heavier than it should.

I dial Eirik's call sign and hope they didn't take his communicator away.

“Eirik. Are you there?”

There's only silence.

“Pick up, Eirik.”

Nothing.

“Damn you, Eirik. Pick up. I'm here to help you.”

Silence. Then a voice comes over the radio. It's distorted but still recognisable as Eirik's. There are all shades of pain in that voice. It sounds like he has to fight for every syllable.

“Eirik … here.”

“Eirik, this is Perez. We're here to stop Geirmund.”

Nothing.

There's a crackle and Eirik comes back. “How?”

“Let us aboard, and we'll kill the fucker.”

“You … don't … understand.”

“I understand plenty. That old bastard tricked you with those brain control things. Let us in and I will stop him.”

Another lengthy silence. There's only static in the cramped cockpit. Then he comes back.

“You will … fail. But I … will help.”

“Great. Can you override the main airlock?”

More static.

“No.”

Fuck.

“Perhaps … the secondary.”

“Perfect. Where is that?”

Another silence.

“Where is the secondary airlock, Eirik?” Sweat rolls down my back.

More static.

“Starboard side. Beneath the … raven.”

“Get it open and meet us at the drive core. Can you do that?”

“I'll try.”

“Good. Perez, out.”

I hand the mic back to Braden.

“There. Now we must find the raven.”

Braden nudges her joystick again and the Sundowner swings around the stern and up alongside the Naglfar.

“I think we're looking at it.” Jagr points at the viewscreen.

I follow her finger. There's an enormous raven's head protruding from the hull, at least thirty metres long. It's exquisitely carved. Too bad the impact with the Shiloh tore off its beak. The damage from the collision with the Shiloh is terrible. That the ship is still intact and under power makes the importance of our mission clear.

If we fail, humanity is dead.

“There's the airlock.” Jagr points.

Let's hope the airlock machinery didn't get damaged in the collision.

“Braden, take us in.”

“Sure, Mr P.”

Some careful manipulation of her joystick, and she positions the Sundowner outside the airlock.

“How are we doing,” Tyrus calls from the troop bay.

“It's closed,” Jagr replies.

Tyrus laughs. “Did you actually expect him