Winter Song Read Online Free PDF Page B

clings onto you, trying to pull you away as you gobble the vomited meat.
         "Isheimur has a lower water content than Terra–"
        "No, no, Loki! Don't eat that! Here!" She undoes her blouse but you ignore her, concentrating on re-ingesting the refugee nanophytes. You don't know whether they're still locked onto you as their source/target, but you can't risk them eating the planet in some long-term runaway disaster. You brush against her face; you feel wetness, and note that she is weeping, and another corner of your broken mind wonders why.
        Finally, when you've eaten all the meat and licked up the liquid, you allow her to guide you to her breast. "It'd give Palli's death meaning if his milk were to save another's life," she whispers.
         "Isheimur's mass is 0.80 of Terra, but its gravity is only 0.67 – sub-optimal for atmospheric retention–"
        "Jao," Pappi growls assent.
         "At 1.7 AUs, its year is 2.85 Terran years–"
        She sobs, even as she strokes your head. "This is the last time I'll do this," she says to the Ragnar-man as you nuzzle her nipple. "I wasn't going to let him feed today, but if it stops him eating his own puke, then I'll make an exception. But after this, no more breastfeeding: you can whip me or starve me, but I'll not do it again. I can't cope with this. It's like an eighty kilo baby with the habits of a wild animal."
         "Isheimur's year comprises 1096 days of 22 hours 37 min utes–"
        "Agreed," Ragnar says, and you see the surprise dart across her face. He turns to go. "I've no desire to see any more of this sick, feral creature, anyway, even if he has displayed almost superhuman powers of recovery. Odin's Beard – to think that he only came out of his stupor yesterday!"
        "Hunger is my friend." The words echo through your mind as you swallow the warm, rich milk. "When I'm trying to lose weight, I embrace my hunger–"
        You release her nipple, which she rubs.
        The fool that said that clearly never had hunger eating them from within like a black hole, sucking everything into it, consuming it yet still wanting more more more–
         "Isheimur is so cold, its air so thin that the colony's long term survival is marginal–"
        "Stop it!" you scream, clutching your head. Bera frantically hushes you, tries to pour sugared water into your mouth, but you gag.
        For a while, as if taking pity, the voices fade away almost to nothing…
        "We'll feed him from our stores for another few days," Ragnar says.
        "You still here?" Bera says. "I thought you'd seen enough of him?"
        His laugh is bitter and mocking, devoid of humour. "I can't help it. I get no pleasure from watching him, but there is a sort of horrible fascination." Ragnar sighs. "If he keeps this up, we won't be able to put him to work." He says, "Just my luck that I've probably saved someone with an advanced psychosis. If it's schizophrenia, that would explain why he was wandering."
        "Schizo–" Bera tries to wrap her lips around the word, which is clearly unfamiliar. Part of you would like to plunge your rigid member into her, but you have suckled at her breast, and another part of you analyses your memory of mores to determine why this is wrong.
        "Schizophrenics," Ragnar says, "were often considered possessed in the olden days, before people understood personality disorders. Most likely that his family tried to care for him, but finally gave up when he became too much trouble." When he continues, he seems to be talking to himself. "Food's always so scarce even at the end of a good summer that we can't afford to pour it down an invalid's throat if there's no chance of recovery."
        "What are you going to do?" Bera asks, moving between you and the Ragnar-man.
        But he doesn't seem to have heard her, instead saying, "The climate, even down here in the tropics, is so harsh that still the toughest