Samurai Guns (Orphan Wars Book 3)

by J. N. Chaney

  “Better than you, apparently. Are you insane?”

  “Just a little punch drunk.”

  “Ah, that shows.” She pops her safety harness, tries to stand, then staggers.

  I catch her but only make the fall worse. “First time?”

  “Very funny. Are you trying to kill me?” she demands.

  “After that landing, I could ask the same question.” It’s a risky response. The last thing we need is bickering. Good-natured ribbing is what we need because we don’t have much else.

  “Sorry, that was a bit on the rough side.” Hands on her knees, she pushes herself upright. “We don’t have any power. No way to check the view screen of the passenger compartment. Let’s find the others.”

  “Good call.” I lead the way and find Garin working to escape his safety harness. He’s bleeding, but I don’t see the wound. Pain masks his face.

  “We’re here, kid,” I say, then undo the harness, which is pulling too tightly across his midsection because a slab of metal is sticking into the back of his crashed chair, pressing him forward at a bad angle. “Do you know where you were cut?”

  “It’s coming from my hair, I think,” he says. “And I bit my tongue pretty hard. Am I talking funny?”

  “No funnier than normal,” I say.

  He rolls his eyes. “Do you really think now is the time for jokes?”

  “Only if they’re hilarious.” I separate clumps of bloody hair, gingerly searching for the wound. “Shaina, have you found Zedas? This ship isn’t that big.”

  “I checked the workroom and even poked my head into the sub-deck, which is in better shape than this room if you can believe that,” she says. “We need to gear up and head outside. He might’ve been ejected on impact, but this isn’t the type of world for a casual stroll.”

  I glance toward the break in the wall, and my spirit sinks. “Bring the med kit first, but snap to it.”

  “Snapping to, Murphy,” she says with a half salute. This time, I can tell she’s using my name intentionally. That means something. Our relationship has definitely changed since Jack played his hand. The four of us have to rely on each other.

  “Ouch! I think you found it, Mr. Murph,” Garin says.

  The wound stretches from his left ear to his hairline above his right eye. “Your hair is thick. Can’t believe I didn’t see this gash right away.”

  Garin sounds really concerned for the first time. “Is it bad?”

  “Hmm. May have to amputate.”

  He snorts. “That’s dumb. You can’t do that.”

  “True, but you may be sporting a shaved head soon.” The wound isn’t deep, and it’s clean enough to have been made by a razor.

  Shaina brings me a med kit. I clean Garin up. To my surprise, he barely whimpers. He flinches more than once but meets me joke for joke. Something tells me he’s been banged up before.

  Shaina backs up, arms crossed, humor taking a hiatus. “I’m worried about the Dogan.”

  “Go find him.” Once I clean the wound and spray the antibiotic on the cut, I press a sterile pad down and hold it. Blood seeps through, but not as much as I expect. A quick glance at the medical kit instructions reveals the spray had some anticoagulant properties in addition to antibiotics.

  “It doesn’t feel too bad now,” Garrett says. “I have a pretty decent headache, though. I thought staying in my seat was supposed to keep me safe.”

  “You could be out there with Zedas.” I pack up what’s left of the kit, the parts I didn’t use, and start looking for gear. The kid and I need warmer clothing. I suspect we’re going outside soon. Even if we stay in the ship, we’ll need to go out in order to fix much of the damage. And someone has to find the lost engine.

  “True. You’re going to let me help look for him, right?”

  “Sure thing, kid.” I find a new bodysuit that fits and one that almost fits Garin. With a judicious tightening of straps, we get him squared away. I find a coat with a fur-lined hood and a second that works surprisingly well for the kid. His reaches the floor and looks cozy. The moment we step outside, I wish I had a full-body version.

  There isn’t much wind, but even the tiny breeze cuts through my clothing like I’m not wearing any. About a hundred meters from the ship, I see Shaina kneeling over Zedas.

  The Dogan is sitting upright but looks dazed, even from this distance. Normally, he’d have his feet crossed like Buddha. Instead, his legs look like a pair of dead fish, spread wide for balance. Shaina puts one hand on his shoulder and waits patiently. Maybe I’m crazy, but the scene suggests she cares about him.

  “We’re making progress,” I say as we advance.

  “Are you sure?” Garin asks. “It seems like we’re in a pretty tough spot, if you ask me.”

  “You’re right. But all of my friends are getting along better than ever. That’s progress.”

  “Totally,” he says. “I don’t see how anyone can stop us now.”

  Laughing feels good. Suddenly, it’s not quite so cold.

  “Dr. Hank Murphy,” Zedas says, “I was unable to stay inside the ship.”

  “I see that.” Shaina and I help the Dogan stand, then help him limp closer to the ship. “Once we have first aid out of the way, we need to inventory the ship for survival gear.”

  “And make a plan to put it back together,” Shaina says. “Honestly, we should probably find the lost engine right away. No one’s going to steal this mess, but the lost ship parts might be buried in snow or sink through ice flows.”

  “Good call,” I say.

  Garin hooks his right thumb toward his chest. “Just don’t leave me behind. I’m not staying here while you guys explore this snowball.”

  “Not even an option,” I say. “We’re sticking together this time.”

  A half-hour poking around the ship confirms my decision. The Heptagon won’t be able to launch any time soon, and it’s not good for shelter. We need power to use the tools and climate control, and we need time that we probably don’t have.

  “Look for survival gear first,” I say. “We need to find that engine, and to do that we’re going to have to hoof it.”

  Shaina, Zedas, and Garin present me a variety of confused looks—Garin eyes wide, Shaina scrunching one eye in the classic pose of skepticism, and Zedas dropping his chin to look at me like I’m a bug he’d rather swat than touch.

  I wave all of that away. “Walk, we’re going to have to walk—hike, march, jog even.”

  “Of course.” Shaina shoulders her pack. “Shall we begin?”

  “No time like the present. That way?” I point to where I remember the wayward engine falling.

  “As a matter of fact, yes. That is almost the exact direction we need to travel,” Shaina says, proffering the mapping device. “Take this and you can lead.”

  “Keep it.” I point to my temple. “I’ve got the map right here. Use that handheld to check my course. Less chance of a mistake that way.”

  “As you wish, Orphan.”

  “We’re back to that again?” I ask.

  She shrugs. “It’s a habit. I mean no disrespect.”

  I give her the thumbs-up, then take the lead.

  “I’ll stay with you,” Garin says.

  “Can you keep up?” I ask.

  He doesn’t hesitate. “I don’t have a choice, do I?”

  “Nope.” We head out at an easy pace. The breeze becomes a stiff wind right in our faces, of course. Shaina comes next, Zedas following slightly behind her.

  The terrain looks like tundra, but I take nothing for granted. Flat as a tabletop with occasional tufts of grass, there are rock formations but they are few and far between.

  Every one hundred strides I check the sky, then mentally retrace our steps back to the ship. The map in my head feels accurate, and Shaina confirms my Orphan skill is making the grade.

  I raise my voice to be heard in the growing gale. “Another hour, and we should see the engine.”

  “My handheld navigato
r is showing the same prediction,” Shaina replies. “We may see a tendril of smoke, which could be good or bad. Ship parts are designed to pop smoke for easier recovery, but if the smoke is from damage, that’s bad.”

  “How will we know the difference?” I ask, then signal for a break. Garin isn’t complaining, or joking, which might be a bad sign. I get worried when the kid is too quiet.

  “Marking smoke normally has a color, pink more often than not. Anything but red, green, or yellow.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Those are combat colors. Used to call retreat, advance, or air support—but not necessarily in that order. Overlords assign the colors before battle to confuse their enemies. Keep up the good work, Murph. I’m impressed.”

  “Roger. Let’s get moving. Break’s over.”

  “Finally,” Garin says. “I thought this break would never be over.” He looks pale despite the half smile he gives us.

  No aliens attack us. The smoke rising from the lost engine turns out to be light green with an occasional puff of blue.

  “What does that mean?” I ask during our next break. We see our objective, but it is a mile away.

  “The last maintenance crew bought the cheapest smoke they could find. Sometimes that means a mixture of chemicals.” Shaina views our prize with her binoculars. “I think we’re in good shape, provided we can convert some of its paneling into a sled and Zedas is strong enough to drag it back.”

  “Fingers crossed,” I say.

  “Does that help?” she asks.

  “Sure. If you do it right. The trick is to only cross one set of fingers. Two is bad luck.” I adjust my pack, eager to finish this quest.

  “Sounds bogus,” she says.

  “I also remain skeptical,” Zedas adds.

  “Hey, I didn’t make up the rules. Don’t shoot the messenger.” I motion for Garin to keep up, and we lead the way once more.

  The crater isn’t large, but the engine struck the ground hard. Only a few pieces are broken off.

  Shaina smiles more than I’ve ever seen. “Everything worked, for once. Impact dampeners did their jobs, signal smoke—colorful as it is—worked, and the emergency transport skids look solid. We can pull them out from the side panels and attach tow ropes.”

  “Does this happen often?” I imagine ships constantly losing engines on strange planets.

  “There are a lot of redundant backups on space vessels,” Shaina says.

  “For which I’m grateful,” I say. “Let’s get after it.”

  5

  Moving the Heptagon’s engine promises to be a simple process.

  But of course it isn’t.

  “No, no, no!” I shout as the huge thing tips sideways—right off the skids we just spent twenty minutes positioning. Barking orders from my deep hood isn’t easy. I feel like I’m yelling through a pillow. My goggles fog up, and sleet pelts us mercilessly.

  Zedas throws his weight against the tipping rocket casing, hitting it like an offensive lineman trying to win the intergalactic super bowl. “I will stop it!” He spreads his thick fingers wide for maximum grip, squares his shoulders, and carves grooves in the frozen earth with his boots. The thing is heavy and cumbersome.

  “Everyone!” I shout, running to join him. Shaina and Garin heave gamely away, feet slipping from under them as it falls inch by inch in the wrong direction.

  “It… is … too… heavy,” Zedas grinds each word through his teeth. “Move back. Save yourselves. This is a terrible way to die.”

  “Then don’t let it fall on you!” Shaina snaps the moment she has hauled Garin clear of the disaster unfolding in slow motion.

  I grab Zedas by his armor and pull, my Orphan strength sufficient to pull him out of the way. A few months ago, that wouldn’t have been the case.

  “Ahhhhh!” Zedas screams at his failure. “Thwarted by a dumb machine.”

  And that’s when the rest of us start laughing, giving him room in case he doesn’t see the humor in our situation.

  “Why are you laughing?” he demands. “This is a disgrace.”

  “No, Zedas-Duryan. This is the hand we were dealt.”

  He grunts and crosses his arms.

  “We just have to try again,” I say, then walk around the engine, rubbing my chin as I work out the puzzle. “If we can’t move the engine onto the skid, let’s put the skid under the engine.”

  “How, Murph?” Shaina asks.

  “We dig a trench right here. Prop it up with the shims in the emergency skid kit and use the leftover skid beam as a pry bar.”

  “It could work,” she says.

  Excited, I start to nod in rhythm with the flow of ideas. “But only once. Let’s get it right this time.”

  “I’ll team up with Zedas,” Shaina says. “It’s your idea, but I know more about the actual parts. You and Garin should pitch the tent. It’s getting dark, and that means it’s going to get really cold. Shelter from the night gales wouldn’t be a bad thing.”

  Wiping frost away from my goggles, I turn to the horizon instead of commenting. Dark gray clouds advance in the gloom of dusk. They look even colder than I feel. “Okay. I’m something of a camping expert.”

  “What is a tent?” Garin asks.

  “Let me show you.” I turn back to Shaina. “If you need us, shout. Don’t take chances. One mistake and the engine will be in a hole, and we’ll never get it out.”

  “Understood, Murph. Slow and steady wins the race. Isn’t that one of your strange maxims?” she asks.

  “Yes, it is. Come on, Garin. Let’s get out of this wind.”

  The kid is a natural student. We quickly establish a rhythm. I hand him tent stakes, spread out the wind and water resistant fabric, then pop the central support. It’s more like a tube than I’m used to, and it’s not spacious.

  “That’s small,” he says.

  I can’t help but agree. “Look at the bright side. It should be warm with all of us packed in there.”

  “We can’t all fit in there. Zedas will crush us.”

  He’s got a point, but I have a feeling it won’t be long before that’s a sacrifice we’ll be willing to make. Dark clouds on the horizon, low to the ground and threatening. Once again I’m reminded that this isn’t Earth and we’re a long way from Kansas. Above the storm front, I see a pale blue sky. Somehow, that makes the scene more ominous.

  I get back to work, finishing the tent and double checking everything.

  “Mr. Murph? What’s that?”

  This time when I look at the horizon there’s a ship landing, rockets flaring to slow its descent. But that’s not the worst part. It stands like a statue, seeming to wear the black clouds like a fur colored cloak. Protheans.

  “Are they coming for us?” Garin asks. “I’m pretty fast, but I don’t think we can outrun them. You got a plan, right?”

  “Not yet, but I’m working on it,” I say. “Hiding seems like a better idea, and maybe that’s a possibility until morning. Visibility is already degrading. Only fools would travel here at night in the middle of a storm. Especially since none of us know exactly how bad this one will be. We are strangers here.”

  My teeth ache from the cold. I pull my hood even tighter around my face. “I’m practically blind anyway.”

  “Me too. But my face was an icicle without this coat.” Garin squats down to accentuate the coverage of his longer garment, almost making his own tent with his oversized coat. When he covers his head with his arms to resist the wind, I feel an even more desperate need to protect him and wish I hadn’t gotten him into this.

  “I’m going to tell Zedas and Shaina,” I say.

  Garin looks up. “I’m glad you didn’t leave me at the ship.”

  “The thought never crossed my mind,” I say, only lying slightly. I’m thankful for his reassurance. He’s a real orphan. Abandonment is probably the only thing he truly fears.

  It’s only a few strides to the work area. “Zedas, Shaina, we’ve got company.”

 
Work stops. Our friends climb from the trench and raise binoculars toward the dark horizon.

  “Where?” Shaina asks.

  I point toward confusing images. Darkness covers more darkness. Boiling storm clouds further decrease visibility. “Garin saw the ship as well. My question is, will they come looking for us immediately?”

  Shaina yields the discussion to Zedas and we both wait.

  “Bedtime stories did not cover Prothean search tactics,” he says, then slips into a conspiratorial tone. “The emphasis was on how they eat misbehaving children when their search methods are successful.”

  “Got it,” I say. “Don’t get eaten at bedtime.”

  Zedas rewards me with his best tooth-grinding chuckle, and even Shaina laughs.

  “By the time they find us, it might be a mercy. I’m freezing,” she says.

  I try to respond, but my teeth are chattering even inside my Arctic style parka. “This way. We’ll have to finish the work in the morning.”

  Neither of them are impressed by the tent.

  “Zedas will not fit inside by himself,” Zedas says, pointing then holding his chin thoughtfully—using one of his stolen mannerisms that makes him appear slightly more human. “Where will the pups go when he rolls over?”

  “Just get in there, big guy, and stop referring to yourself in the third person,” Shaina says. “We’ll crowd in around you. Promise not to roll over on us. If we die in our sleep, you can face the Protheans by yourself.”

  “I will endeavor to restrict my motions,” Zedas says. “But no promises will be made.”

  Garin, still squatting, shifts side to side—clearly nervous but also desperate to get out of the wind. With so much winter gear covering him, it’s hard to tell, but body language can be informative.

  We pack into the tube tent.

  “Hard to breathe,” Shaina comments. “Not that I’m complaining.”

  “Ouch!” Garin shouts.

  “Just scooch to the side, kid.” Shaina’s words sound strained.

  I can sympathize because everything about my own position is awkward.