Samurai Guns (Orphan Wars Book 3)

by J. N. Chaney

  “That’s a good thing,” I say.

  Van shrugs. “This crossing will take a week if everything goes perfectly. Everyone will need to take a shift on the bridge.”

  “Roger that,” I say and go in search of Garin the stargazer.

  18

  Three weeks, that’s what it takes to get the bad news. Everyone is on the bridge, even Garin. The main view screen is a wash of color and static, the speakers full of ghost voices lamenting in an ancient and terrible language.

  “We can’t get past that,” Van says. “Not a chance.”

  “What is it?” I ask. The threatening tone of the harsh language distracts me. I don’t want to continue. I want to turn back—which is probably exactly the effect our enemies are looking for.

  “Distortion field. None of my sensors can penetrate it. Worse, whoever created it knows where we are because this is targeted. You can’t just cover a section of the galaxy with false readings. They aimed this interference at us like a beam,” Van says. “This has to be Protheans, and they have to know our precise location.”

  “So we’re dead?” Garin asks. “I knew it.”

  “Don’t get cute, kid,” Van says.

  I put a hand on Garin and draw him behind me. He’s tense, angrier than he should be.

  Garin sneers in Van’s direction. “Wasn’t.”

  “Whatever, kid,” Van says. “I’ve got grown-up work to do. Got to get us out of here while I can.”

  No one interrupts as he takes control of the helm. His Hwelas stand back, awaiting orders. Shaina watches but not even she argues with what he’s doing.

  Before I know it, the Serendipity is heading off on a new vector, toward a system we never planned to go to.

  “You have a plan?” I ask.

  He snorts. “Of course I do, Murph. Now shut up for a minute.”

  I stand from my chair, ready for a confrontation, but sit down. I can control myself, unlike Jack or Van, or even Shaina. Needing something to distract myself and stay cool, I redirect my attention to the kid.

  Because he’s watching me. What kind of example would I have set if I’d punched our savior in the face? I need to remember that. He rescued us. Putting up with his increasingly cantankerous attitude is just a price of being alive.

  “Most kids would be fascinated by a starship piloted by aliens and a smuggler,” I say.

  “I don’t trust Van, and neither should you,” Garin says. “Besides, I talked to the Hwelas. Their captain that is good, isn’t. I just want to go home, but I don’t have one.”

  “What did he do?” Fire pulses through my veins. There’s something the kid isn’t telling me. The constant struggle to survive, the endless setbacks and betrayals have reached a level no one could endure, least of all me. I’m an archaeologist, not a saint.

  Tears well up in his eyes. His face reddens in patches. He doesn’t speak until right before I’m about to prompt him again. “He told me I was going to be just like him, only good for transporting monsters and the unwanted. He said I was the most unwanted he’d ever seen, and it made sense I was on his ship.”

  “Why would he say that?” I ask.

  “Because I wouldn’t steal something from you, and that made him angry. Said he would put us all off the ship if he didn’t get what he wanted, and that if I told you, it would be even worse.” Garin looks guilty even though he resisted the pressure and did the right thing. “I can’t stand him acting nice, trying to trick you.”

  “This isn’t my first rodeo, kid. But thanks for the heads up. I won’t trust him an inch,” I say. “What did he want you to steal?”

  “He didn’t tell me because I… well, I used a lot of bad words,” Garin snaps. “Might have thrown some stuff at him.”

  Shaina pats him on the shoulder. “Keep up the good work. Next time, throw something heavy—or sharp. Or both. I’ll put you in for a commendation if we ever get back to Sarsten and Tamondran.”

  “That does not seem possible now,” Zedas says. “Tolerating this smuggler and his dishonorable methods can only bring disgrace.”

  And that’s about all I can handle. “Does someone want to be positive for five seconds?”

  The beginnings of a sly smile cross Garin’s face. “Not really.”

  “Fine. You’re right. All of you. How could I think we might actually make it back to the resistance in time to fight the Protheans? This may look bad, but we’ve been through worse,” I say. “We can handle Van.”

  “I never doubted that part. But where is he taking us?” Shaina asks.

  “I’ll find out.” Watching the captain work, I have my suspicions. He’s going to use us for his own benefit, just like we’re going to use him and his crew. That’s what it takes to save the galaxy sometimes.

  Slipping away from our numerous enemies takes time and energy, not just for the ship, but for all of us depending on it. Surprisingly, I think about the Heptagon and miss the days when Shaina was calling the navigational shots.

  I wait until the danger passes and then corner Van on the bridge when there aren’t any witnesses.

  Maybe that’s a bad idea, depending on which of us is meaner.

  He turns away from his terminal when I enter, then waves me toward a chair. I sit near him, noting that he isn’t using his raised captain’s chair, which puts us on more of an equal footing.

  Good. I’ll take it. Every tactical advantage helps.

  “You look sour,” he says. “That little brat say something?”

  My first instinct is to call him out, warn him not to call Garin a brat or ever talk to him without my supervision again. But that would tip my hand, so I bury my response and keep my face unreadable. “Don’t worry about him. Let’s figure out how we can escape the Protheans and the Overlords.”

  “We can do this, or more accurately, you can do this,” he says. “I saw you and your friends having your little conference. Don’t think I haven’t figured out the score. We might’ve been better friends if things happened in another order, but maybe we can still be somewhat friendly. You want to get back to the resistance. I want to get a bounty for whatever the Dark Eye and all the others want from you, but I’m also smart enough to know I probably won’t get it. So I have to minimize my losses.”

  I wait. He returns the favor, matching my strategic patience.

  “You just told me a whole lot of nothing. What’s your actual plan?” I ask.

  “Three of you are Orphans. If what I suspect about the kid is true, he is something like an Orphan. I can take you to a gate that leads to Sarsten, or at least that’s what Oliviero implied when I worked for him,” Van says. “No one really knows for sure where each gate goes, except for Orphans like the Dark Eye who travel them too much.”

  “How long did you work for Oliviero?”

  He crosses his arms, narrows his eyes, studies me like we’re playing poker. But he doesn’t hesitate to answer. “It’s not a matter of how long, but how many times. And before you ask, that’s where I’m getting my suspicions about Garin. The kid has something to do with Orphan Gates. I just don’t know what. And he probably tattled on me about our little argument. So before we get into that, let me just say I don’t like the danger he brings to my ship. Don’t want him getting attached to the place. My Hwelas have a bad habit of adopting wayward creatures.”

  “You thought of everything, haven’t you? None of this excuses your behavior,” I say.

  “That’s where you’re wrong. The kindest thing I can do for the kid is to make him not feel welcome. Because my ship, and my lifestyle, is the worst place for him. He needs to want to leave the next time we find a port,” he says.

  “I’m hearing what you’re saying. I might even concede some of your points. Before we get into the details, let me say something. I haven’t forgotten that you saved us from the ice world. I owe you for that. And I’m someone who pays my debts. But that doesn’t mean I’m getting my friends killed or letting the galaxy burn so you can collect some bounty on
technology someone convinced you I possess. You need to forget about that right now.”

  He shrugs. “Hard to really forget.”

  “Work on it,” I say. “Tell me about this Orphan Gate. Why is it dangerous?”

  He spins toward his station and pulls up a screen that displays a teeming city like nothing I’ve ever imagined.

  “This is Maxul 9, one of the Overlord’s largest slave ports. It’s the key to the Hadrian Empire, even though they pretend it doesn’t exist and are embarrassed by the necessity of it,” Van says.

  “Slavery is never necessary. That’s something slavers say to justify their actions,” I say, leaning forward and speaking in a low, hard voice.

  “Maybe that’s true where you’re from,” he says.

  “It’s a universal truth. Slavery is the darkest evil.”

  He shifts uncomfortably but has nothing left to argue with.

  “You’re telling me there’s an Orphan Gate on that planet, on Maxul 9?” I ask.

  “There is. It’s cursed. Not even the Overlords go near it,” Van says. “Despite its location in the center of the city.”

  “Give me details.” Now it’s my turn to cross my arms and look skeptical.

  He lets out a subdued but wicked laugh. “Every lunar cycle, the area around the gate is soaked in blood. No one ever sees it happen. There are cries in the night, however. You talked about evil. Well, this is pure evil. When you see it, you might decide it’s not worth the risk and that maybe you just let the resistance do their own thing while you take your friends someplace else and hide for a couple of decades until everything is over.”

  It’s not a hard decision, but I think about it for several minutes to weigh the few facts I know. “Get us to the gate on Maxul 9, and we’ll do the rest.”

  He nods without saying a word, which I didn’t expect. I wait for at least an okay, or all right, or a don’t say I didn’t tell you so, but none of that comes. Eventually, I get up and leave the bridge because I’m tired and I need sleep.

  A trio of Hwelas file in, chattering at me in their native language. I wave, not sure if this terrifies them or is accepted as a polite greeting. Sometimes I think I’m starting to understand them, but am I really?

  In the hallway, I encounter several groups sleeping in corners, curled up in balls of spider limbs like nightmares made real. If I didn’t know they were vegetarians who liked to adopt kittens and other wayward strays, I’d probably run screaming.

  Another week passes getting to Maxul 9. Van is using all of his best tricks and pushing the ship as hard as it will go, but the Goliath sector is a big place. We’re not even traversing a fraction of it. The value of Orphan Gates, and the Orphan Gate ship, is more evident than ever.

  Garin puts down his reading tablet. “Is that real, what I just read?”

  “I’m not really sure. I think it’s Goliath sector fiction, but I don’t really know. How can I tell the truth from lies this far from home?”

  “Well, the story is pretty good. I just wish we had slip tunnels instead of Orphan Gates and all of this system navigation. The acceleration and deceleration makes me sick.” Garin thinks about his book for a while. “I like the characters. I want to be a renegade someday too.”

  “Don’t we all,” I say. He doesn’t know it, but I’ve read the same Goliath sector story numerous times on this stretch of the voyage and am pretty sure it’s not real. But wouldn’t it be cool if it was?

  The intercom chimes to indicate a message from the bridge. “Murph, you better get your people ready and come to the bridge. I’ll show you this, and then I’m going to have to land, dump, and go. They’re already marking me for inspection, and I can’t have that. Anything that slows me from getting a paying gig is stinkola right now.”

  “You’ve been to this planet before?” I ask, knowing I won’t like the answer.

  “Yeah, Murphy, I have. Sometimes to do business, but other times to rescue people from slavery. I’m not the bad guy.” He ends the intercom link.

  “He’s just the bad guy some of the time,” Garin says. “That makes it okay.”

  “You got that right,” I say. “Maybe he’ll have his redemption story by the time this is over.”

  “I doubt it,” Garin says. His attitude reflects one of the many benefits of youth: absolute conviction in his sense of right and wrong.

  I miss that. Jack ruined my handle on the subject, or maybe he just sharpened it. That’s something to consider.

  We gather up our kits—gear we compiled and practiced with over the last several days, and head to the bridge. When the doors open, we find it packed with Hwelas. Every possible workstation on the bridge has two or three of them busily engaged in one activity or another. The room is noisy with their chattering, clicking version of Hadrian.

  “Maxul 9 in all its decadence,” Van says, pointing at the screen.

  I study a planet that is almost entirely covered by buildings and lights and roads. Of course they aren’t roads, but rails. Trains flash over the surface at dangerous speeds. Some of them are above the tops of buildings, but I can see some are down on the ground level or mid-level.

  “We could get lost down there for ten years,” Shaina says.

  “Don’t worry about that,” Van says. “I’ll put you down about a half span from the Orphan Gate—the Blood Gate, the locals call it. It’s the least regulated portion of the entire planet and free for anyone who can touchdown without crashing into one of the support columns or guide wires. Fortunately for you, I’m one such person. This won’t be the first time the Serendipity touches down near this hellhole.”

  “Can’t be that bad,” Shaina says. “You’re just talking it up to make yourself look better.”

  “This is my belief also,” Zedas says. He grinds out a laugh. “I’m not afraid of blood gates.”

  “You should be,” Van says. Something in his eyes makes me think he’s had some personal experience with the place.

  “Just get us there,” I say. “We’re ready. The sooner we get back to the resistance, the better. They need us now more than ever. I’m not ready to let the Protheans take over the Goliath sector.”

  19

  Van does in fact know how to land between buildings connected by unauthorized clothing lines, guide wires, support towers, and poorly planned monorail trains. He dips sideways, slides down, and then climbs abruptly to avoid hitting oncoming traffic. The Serendipity is really too big for this—like someone driving a tank over a putt-putt golf course.

  Motorists and aerial taxicab pilots honk horns and shake their fists. A monorail train flashes by as Van arcs beneath it and puts the ship up on its side to run between buildings.

  “You’re flying down an alleyway,” Shaina says.

  “Impressed?” Van asks, struggling to handle the controls without falling out of his seat. Our restraints hold us in place, but gravity is very real here. Not something any of us are used to. Not like this. Pilots get away with all kinds of shenanigans in the void.

  “Just don’t get us killed,” she says.

  I point toward the front screen. “Those are clothing lines.”

  He grunts. “Not strong enough to stop us.” The Serendipity annihilates about a hundred people’s wash for the week, dragging the lines behind the stumpy wings of the ship. “They’ll find more.”

  “Those people probably couldn’t afford to lose the shirts off their backs,” I say.

  “The Goliath sector is a hard place,” Van says. “Or haven’t you noticed?”

  “You’re a straight asshole.”

  “Been called worse.”

  Additional insults would be worse than pointless, so I concentrate on monitoring the next disaster.

  We come to an intersection. Van levels out and then flips the other way to enter an even narrower alley. This one curves to the left. The Serendipity races through it at dangerous speeds. In the grand scheme of things, we’re barely moving, but this close to the ground and with buildings all ar
ound us, it feels like we are a bullet being fired through a gun barrel.

  “Don’t the local authorities notice something like this?” Shaina asks.

  “They do, but they don’t care,” Van says. He flies into a broad field marked by goalposts and game boundary lines that make no sense to me. Everything is rusted and covered with graffiti. Groups of teenagers and kids scatter into the tenements. I pick up other details. Weed choked grass and this city’s version of cracked asphalt. People watch from windows, then shut them.

  I notice what is missing. There are no businesses, or street vendors, or pedestrians who aren’t loitering near shady-looking bars. I don’t see men and women on the way to work, and I don’t see cops or firefighters or paramedics patrolling the area. Gangs, hangers on, dealers, and addicts—that’s what this neighborhood has to offer.

  “I assume this isn’t the best example of Hadrian culture,” Zedas says.

  “No need to get nasty,” Shaina says. “But you’re right. This is the bottom rung of the bottom tier. Outsiders aren’t welcome in this district. Good thing we’re armed—and in the air. This gate better be worth it.”

  Van fights to regain altitude, sailing over block after block of apartment buildings before selecting another vacant lot to land on.

  “Was all that alley flying necessary?” I ask.

  “It was. I don’t risk my ship lightly. The approach might’ve seemed random and senseless to you, but I have every section of it mapped out to avoid detection by the local authorities. You might not believe this, but they don’t like me here. I have warrants for a variety of trumped-up charges,” Van says. “And a few real charges.”

  “I bet their cantankerousness has nothing to do with your charming personality and monstrous crew.” My attention shifts to the screen that shows the most desolate section of the city yet. Buildings tower all around us, cram-packed tenement buildings showing ample evidence of overpopulation. Where Van is taking us, however, is a ghost town.