Samurai Guns (Orphan Wars Book 3) Read online

  “Was that a joke?”

  “Not my best,” he says.

  “Work on it. I’ll be back.”

  “When, Doctor Hank Murphy?”

  “In two shakes of a cat's tail.” After leaving him to think about that, I meet Shaina in the cockpit and discuss options.

  “We’re clear of the debris field. The Overlords are still searching it. Our only hope is to make the planet and attempt a landing while their attention is elsewhere,” she says.

  “Can we do that without parts? There were a lot of ships to salvage but no opportunity.” I search for anything else on the screen, any option that will increase our chances of survival.

  “I don’t know.” She paces the small room. “If we gradually increase power and use only what we need, we might evade them indefinitely.”

  “Life support first, then whatever we need to use tools and fix the basics,” I suggest.

  “Exactly. When we’ve done our best, fixed what we can, I’ll fire up the engines and make a run for the ice planet,” she says.

  “Great. Let’s get started.”

  3

  Hard work pays off, especially when the Overlords cooperate by continuing their exhaustive search of the debris field rather than focusing on the nearest planet. Far behind us now, the forgotten battle zone is little more than a notation on our astro map. The ice world, by contrast, fills the Heptagon’s view screen in a swirl of diamond-flecked whites and grays.

  I keep watch while everyone sleeps, and I daydream of all the secrets floating out there for someone with the tools, talent, and financing to pursue archeology in space. Battlefields can tell a lot about a dead civilization. The planet might have secrets as well, but my single expedition to Antarctica doesn’t bring back fond memories.

  There is cold, and then there is Antarctica cold.

  Zedas ducks into the cockpit.

  “Surprise, surprise,” I say. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”

  “Shaina welded the sub-deck with admirable skill. This cockpit is not a comfortable place for me, but it beats the sub-deck. I will sit on the floor. Breaking Shaina’s chair might have undesired consequences,” he says.

  “Good call. Thought you would be sleeping once the hull was fixed.”

  “I sleep less than you do,” Zedas says. “But that isn’t why I’ve come.”

  “What’s on your mind, Zedas-Duryan?”

  “Many things, but now I wonder about the child called Garin. Did you learn his secret?” he asks.

  “Oliviero told me—something,” I say, not sure how to proceed.

  “Do you believe it?”

  “I think I do.” How do I retell the story, and is it mine to disclose? Zedas has stayed at my side since I arrived in the Goliath Sector. He’s saved my life more than once. I definitely owe him the truth. “Is he asleep?”

  “Yes, snoring almost as loud as you,” Zedas says.

  “I don’t snore.”

  He rubs his chin thoughtfully. “No, of course not. Your nocturnal noises are more dignified. Your mouth barely hangs open, and you drool infrequently.”

  “Thanks, Zedas. That means a lot coming from you.”

  He grinds his teeth, a disturbing noise that is sometimes the equivalent of a chuckle. “You amuse me, Doctor Hank Murphy. Now tell Garin’s tale.”

  I collect my thoughts. “When we met Master Oliviero, I thought he wanted to steal Garin and sell him.”

  “Slavery is a Hadrian invention. I don’t understand how it is possible,” Zedas says.

  “It’s evil and wrong. Unfortunately, it has plagued humanity—and Hadrians, I assume—for ages. Just when we eliminate the practice, it pops up in a new form. But that’s not the point of this story. I was wrong about Oliviero.”

  Zedas listens attentively, hands resting easily on his thighs just as when he meditates. There is something comforting about his total attention to my explanation. The ship could shake itself apart, and he would still hang on my every word.

  Jack used to do that a long time ago when we were friends—before life made him a CIA-trained killer and me a scientist with wanderlust.

  “Oliviero chanced upon Garin’s parents near the Tamondran waterfall. He was a baby, and his parents were damaged—losing their minds if you believe Oliviero’s version of the story. They made him promise to care for the child, but he pawned him off on the villagers, turning him into a perpetual outcast with no place to call home.”

  “They were going to use the Orphan Gate with a baby in their arms?” Zedas asks, not disguising the disgust in his voice. “They must have been desperate. Humans do not think clearly when the stakes are high. But the actions of the boy’s parents suggest other variables.”

  “Such as?” I’m curious, wondering if he is drawing the same conclusion I am.

  “They did not fear the effects of the Orphan Gate. Not even on their child. I would bet a handful of choi-zi-choz they arrived by way of another gate, subjecting the baby to its effects,” Zedas says. “They were either fleeing something evil or looping even less responsibly than the Dark Eye.”

  “The kid seems normal,” I say.

  “What is normal?”

  “Good question, Z-man. Help me keep an eye on him.”

  Zedas presses his palms together, then bows his head slightly. “I will do this if you temper your infatuation with shortened nicknames.”

  “Deal,” I say quickly. “I mean, I’ll try.”

  “Take my breather bottle, kid.”

  Garin slurs his words just enough to notice. “I can’t do that, Mr. Murph. It wouldn’t be right.”

  His uncharacteristic lethargy bothers me. “I don’t need it. Trust me.”

  He pauses for several seconds, staring at me with barely concealed wonder. “Because you're an Orphan?”

  “Yeah, but don’t go blabbing that to everyone.”

  “Why not?” he asks.

  “Because Shaina and Zedas might be able to get the same effect, but it has to be a surprise. Or I think that is how it works. Trauma seems to unlock the most dramatic adaptations.” My conversation with Zedas makes me wonder about the kid. Why didn’t he show the effects of gate travel? Because he was too young at the time? Or is my assumption about what his parents did wrong.

  Shaina interrupts via the intercom. “Murph, get to the cockpit now. You’ll want to see this.”

  I’m moving before I answer. “On my way.”

  “Can I come?” Garin asks, pursuing me.

  “Would you listen if I said no?”

  “Probably not, but this isn’t like the other times. Not dangerous like everything else you do,” he says. “So you should probably invite me. Nurture my young, impressionable mind and teach me how to succeed in life.”

  “I can’t argue with that, kid.” The first thing I notice when entering the cockpit is that the main view screen is still up, and it displays the strangest ship I’ve seen.

  “Is that a ship or a statue?” I lift one palm to forestall anyone answering. The strange ship resembles a Prothean standing tall and straight, both hands resting on the hilt of a sword with its tip near its feet. Thoughts of tombs and ancient palaces come to mind.

  It’s not unlike a Dogan in form, but taller, leaner, and with a curvature to the back that gives it an appearance simultaneously immense and hunched at the same time—like its shoulders are too big for its narrow waist. What kind of organs are hidden beneath the massive rib cage? How can I guess at Prothean anatomy?

  “Well, that’s not what I expected,” Garin says from behind me.

  “It appeared abruptly, decelerating to a relative stop before I knew it was happening,” Shaina says. “We’ve been scanned three times already. What took you so long getting up here?”

  “I came straight away,” I say. “What do our counter scans say?”

  “It’s made of alloys the ship computer can’t identify,” she says. “The base elements are pretty standard, but there are trace minerals we can’t analy
ze, and those make all the difference. ”

  “So they have technology different from what we’re used to. Probably more advanced,” I say. “But they’re not from another dimension or something.”

  “Well, fantastic. Very reassuring,” she says. “Maybe we can be friends.”

  “It would beat going to war.” I study the symmetry and fine detail of the ship. This is something that was made to be seen—a demonstration of wealth and power, not merely a conveyance.

  “It’s not as big as I thought a Prothean warship would be.” Shaina talks as she works, entering data and refining her scans. “I can’t get much more.”

  “That’s a Prothean scout ship,” Zedas says from just outside the cockpit.

  “You know this?” Shaina asks.

  “From children’s tales. I know less than others of my clan. My father thought the stories were ridiculous and fired the musician who performed the sagas in our household. He thought singing and dancing made his sons weak and discouraged the telling of tales around the hearth fire.” Zedas stares fixedly at the image as he explains. “But perhaps little was lost from this neglect. None of the tales were particularly good. The point was to make us fear becoming like them.”

  “What part of their culture or biology scares you?” I meant the question as a general inquiry, but it sounds personal.

  “They’re very cold. Ruthless.” He thinks for a moment. “I’ve read a selection of essays, I think you would call them, since achieving adulthood. None of these described Protheans as evil. Our intellectuals are slow to use such labels. Simpler chroniclers point toward destroyed worlds and mass executions as proof they are darkness incarnate.”

  I’m intrigued. He’s never told me about these stories or writings by his people. Suddenly, I have to know more, but now isn’t the time or place to ask about Dogan libraries. “You haven’t answered my question.”

  “We fear them because they are unstoppable and care for nothing but their own kind,” he says. “The ancient fables warn that their peace is unforgiving and that their war is like a star exploding.”

  “Neither option sounds ideal,” Shaina says, steering the ship away from the stationary vessel. “I’m heading for the planet.”

  “Move with purpose, but do not appear to flee,” Zedas suggests.

  “I can do that.” Shaina works the controls and motions for me to be on standby.

  I check all my gauges, adjust my chair for optimal position, and make sure I’m strapped in.

  “So far, so good,” Shaina says. “It’s still scanning us but not pursuing.”

  “It’s drawn the attention of the Overlord search teams,” I say, pointing at my tactical view screen.

  “Maybe they’ll attack or try something equally stupid,” Shaina says. “If Anaximander was still around, he would probably demand the Protheans swear fealty to his banner.”

  “The Prothean scout ship is rotating, directing more of its sensors toward the Overlord ships,” I report. “Zedas, should we take this chance to accelerate?”

  “I would not, Murph. Slow and steady is better.”

  “For once, big guy, I’m going to take your advice.” Shaina recalculates her approach vector to the planet again and again, constantly seeking the best way.

  “That is a compliment indeed, pup,” Zedas replies, then grinds out a chuckle.

  Time passes slowly. No one speaks much. Eventually, Garin heads to the passenger compartment.

  “Make sure you’re strapped in,” I say.

  “Sure, Mr. Murph. I’m going to take a nap and conserve oxygen,” he says.

  Shaina cocks an eyebrow. “Smart kid.”

  “We’re going to make it, to the planet at least,” I say.

  Shaina nods and continues to work. “Landing might be a problem. Other than combat, it’s the most stressful thing you can do to the superstructure of a void ship. We’re rated for both, but most of the Heptagon’s time is spent well beyond planetary atmosphere and gravity.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  She points toward my workstation. “Remember how you use shields to deflect rocket attacks? I want you to do the same thing for reentry. You will get prompts on your screen. Keep the shields at the suggested angles. Don’t try to outthink the computer.”

  “Understood. No getting creative,” I say.

  Shaina presses the intercom button. “Everyone strap in. We’ll be landing on the planet, and entry into the atmosphere will be rough. I’m not joking, Garin—don’t give me that look. The view screen is working again, so I can see you.”

  For about one second, I consider adding my authority but decide Shaina is better at getting compliance from the boy.

  Once Garin and Zedas are secured in their safety harnesses, Shaina angles toward the frozen white surface of the planet. The closer we come, the more intimidating the place looks.

  An icon directs me to shift power to shield one, so I do. Moments later, it demands an equal amount of power to shields two and three. The ship shakes violently.

  Shaina laughs darkly. “Atmospheric entries like this make me wish I hadn’t thrown away my Overlord-issued mouthpiece years ago. Try not to bite your tongue off.”

  “Too late,” I joked.

  She guffaws.

  My work screen demands a subtle shifting of the shield angle. My first attempt moves the slider too far, but I dial it back and soon have it in place.

  Shaina, both hands on the steering yoke, follows a more intuitive process. Both of us are bouncing in our seats now. I don’t have time to check on the other passengers. The planet looks huge after so long in the void. I had become accustomed to darkness in every direction. The sight of solid ground beneath us should be more comforting than it is.

  “I’m getting a bad vibe,” I say.

  “Vibe?” Shaina asks. “Nevermind, I think I know what you mean. Because I’m feeling it too. I wouldn’t touch this planet with somebody else’s ship if I had a choice.”

  I work the shields, each needed change coming faster than the one before it. My heart beats faster. Details come too quickly to analyze, then slow down, like I just got a boost of mental processing power.

  I’m definitely not complaining. And I don’t think this is an Orphan Gate upgrade. Not this time. Good old-fashioned adrenaline has come to the rescue.

  Shaina risks a glance in my direction. “I’m not using as much oxygen from my breather as expected. You knew that would happen.”

  “I hoped.”

  “I think you adapted more perfectly than Zedas and I did,” she states. “How much is left in your canister?”

  “I gave mine to Garin hours ago. The one I’m wearing now is completely empty,” I say.

  “Then why are you wearing it? Are you trying to trick me somehow?”

  “No, it’s complicated. Can we just land the ship?”

  Shaina puts her full attention into the process. The steering yoke twists violently in her hands. I shift shields continuously. The problem is, there are more places needing protection from the heat of reentry than I have shields to protect.

  A violent impact slams me forward, forcing my head into my circular keyboard. I come up with stars in my eyes. Next to me, Shaina looks dazed.

  I shake her alert.

  “I’m up! I’m up.” She fumbles to regain control of the ship but gets both hands in place and leans her body weight into the process. “Thanks, Orphan. I think we lost something.”

  The demands of shield tailoring fade, and I divert my effort into searching for anything that broke away from the Heptagon. Sure enough, one of the engines spirals toward the surface.

  “We lost a thruster.”

  “That’s bad,” Shaina murmurs.

  “Can we fly with one engine?” I ask.

  “Fly, yes. Launch from the surface, not a chance.” She begins her own tracking of the wayward part, marking the display with icons. “That should make it easier to follow. Recovering that will be job one, right after we
build a shelter. The Heptagon might not be the best place to hunker down until we get it patched back together.”

  “Gotcha. Recover engine,” I say, adding it to my to-do list.

  “Oh. This is going to hurt.” Shaina flares the remaining engine, steers with every muscle in her body, and swears in Hadrian.

  For seconds, I’m weightless, held in place by my harness. The engine redlines to slow us down, and just like that, gravity is smashing every cell of my body flat.

  I don’t think I pass out, but the impact makes the distinction irrelevant.

  4

  Can someone make that beeping stop? I cover my eyes with one hand. I breathe through my nose and fumble for my safety restraints with my free hand—neither of those things stop the ringing in my ears or get me to my feet.

  I feel less coordinated than a newborn colt struggling to stand. Oh man, I want that fire alarm to stop.

  Eyes open, ready for the truth—I stare straight up. Something is wrong with the ceiling. It’s buckled at one end and creased along the middle. Smoke makes me cough.

  The alarm cuts out, attempts a comeback, then dies.

  Somehow the cessation of the ear splitting noise doesn’t ease my fears. My head pounds in time with the waves of nausea I hold down by force of will. None of my crew have called out. Not a good sign.

  The last thing I remember was Shaina’s warning, “It’s going to be a rough landing!”

  Yeah, it was all of that and more. The Heptagon plowed through ice, blasting a fresh crater in the landscape. Images tumble around in my head, looking for their proper place. My vaunted Orphan memory drops the ball, and I’m hurting too much to care.

  Snowflakes drift down through a crack in the cockpit hull near the hallway to the passenger compartment. Without even the slightest breeze, the air chills my exposed skin. For one second, I think my eyelids have frozen shut, but I manage to blink several times.

  The smoke gets me moving. Where there’s smoke, there’s fire, and I don’t want to be cooked alive in a broken ship on an alien ice world. The irony is too much.

  “I’m really hot and cold about this place.” Laughing at my lame joke makes everything hurt even more. “Shaina, are you all right?”