Samurai Guns (Orphan Wars Book 3) by J.N. Chaney & Scott Moon

Author:J.N. Chaney & Scott Moon [Chaney, J.N.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Variant Publications
Published: 2021-07-24T16:00:00+00:00

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 around 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.

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