Orphan Wars

by J.N. Chaney, Scott Moon

Genres: Colonization; Space Exploration

Synopsis

What would you do if you woke up in another world?

When leading archeologist Dr. Hank Murphy discovers an alien artifact on the Moon, corporate interests are quick to get involved.

A discovery like this could change everything, but more importantly, someone stands to make a fortune.

But Murphy just wants to understand what this thing is and how it works. After months of research, he finally manages to locate the power source.

The gate is soon activated...

And Murphy is pulled through.

Moments later, he finds himself in a war-torn corner of the galaxy where strangers like him are called Orphans...and they are considered extremely dangerous.

Somehow altered by the experience, the archeologist now has enhanced strength, speed, and agility. He is more than human. He is an Orphan. And he must survive a deadly new reality unlike anything he can imagine.

Worse still, Murphy is not the only so-called Orphan in this region of the galaxy. There are many others.

And not all of them are created equal.

Experience this exciting new series from Scott Moon and USA Today Bestseller J.N. Chaney. If you're a fan of Farscape, Renegade Star, or Battlestar Galactica, you'll love this epic scifi thrill ride.

Release date: February 21, 2021

Publisher: Variant Publications

Print pages: 398

Sample

Chapter 1

 

 

I’m standing inside a lunar dig site, surrounded by ancient technology that predates all of human civilization, and all I can think of is how hard the suits on Earth have made my job.

 

“You okay, Murph?”

 

“Yeah,” I mutter, only half listening as my eyes hover over a section of a wall with markings, probably alien script. “Yeah, I’m fine, Jack.”

 

He knows it’s a lie. The people who hired and sent me here are expecting results, and the work just isn’t ready. I’m not ready.

 

“This is your dig site,” he reminds me, as though he can hear my thoughts. “Who cares what the corporate jerks want? You take as much time as you need, but more importantly, as much as you want. If you don’t show them you’re the boss now, they’ll walk all over you later . . . and so will the Lunar Mineral Corporation.”

 

He’s right, but I can’t stop worrying I’ll lose the whole damn thing. Every ounce of what I’ve worked for. The job, the site, the truth of whatever the hell it all means.

 

All of it.

 

My eyes drift up to the device at the center of the room. “I know, I know. You keep telling me that.”

 

Jack moves closer. “You have to know the rules to set the rules.”

 

“You’re a broken record today.” I shift one of the work lights, trying to make it do its job while I examine the carvings. “There is never enough light down here. People need to stop jamming these things into the sockets. Look at this mess.”

 

“Which one of your guys made this mess anyway? I expect better of you scientists.” Jack crosses his arms. He’s strict, rigid, disciplined, and he isn’t supposed to be here. The man still thinks he’s a commando and can go anywhere and do anything, despite career-ending nerve damage and a desk job at an organization he won’t talk about—Mr. NDA, I call him.

 

“We’re messier than you think. Ask Peter Parker.”

 

“Don’t you bring Spiderman into this. He’s got an excuse.” Jack turns toward the high powered LED lights, then shields his eyes. With a quick motion, he points toward the device in the center of the room. It is, like everything else we’ve uncovered here, older than recorded history, and no one knows where it came from.

 

We call it the Cradle.

 

“I wonder how much power that thing is using,” Jack says.

 

“Hard to say, since we haven’t turned it on yet.”

 

“So why not do that?”

 

I shake my head. “Because that’s not how this works. You don’t jump ahead to the ending just because you want to. You have to follow the process. Do it right.”

 

“Then what is the process here, Doctor? I see all those wires and cords coming out of it. What comes next?”

 

“Tests. Lots and lots of tests.”

 

The device stands on its end, resembling what I called its namesake. Half of us suspect it’s a life pod without a lid, and the other half believe it’s a doorway to somewhere else.

 

“What do you think it is? I mean, really, what do you think?” my friend asks.  

 

The artifact is cold and lifeless, with no way to activate it. No buttons, panels, no distinguishing marks—it’s an utter cipher, smooth and inert, and that’s just the surface. The interior is even more unknown, protected from study by a shell that wicks away 30 percent of the visual spectrum. Magic, I almost want to call it, because there’s nothing we know of that can do such a thing.

 

The giant semi-circle is either one piece or a thousand, but the number is irrelevant because we can’t even be sure of the composition. It might be metal. It might not. The labs are—inconclusive. The outward design is something out of an artist’s fantasy, with elements that almost fit what I know—Olmec, Mid-Century American and the Aboriginal Dreamtime, all swirled together in a matrix of technology that boggles the mind. It hinted at humanity and defied it, all in every sweeping curve or recessed panel. I came back to the same word, spelled in a different way: Sorcery.

 

“Gandalf built it,” I mutter, half-smiling.

 

“Doubt that,” Jack snorts, then lifts a brow. “Maybe. Hell if I know.”

 

I stare at the device, my senses fizzing with worry. Even my damaged ring finger throbs, my nerves on high alert as the object stands mute. Mocking.

 

Always mocking.

 

“It’s not magic, it’s real,” I tell him.

 

“And you’ve learned a lot, even if it’s beyond me.” Jack walks around the room touching things that are supposed to be off-limits. He straightens one of my notebooks against the edge of a work bench and organizes my brushes by size and bristle stiffness. “You deserve some recognition,” he says after a minute. “Enjoy a little spotlight. I’ll buy the drinks. You’ve earned it.”

 

“If you say so.” My boss is going to ask what I’ve learned during the last six months, which is a problem because I haven’t found enough—not yet, anyway, but especially nothing we can monetize. Funding is important, Doctor Murphy, he will tell me for the hundredth time, the need for money a constant thrum in our collective ear. If we don’t deliver something to our sponsors, we might as well pack our bags and head home now.

 

Jack leans on a temporary desk, a flash of something crossing his features. Pain, maybe—probably. He’s a shadow of the man he was—trim and energetic, but nothing like the warrior I remember from his days in the service when he was ten years younger. My aches are nothing compared to what he suffers daily. 

 

 I run my tongue over a tooth—the one twisted like an animal’s, then touch the scar on my finger. It’s thick, keloidal. Knobby with tissue and a constant reminder. The pain is a friend now, a constant passenger, and that friend will never leave me. “The LMC owns the site. I’m here at their discretion.”

 

Jack smiles, eyes flicking to my hand. He knows me well enough to spot when I’m deep in thought. “That’s it, brother, break out your thinking finger. I remember when our instructors thought you were cheating. Like you were checking notes in your palm or something. If only they knew the truth.”

 

“That I was nervous?” I ask.

 

“No,” he says. “That you were lost in your own head, always trying to solve something.”

 

Power surges in the research station, pulsing through the lights in a stuttering beat. Their color flares whiter, then settles back to a pallid tone that throws the room into weak relief. Every time this happens, my whole body tightens, as though I’m bracing for an overload. “This is supposed to be state of the art equipment, not someone’s home lab. This place is a mess.”

 

Jack laughs. “Hey, personally I love it. We’re like some homejacker, sending out a DIY show about ripping tech from old gear. I like order, but—this feels more alive. I need that to think, to really engage myself in the enormity of what we're seeing.”

 

His laughter dampens my pain, however briefly, and I realize I’m glad he’s here, if only for a short time. “What could go wrong, besides getting cooked off by alien tech? This isn’t dangerous at all,” I say, watching the lights with a gimlet eye. 

 

“That’s the Murph I know,” Jack says. “Glad to see your sense of humor is still in there. Warms my black heart. And just between you and me, if we have to go, I’m glad we’ll be together. I don’t wanna die alone. Or at all, really.”

 

“I’d like to die old.” I look around. “And sure as hell not here, but we can’t bail yet. We need more data on this thing.”

 

I can’t explain how the artifacts arrived, what they do, or even what they’re made of. The North American Lunar Research Foundation funded my grant, and they want all the answers. The LMC wants to get back to digging for minerals yesterday, if not sooner, and they can’t have some science wonk holding up their river of money. Not going to happen.

 

“Isn’t that always the case?” Jack asks. “Scientists always want more.”

 

I sigh and roll my head around but can’t find relief. I’m stiff and worried and sore. “Let me focus.”

 

What the LMC does with their property isn’t my concern. My job is to fulfill the conditions of the grant—and satisfy my own curiosity. The fact that these two things coincide is lucky happenstance. I understand that quite well, just like I understand that the second our interests don’t align, the corporate execs in fancy suits will tell me to leave.

 

And I won’t have a choice in the matter because this whole thing belongs to them.

 

“Relax, seriously.” Jack walks to the Cradle and flicks it with one finger. No sound escapes from the impact.

 

“Wish you wouldn’t do that.” I make notes at the workstation, the screen pulsing with soft light.

 

“For once, Doctor Murphy, I agree with you,” a new voice says. 

 

I turn and motion for Jack to hang back. We do well with hand signals. They’re something we learned in the Army Reserves before our career paths diverged radically—before he went into the regular military and . . . took damage. I pursued post-doctoral degrees, and he somehow landed in the CIA, though I can’t prove it. Officially, he’s an international oil security consultant who goes wherever he wants and reports to God only knows who. It’s a good job for a warrior who can’t fight anymore, and the aura of mystery huddles under his cheerful exterior. I know he likes that. It’s a shadow that never leaves him. Like his wounds.

 

I adopt one of my best expressions—competent alertness—and wave airily at the device. “Nothing to worry about, Mr. Davis. I’ve directed numerous kinetic insults to the surface of the Cradle of far greater power than my friend can generate with one finger.” I dim the lights until I can see the man.

 

Jack flips off Brendon Davis, the CEO of the LMC field operations division. He’s an average man in every way, except for his gaze. Dark eyes glitter with intellect, and when he looks at me, I feel the weight of his curious apprehension. He’s thinking, and not just about Jack’s affront to the alien item.

 

“This thing looks more dangerous than it is, unless you get hit in the head with it,” Jack says.

 

Davis ignores him. “I’ve been patient, Doctor Murphy. My company has provided tools your grant funding couldn’t afford, and I’ve put considerable manpower at your disposal. I need an answer. Not answers, but one answer. When will you have information for me?”

 

“I can’t speak to that yet, sir.” My annoyance is close to the surface, but I control it with a force of will. Opportunity has a way of doing that—giving us dominion over emotions that would otherwise run wild. I hold my tongue because the company won’t hesitate to make my removal hurt my long-term career, either financially or legally. Maybe both. The last thing I need is to wind up in prison for bogus charges, all because I didn’t move fast enough or give some asshole with a suit the right answer.

 

“Can’t, or won’t?” Davis asks, moving closer. He’s shorter than me, but he fills the space with his intensity.

 

I push my glasses higher on my nose so they can slide back down again seconds later. It’s a battle I’ve waged since my teen years, only now it’s a way to buy time when I need to think, to form an answer, or in the case of dealing with Davis, to take a stand. To Jack, taking a stand means violence. For me, it’s a bit more cerebral. “I’m a scientist, Mr. Davis. I want answers more than you do.”

 

“I want to not go bankrupt.” His response is almost too low for me to hear, and also out of character. He never admits weakness, financial or otherwise. “Where is your security team? That’s part and parcel of the grant conditions and LMC policy.”

 

I point a knife hand at Jack. “Security.”

 

“That is hardly what I meant,” Davis says.

 

Jack moves to block the man’s ire, but I wave him off gently. No need to escalate.

 

The last thing I want is this kind of trouble. Not that there’s ever a good kind with Jack. For him, trouble is opportunity, not chaos.

 

My friend ignores me. “I could paste your entire security team, and you know it.” The threat doesn’t match his slender frame, which is an echo of what he once was. But his anger is swift and hot, and Davis takes a moment to let it dissipate. He wants answers too much to waste everything on the boast of a broken man. The silence grows longer.

 

Jack breaks it. “Why don’t you let Dr. Murphy do his work and then maybe he can learn something about this alien tech. Did you forget that part? This is an alien artifact. Kind of a big deal.” Jack moves far too close to the LMC CEO and speaks each word more slowly. “I’ll give you a pass, but no more threats. Not to him.”

 

“You shouldn’t be here, Barris.” Davis doesn’t back off a bit.

 

Jack doesn’t argue.

 

“I’m sending a complaint to your employer,” Davis says, tone crackling with authority. He’s used to getting his way. “You’ll be off the moon. Permanently.”

 

Jack, my oldest and best friend, holds up his comm, showing Davis something on the screen. Neither of them says a word, but Davis pierces me with a glare, turns on his heel, and leaves. Ten steps away, his voice drifts back to me. “Answers. Soon.”

 

His footsteps fade, and we’re alone with the alien artifact.

 

“He won’t be back,” Jack says. He sounds certain, to the point of smug.

 

“What did you do?” I’m not sure I want to know, but the question has a life of its own. Like Davis, I need the answer.

 

“He wanted to see my actual credentials. Doubt he’ll be a distraction anymore.”

 

I shake my head. “He’s going to send a security team. Frankly, I’m not sure why they aren’t here now.”

 

Jack gives me a look of alarm. “Really? I better take a walk to make sure everything is prepped.”

 

“Go ahead.” As much as I like Jack, I need to concentrate, and his questions take up time and effort. The answers are close. I can feel them. And once I’ve got them, my job will be secure.

 

As he walks away, I hear him calling for security officers on the comm. Then his voice fades, and I’m alone again, the air around me still and flat.

 

“Numbers first.” I open one of three lasers designed for fine measurement. The cases read NASA, and they’re heavy, even at one-sixth gravity. “Just keep sending me the cool toys,” I mutter, because the things I have are cutting edge—heaven for an engineering nerd. With the room to myself and absolute silence—

 

“Murph, I need you to call in one of your security teams right now.” Jack’s words come through the radio fast and sharp. “My people aren’t where they should be.”

 

I look at my radio, then grudgingly march over to the workbench to pick it up. “What’s wrong?” 

 

He doesn’t answer.

 

I call a team and issue short, clear orders: “Find Mr. Barris, look for trouble, and no, I don’t know his location.” They’ll have to send a ping unless— “Where are you, Jack?” I ask, trying for him again.

 

And this time he answers. “I’m at the supply lift to your level,” he says in a rush like he’s been running or something. Static covers most of his words. “. . . secondary site . . .  need . . .”

 

“Jack?” Nothing. “Jack? Lost you. Report.”

 

No answer. I yell into the comm, making sure security knows I’m serious.

 

The only answer is gunfire.

 

The shots echo from the hallway, louder than they should be if the security door is shut. Davis, if I know the man, left it open because he’s a lazy asshole making some kind of passive aggressive statement about who’s in charge.

 

If there are guns firing, then it isn’t Davis. He’d never risk the safety of his prize.

 

Jack left it open, I know, because he hadn’t planned on being gone long and I’d complained about opening it for him last time. Simple mistakes like that get people killed.

 

I haven’t thought like that for years.

 

My research team emerges from two side doors, eyes wide with fear.

 

There are six of them, every face tense, bodies held in rigid angles. They’re scared. It radiates off them like a scent.

 

“What’s happening?” Dr. Cynthia Allen has had, up until now, a perfect speaking voice, calm and measured. Now she sounds rough, as if she’s going to lose it. The guns hammer again, a staccato that rattles off the walls, ending at our location.

 

This time, I see the reflection of muzzle flashes from around the corner.

 

“No time. Get to the lift and get out of here. Do it now, Cynthia. Everyone, out!” They’ll be cold without hard suits, but they’ll be alive. It’s the right call, so I shove Cynthia toward the passage and wave at everyone else. They startle into motion like birds. I can feel the adrenaline pop, and my fingers curl. Stay or run. Flight or fight.

 

I choose to fight.

 

“We can’t take the lift,” Cynthia says, stumbling. “That’s for equipment. We’ll freeze, and it isn’t pressurized.”

 

“You can and you will. No arguments, Doctor. It’s that or—” I look past her, where another rifle cracks. “Just go.”

 

Her glare fades as another round whines through the air above us. The staff comes alive and flees, a mass of chattering humanity spurred to action. I brace the security door, shoulder flush against the thick mass of composite.

 

“Get it together, Murph,” I tell myself and start to push.

 

Brendon Davis and four armed men enter the room, backing me up a step. 

 

“What?” I ask, stunned.

 

“I’ll take that.” Davis plucks the comm from my hand.

 

“What the hell are you—”

 

Davis snorts, not even letting me finish. “Petty. You science types don’t understand a simple timeline. Or money, for that matter. You think everything arrives when you call for it, but money—and stockholders—won’t wait. I won’t wait.”

 

“What are you talking about?” I ask, fighting not to look for Jack.

 

“This was supposed to be a two week delay, Doctor Murphy. It’s been three months. Millions of dollars lost a day. Contracts near default. LMC the laughingstock of the industry.” Davis paces back and forth, hands jabbing at the air as his men point their guns at me. Not one of them makes a sound. “I have responsibilities. People count on me.”

 

“Then let me work,” I counter, but he waves me off.

 

Jack once told me there were desperate, stupid people in the world, and that they were as dangerous as rabid dogs. Handle with crazy, he always joked, but I know what he meant. The project hangs in the balance, even if Jack isn’t hurt. Or worse.

 

Davis shakes his head, not slowing. “It’s far too late for that.” His voice changes to informative and mournful. Like he’s addressing a board meeting. “Unfortunate things happen. Doctor Murphy turned out to be an overeager scientist cutting corners to advance his career. Tragic. No one survived the explosion and the resulting collapse.” He pauses and turns to me, his eyes lighting up. “Why, I half believe it myself.”

 

“You’re not—you can’t do this. You don’t have to do this,” I say, but my voice sounds weak, even to me.

 

You can handle this, Murph. One thing at a time. Fighting is a formula. If you need to fight, make sure they never want to fight you again. Pep talk complete, I draw in a deep breath, eyes darting around the room. The odds suck. Davis looks impassive, almost bored. He doesn’t see me as a threat. Probably never has.

 

Davis fans a hand at me. “Enough.”

 

His team flinches, then tightens their circle around me.

 

“Doctor Hank Murphy activated the artifact,” Davis says in a monotone. “Something I begged him not to do. I told him to be patient. I warned him that applying power to a device we knew little about was a reckless, unnecessary risk. Didn’t I? More than once.” He shakes his head again, regret in every motion. “Senseless.”

 

“You did, sir.” The lead gunman shifts nervously, obviously repeating from a script, a recording light now blinking on his body camera. “We all heard you say it over and over, practically begged him to be sensible.”

 

Davis warms to the charade, any hint of nerves fading. “It was a selfish act done by a man too full of his own pride to respect safety protocols. Sad, but not unexpected.”

 

“Understood, Mr. Davis. That’s exactly how it happened,” the lead gunman agrees, face wan under the artificial lights. “You can’t trust these science types.”

 

“That’s bullshit. We haven’t even thought about activating the power source. One mistake could ruin the only alien artifact we’ve ever discovered. It’s the most important item in human history. It’s unique.”

 

“Unique? Doubtful.” Davis waves his hand, eyes sliding from me in dismissal. “It’s showtime, gentlemen.” The body cameras blink off. Two of the men drag power cables from the banks of lights and clamp them to the base of the Cradle. They drop a coil of wires, bite off curses, and rush to complete the task in quick, economical motions.

 

I laugh at their efforts, but I’m worried. “There won’t be enough power. Our hypothesis is that it needs—”

 

“We’ve been testing the generators all day, or you have been, rather.” Davis gives another signal. “All it takes is a surge, which will be recorded and duly investigated by the LMC Superintendent of Site Safety. He’s a stupid shit, but what do you do when your brother-in-law needs a job?” Davis spreads his hands, a helpless shrug at his familial demands.

 

The lead gunman moves toward me, gun at the low-ready position. He appears hard but also worried, as if gunning down techs and security guards is more than he signed on for. Reality hijacks his expectations, and I see a man who knows there is no honor in murder.

 

But there is money.

 

He’s dangerous, but nothing like Jack, not even the depleted version of my friend, whose lifeblood has been forged through combat and pain.

 

“Grab him,” the hired gun says, barking the scripted words louder than necessary. His nerves are beginning to tell. That’s good.

 

Two more mercs—that’s all they can be—rush in and slam me against the artifact. My breath leaves in a whoosh, and I’m zip-tied to the Cradle, arms spread in supplication. I’m helpless, and I’m pissed.

 

My comm lies nearby, still active. “Jack!” I shout, but only once.

 

A merc steps forward and places his weapon against my face. The barrel is almost painful, it’s so cold. “No one can hear us down here,” he says, his voice is a growl, devoid of emotion. He’s a pro, and he’s not nervous.

 

“Shut him up,” Davis orders, voice cracking.

 

“He’ll be quiet.” The merc leans in with the barrel. It divots my cheek, but at least it’s warming from contact with my skin.

 

“Murder isn’t—” I say, but Davis rolls his eyes, tired of my voice.

 

“Hit it,” he says, and one of the mercs flips the connection on a wall panel. Davis doesn’t even look back, and the world goes white.

 

I scream. But no one can hear, and then I’m falling.

 

Fast.

 

 

 

Chapter 2

 

 

Falling isn’t so bad if you’re sure you won’t hit the ground.

 

In high school, my grandfather’s little Cessna 162 Skywatcher was always trying to fall out of the air. I know that aerodynamics kept it aloft, but it also might have been prayer.

 

I understood the theory, but flying always felt like a long, relatively controlled fall. Small planes were all I had after a prank got me bumped from the US Army Reserve WOFT (Warrant Officer Flight Training). One flight over a nude beach—which was decidedly unfunny to the commanders—and I was off to Mechanized Infantry for the rest of my enlistment obligation. One weekend a month, and two weeks a year.

 

All for a glance at three nude women with severe sunburn. Not my best move.

 

I’m falling again. And this time, there’s no Cessna cradling me. Lights tumble around my face as I descend in a broken vision of colors and sounds, flashing past at a speed that makes my stomach flip with indignation. I close my eyes, but no—the lights are there. They’re inside me, through me, around and relentless and leaping, stars of fire and flashing destiny that spin ever closer.

 

I’m being torn apart.

 

And then I begin to slow. I am in—a tube? Tunnel? A place that I know, but it’s thick with fluid, which is filling my mouth and nose. I’m drowning, fighting the need to breathe, so primal. Then I give in, ribs shuddering up and out. Is this what dying feels like?

 

This has to stop. I’m coming apart.

 

Time lurches forward. I’m going under, dying, leaving everything I’ve ever known behind.

 

Death comes close now, a red shadow kicking hard from the depths to reach for me as I splash in desperation and horror. The end is nowhere near. I push against death—might be real, might not—and kick hard toward the light.

 

Then, darkness. Thick, perfect blackness. Grim. Lights out, Murphy.

 

If I’m not dead, then I am close. No sensory input remains—not a sound, image, smell, taste, or tactile experience—until the pain hits me. At that delightful moment, every part of my body burns like hell is real and I’ve arrived through the big front gate, hot coals and torment made just for me.

 

“Stop!” I howl, voice raw. It doesn’t sound like me. It’s primal. A shriek of pain, perfectly undone, and as I draw breath for another shout, I sense someone nearby. A shadow. I’m not alone.

 

Something stands over me—looming, dark, tall, possibly human, but it’s hard to tell. I crack my eyes and ignore the fuzz in my brain, like a bad hangover after a night of power drinking. I’m coming back to some kind of senses.

 

Pain slips away like a falling tide. The relief is intoxicating, and for one moment I feel invincible.

 

But I’m not. My body is punished to the edge and beyond, bones brittle like ashes.

 

“Stop?” the giant asks, but the way he asks tells me he doesn’t understand the word.

 

I try to make out who it is I’m talking to, but all I can do is squint and lick my dry lips. “You have no idea what I’m saying, do you?”

 

No response. I’m certainly not dead, and the pain is—if not gone, then almost. A memory, like a nightmare fleeing at dawn.

 

“Right.” I reach out for assistance, hoping this isn’t one of Davis’s people. “Help me up.”

 

The man-shaped silhouette slaps my hand away, saying nothing.

 

“A simple no would have been fine,” I say, struggling to my feet and hoping he doesn’t give my face the same treatment as my hand. I’m as wobbly as a newborn foal.

 

I’m never going through that again, I think. Rather die.

 

The person retreats a step, fists clenched at his sides. I can discern his eyes, open and staring, and an expression of dis