The Heirs of Earth

CHAPTER TWELVE

Another human.

Rowan trembled. She could barely breathe.

There was another human in Paradise Lost.

She huddled in the darkness. The duct rattled as she shook. She had not met another human since she was two years old. Sometimes she wondered whether any others even lived at all.

But he was here.

She had seen him.

It was real.

"You sure you didn't just see a hologram?" Fillister asked. The robotic dragonfly buzzed beside her, wings fluttering.

"I'm sure!" Rowan nodded. "I mean, yes. I saw a hologram of a human too. A woman. After all, I was peeping into the virtual reality brothel. But I also saw a real human, and—"

"Blimey, you were peeping into the VR brothel?" Fillister frowned—as much as a robot could frown, at least.

Rowan groaned and rolled her eyes. "Oh, shush. I wasn't peeping to look at . . . that." Her cheeks flushed. "You know patrons drop scryls there all the time. How do you think I buy your gear oil?"

Fillister shuddered. "Bloody hell." The dragonfly buzzed around her, grazing the walls of the duct. "Row, another human? Really? The bloody scorpions killed them all. We were both there. We saw it. Only we escaped."

Rowan grabbed him, nearly crushing the tiny robot. "Don't you say that!" She glared at Fillister. "Don't you ever say that. My sister lived. And other humans have been surviving too. The Heirs of Earth are out there, and—"

"The Heirs of Earth are a myth," said Fillister. "A group of human warriors knocking about space? With guns? With starships?" He laughed. "Look, squire, I love me some humans. A human built me. And you're human, and you're me best mate. You're family, you are. You know I'm in your corner. But Earth was destroyed so long ago. The Earthstone is all that's left. And if any other humans did survive, they must be in hiding. Not visiting bloody space stations."

Rowan bristled. "I'm in a space station!"

"That's only because that smuggler caught us and sold us to a pet shop. And we've been hiding in the ducts since. We're not knocking about the bars and brothels here. Well, at least not when they're open." He shuddered again. "I cannot believe you bought me oil with scryls collected off a brothel floor. That's bloody disgusting, it is."

"It's either that, or I grease your gears with snail slime."

"Brothel scryls will do."

Rowan took a few moments to collect herself. She breathed deeply until her trembling eased. Every instinct screamed to flee. She wanted to crawl toward the top of the space station, to curl up by the porthole that gazed upon the stars. Or she wanted to crawl to the bottom of Paradise Lost, where the ducts met great rumbling engines, and gears churned, their teeth larger than her. She wanted to move as far as possible from this new human.

"For years, I wanted to meet somebody else," Rowan said. "For years, I watched movies about humans, read books about humans, listened to human singers. I even wrote my own movie scripts about humans—well, humans and dinosaurs. But now a real human is here, and I'm terrified."

Fillister nodded. "Humans in movies and books can't see you. Can't talk to you. Can't disappoint you. For years, you thought humans are brilliant. You're worried this one won't be."

Rowan bit her lip, then remembered her crooked teeth and covered her mouth.

No. She would not run. She would perhaps never see a human again.

Maybe he can take me away, she thought. Maybe he has a starship. Maybe he'll take me to another world. Maybe I can finally feel grass beneath my feet, sunlight on my skin. Just like the movies. I can even film my own movies, become a director like my heroes.

Yes, for years Rowan had dreamed of leaving Paradise Lost, of meeting other humans, of making movies. But for fourteen years now, she had remained inside these steel ducts. The thought of flying away, of seeing real grass and mountains—not just on a tiny screen but huge before her—spun her head.

She ignored her fear.

She crawled through the ducts.

She returned to the brothel and peeked through the vent, hoping to see the human again. She cringed. The human was gone. A scaled, aquatic alien had rolled his aquarium into the brothel. He was busy fertilizing holographic eggs.

Rowan crawled above another brothel room, only to see an alien insect—it was larger than her—fluttering between two holographic flowers, groaning as he pollinated them.

She approached another brothel room, peeked inside, then shuddered. She scampered away before she could see too much. The giant snail from the toilet was there. Seeing his Seductive Slugs magazine in the washroom stall had been bad enough.

Fillister buzzed above her, following her along the duct. "Really, scryls from this floor! Disgusting."

"Well, the human isn't in the brothel anymore," Rowan said. "Let's keep looking."

Where could he have gone? Paradise Lost was a hive of sin. Hundreds of establishments, each selling some forbidden pleasure, crowded the space station. Was the human tossing scryls at android strippers, licking mushrooms in rooms of sparkling mirrors, buying antimatter grenades from the smugglers behind the pipes? Was he drooling or drugging? Was he gambling, groping, grogging? So many dens of forbidden pleasure, a thousand layers of hell in a world called Paradise Lost.

Rowan crawled over them all, peering through vents. Over a den called Uncle Acid, she saw a group of reptilians dropping furry aliens into vats, laughing as the creatures dissolved, then grogging them down. In the Silver Mines, little bearded humanoids lined up, wearing helmets and elbow pads; larger aliens paid to toss them at Velcro targets. In an adult movie theater, a group of sentient mushrooms clung to boulders, watching time-lapsed videos of expanding spores. In Electric Dreams, androids were giving lap dances. One of the gynoids broke mid-dance and showered sparks onto a furry patron. The alien caught flame and shrieked, and his companions roared with laughter.

Den after den, sin after sin—and no human.

"Maybe I did imagine him, Fill," Rowan said. "Or maybe he was a hologram." She paused from crawling, lay on her side, and blew out her breath, fluttering back a lock of hair. "But he seemed so real."

Fillister landed on her chest. He nuzzled her. "Maybe you imagined him. And that's okay. You're lonely. You're sixteen now. You crave human companionship."

"I have you," she said.

"Me? I'm just a robot, I am. You need mates of your own species. It ain't right for a girl your age to live in HVAC ducts, exposed to the sins of the galaxy. I've watched the old movies. You deserve to live like humans used to. To go to school. To have friends and family."

"I have family," she said. "I have Jade. She's still alive somewhere. I know it."

Fillister fluttered up and gently bopped her nose—his way of kissing her.

"Let's go back to the living room," the dragonfly said. "We'll watch Big Trouble in Little China again. That always cheers us up."

Rowan nodded. She did not smile. It felt like Paradise Lost, the entire space station, weighed down on her. Yes, that movie had always cheered her up. But now she found herself clenching her fists. Now tears burned in her eyes. Now she howled and pounded the duct wall.

"Row!" Fillister said.

Hot tears flowed to her lips. "I hate this. I mucking hate this, Fillister! I hate living like this. Like some damn rat. I want to feel grass beneath my feet. I want to feel sunlight warming my hair. I want somebody to hug me. I want to get off this damn space station, but I can't. Not if I steal scryls for a thousand years will I have enough money to buy transportation. And even if I did, where would I go? Humans are hunted everywhere. I'm going to grow old here. I'm going to be an old woman, still crawling through the ducts, until someday I die and rot here, and they'll find my bones in some furnace."

Fillister lowered his tiny head; it was no larger than a thimble. "I wish I could hug you." Mechanical chirps rose from him, his algorithms deep in thought. "I often feel like I failed you. Your father told me to protect you."

Rowan wiped her tears away. "You did protect, Fill. You kept me safe. Throughout all these years. And you kept me sane. Maybe you can't hug me. But I like hugging you." She cradled the dragonfly in her arms. "Come on. Let's go home."

She had taken a circuitous route here, passing through ducts she rarely crawled through. The HVAC network was not a simple grid. Paradise Lost had grown over centuries, new additions patched on with no central planning. The ducts twisted in a coiling labyrinth. But Rowan knew every bend. She took the shortest route home—insofar as her little area with blankets and monitor was a home.

The way took her through the administrative area of Paradise Lost. Rowan did not come here often. Below these ducts lived those who operated the space station: mechanics, janitors, clerks, accountants, a lawyer, a few security guards (who were thankfully too fat to squeeze into the ducts), and a host of dreary aliens in uniforms and suits. Their offices hummed with fans and computers. Most of these workers spent their time playing computer games and napping under their desks.

Rowan was almost past the admin sector when she heard the voice booming below.

"Another human! Another damn human!" Creaks and clatters echoed. "Do you hear me? You failed to kill the first one, and now they're breeding in the damn walls."

Rowan froze. Frowning, she inched back and peered through a vent.

She saw an office below, larger than most. An intricate model starship stood on a table, half-assembled. A tube of glue lay open beside a hundred plastic pieces still awaiting assembly. Instead of a chair, a bathtub full of mud stood beside the table. Inside sat a marshcrab, shouting into a communicator.

Rowan was surprised a giant crab could assemble model starships. Their legs ended with claws, not very useful for manipulating tools. The marshcrab had probably used the barbels around his mouth. Delicate and nimble, they often acted like fingers. Then again, this marshcrab didn't seem particularly good at modeling. Several completed model ships stood on shelves, shoddily assembled, the pieces crooked and caked with clumps of dry glue and mud.

Rowan recognized the marshcrab in the tub. Here was Belowgen, Chief Administrator of Paradise Lost. He didn't own the space station. A conglomerate from deep space owned Paradise Lost. Belowgen merely lorded over the space station in return for a humble, steady paycheck. He spent his time berating his underlings, grumbling about humans in the vents, and toadying to his bosses whenever they visited.

"I'm telling you!" Belowgen rumbled into his communicator. He splashed around in his tub, spraying mud onto his models. "I am overrun with humans. You assured me you caught them all."

A voice was arguing through the comm. Grumbling, Belowgen reached into the mud, fished out a small creature that looked like a mermaid, and bit off her upper half. He tossed the tail aside.

"No, you listen to me!" Belowgen said. "I'm not interested in your excuses. Can you remove my humans or not?"

Marshcrabs were the most common alien in Paradise Lost. After all, their homeworld—a swampy planet called Akraba—was right next door. The creatures reminded Rowan of crabs from Earth, but much larger and somewhat smarter. Their shells were red and lumpy, their legs thin and long like stilts. One time Rowan had descended into a dogfighting pit to tend to a wounded mutt. A marshcrab security guard had chased her, and she never forgot how coarse their shell was, like steel wool against her skin.

Belowgen was still clutching his comm, continuing his tirade.

"I hired you three times to remove the pest from my ducts, and three times you assured me she's gone. What the muck am I paying you for? Do you realize visitors to Paradise Lost have fallen by fifty percent because of my infestation?"

Rowan doubted visitors were falling due to her presence. More likely, the nearby Hierarchy held more blame. Rumors spoke of impending war. Who wanted to be so close to the scorpions? And yet, the marshcrab kept blaming Rowan. It was easier, she supposed, to blame a single human than an empire of bloodthirsty scorpions.

Rowan remembered a string of exterminators. Some were small gremlins who clanked and clattered through the ducts. One had been a slithering serpent. One exterminator had been a living plant, sending vines into the ductwork. Rowan had escaped them all. These ducts were her domain. She knew how to lose pursuit, how to open and close air flaps, even how to detach some ducts and reattach them, forming new paths. They never caught her. They never would. Unless Belowgen evacuated the whole damn space station and sprayed it with pesticide—and his losses would be astronomical—Rowan would continue to live here.

They can't catch me, she thought. Ain't no one gonna catch me. I'm fast and small and smart. This is my labyrinth, and I'm the goddamn minotaur.

Through the comm emerged the muffled voice of the exterminator.

"She's breeding in the walls," said the marshcrab. "Do you hear me? That's right! Another human popped up. Spent an hour in the brothel. He's grogging in Drunken Truckers right now. Do you have any idea, you idiot, what it does to an establishment's reputation to have humans? Are you going to come over here and remove them, you imbecile, or—" The marshcrab fell silent, then howled. "You quit? You quit? You can't quit, because I fire you!"

Belowgen hurled his communicator across the room. It hit a model ship on a shelf, cracking it. In a fit of fury, Belowgen rose from his mud pit, lifted what remained of the model, and tossed it at the wall. He bellowed, spraying saliva. He lashed his long, red legs, knocking more models off shelves.

Rowan watched through the vent with morbid fascination.

She knew that she should sneak away. She knew it was folly to tempt the beast.

But damn it, let the crab hunt her. For the first time in Rowan's life, there was another human in Paradise Lost. It was real. He was really here, grogging at the Drunken Truckers bar, and Rowan would not allow Belowgen to hurt him. To hurt the first human Rowan had seen in years.

"You'll never catch me, you walking seafood platter!" she cried through the vent. "Also, your model ships suck, and your lumpy red shell looks like a chimpanzee's ass!"

Belowgen raised his head toward the vent and gasped. He reached into his mud pit and fished out a dripping pistol. Rowan fled as gunshots peppered the ducts.

Belowgen's claws tore the vent open. His eyestalks popped into the duct, and his barbels followed, flailing like a sea anemone.

"Your days are numbered, pest!" the alien rumbled. "I won't let you keep breeding in the air vents. I'll call the damn scorpions if I must. They'll take care of you and your kind!"

Rowan blew him a raspberry, then scurried around a corner. Gunshots boomed. Bullets hit the duct, punching holes through the steel. She kept crawling until the marshcrab's roaring faded to an echo.