The Heirs of Earth (Children of Earthrise Book 1)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

As Rowan crawled through the ducts, leaving Belowgen's office behind, a tremble seized her. Her breath shook.

"Do you think Belowgen was serious, Fill?" she said. "About calling the scorpions?" She shuddered. "Exterminators are one thing. We know how to escape those. But scorpions . . ."

The dragonfly was flying beside her. "Not bloody likely, squire. Got to be an idle threat. Paradise Lost is near the border, but this is still Concord space, innit? Skra-Shen are Hierarchy beasties. They ain't welcome here. Don't you worry."

Rowan winced.

The sudden memory pounded through her.

A scorpion reared before her, a monster the size of a god. Its shell was the color of blood. Its pincers sliced the arms off her mother. Its claws stole her sister, and it laughed. Rowan still remembered that laughter, that cackle. Still remembered her sister screaming. Her mother bleeding.

"What happened to Mommy?" Rowan had asked, not understanding, so scared.

She froze in the ducts. She forced a deep breath, forced her mind to return to the present. That was her earliest memory. Her only memory from outside Paradise Lost. It was the day the scorpions had killed her parents and stolen her sister. A day she would never forget.

"I want to believe you, Fill," she whispered. "That it's just an idle threat. But I'm scared. Hierarchy space is right nearby. What if Belowgen calls the scorpions, has them hunt me, and they tear down these ducts, and—"

"He won't, and they won't," Fillister said. "Belowgen is a businessman. Well, businesscrab, at least. He knows that a horde of angry scorpions in Paradise Lost is bad for business. Aliens hate humans, it's true. But they don't want the Hierarchy knocking about here either. He might call in another exterminator, one of the usual sorry lot, and we'll flee that one too. Scorpions?" The dragonfly huffed. "He's full of shite."

Rowan couldn't help but laugh. "I love it when my robot dragonfly swears." She sighed. "Come on, Fill. Let's go to Drunken Truckers and find this human. If he has a starship, and if he lets us hitchhike, I want outta here." She looked around her at the ducts, and she inhaled deeply. "You kept me safe in here for fourteen years. But it's no longer safe. We have to leave. Farther from the Hierarchy. Farther from crabs, casinos, and all this crap. We'll find a planet with grass. With sunlight." Her eyes dampened. "We'll film Dinosaur Island or maybe another movie we write. We'll never be afraid or hurt or hungry. We'll be happy, Fill. All right? We'll be happy."

"I don't have sensors to feel sunlight," Fillister said, "or grass beneath me metal feet. But I care deeply for your happiness, Row. Seeing you smile—a true joyous smile—will warm me microchip."

She laughed. "That sounded almost dirty." Hurriedly, she covered her mouth. "Besides, my smile is ugly and filled with crooked teeth."

"Crooked teeth are easier to repair than broken hearts."

She snorted. "Not on Paradise Lost. The one dentist here only treats tusks. And my teeth are that bad."

But maybe soon she could leave Paradise Lost. Yes. Maybe this human had a spaceship of his own. Or maybe he had enough money to buy them both tickets on a commercial ship. They could fly away together. To a planet with soft grass, with warm sunlight, and with affordable dental care.

She gently folded up Fillister and placed him in her pocket. Pubs were dangerous for the little robot; many drunkards carried flyswatters. But Fillister would be right with her should she need him.

Rowan crawled onward, heading in the opposite direction. Finally she was crawling above Drunken Truckers—the dingiest, sleaziest, and cheapest bar in Paradise Lost.

The showy pimps, champion gladiators, and drug barons grogged in the glittering clubs near the space station's crest. Pickpockets, failed boxers, and small time smugglers drank in smaller pubs halfway down the station, their windows affording a view of the neon glow. If you couldn't afford those places, you went deeper. You went to Drunken Truckers.

Ostensibly, the Drunken Truckers pub was for cargo pilots. But even that gruff lot had begun to avoid the place, spending their money instead at the competition, a nearby joint called Truckin' and Muckin' Bar and Brothel.

These days, only the lowest of the lowlifes came to Drunken Truckers. Beggars who had collected enough scryls for moonshine. Down-on-their-luck slobs, their fortunes devoured by the glittering jaws of slot machines. Smalltime thugs too weak to intimidate anyone but one another. They congregated here. If Paradise Lost had a hell, here was its lowest circle. There were cockroaches in the sink, mice on the floor, and a human at the bar.

Peeking through a vent in the wall, Rowan caught her breath.

There he was.

A living, breathing, grogging human.

He was a young man, probably in his mid-twenties. He had dark blond hair. Like hers, it was messy and just long enough to fall across the ears. But unlike her, stubble covered his face, almost thick enough to be called a beard. He wore shabby clothes. A gray sweater with a hood. Baggy blue cargo pants. Frayed shoes. Still, these were a lot nicer than the dusty dress Rowan wore, her own handiwork, sewn from a pilfered blanket.

The human hunched over his mug. His head was lowered, his eyes somber. He seemed so sad that Rowan wanted to weep. She crawled along the duct to a closer vent, one near the floor, right by his feet. She peeked up at him.

He's so sad, she thought. What happened to him?

Suddenly he turned his head.

He looked right at her.

Rowan's heart nearly stopped. She pulled back and began fleeing.

"Wait!" the man said. He leaped off his barstool, spilling his grog.

But Rowan kept scuttling through the duct. All her courage had fled.

"Yo, girl!" His voice filled the duct. "What's your name?"

She kept crawling. She reached a bend in the ducts. She crawled around the corner, then paused, panting. Her heart pounded against her thin ribs. She took several long, deep breaths.

Courage, Rowan, she told herself. Courage for Earth.

She winced and peeked around the corner, back toward the bar. The man had removed the vent's grid. He stared into the duct.

"What's your name?" he repeated.

"Rowan!" she called out, amazed and proud that her voice did not shake.

He stared at her for a moment long, then spoke. "I'm Bay. Can I buy you a drink?"

"I'm too young to drink grog, and you're too poor to buy me a milkshake."

They stared at each other for a moment longer. Rowan was frozen, torn between fleeing and staying.

Then they both burst out laughing.

The ice was broken.

"All right," Bay said, speaking through the vent, "since you're shy, can I join you in there?"

He placed his head into the duct, then an arm. He winced, struggling to squeeze in.

"You're too big!" Rowan said.

"First time anyone's told me that," Bay said. "I'm only five-foot-eight and skinny. But you're tiny." He managed to squeeze in another arm, then both shoulders. "I'm all right! I'll be right there."

He wriggled forward through the duct, inch by inch.

"You look like a baby seal, sliding on his belly toward the water," Rowan said.

"What the hell is a baby seal?" he asked.

Rowan raised an eyebrow. "You don't know what a baby seal is? An animal from Earth."

"Sorry," Bay said. "Haven't been there in a few thousand years."

Rowan placed her hand on her chest. She felt the amulet under her dress, hanging from its chain. The Earthstone. She knew a lot about Earth. She had grown up watching movies and reading books from Earth; thousands were stored on the Earthstone. Did Bay not have an Earthstone of his own? Or had he just been watching the wrong movies?

"It's a small, cute animal," she said. "Vulnerable."

He managed to crawl another meter through the duct, then paused, stuck. "Geez, you sure know how to make a guy feel tough."

Rowan huddled in the bend. She noticed that one of Bay's hands was curled up, stiff, a little smaller than the other. She wondered if he had wounded it, if it prevented him from crawling well.

"Back up," she said. "I'll join you at the bar. Drunken Truckers is probably the only damn place in Paradise Lost that'll tolerate roaches, mice, and humans."

Bay managed to back out from the duct—with some help from Rowan pushing. Soon both were seated at the bar. Several aliens gave them hairy eyeballs. A liquid alien swirled angrily, then wheeled his aquarium away. A toothed plant snorted, stretched out roots, and hobbled off in his clay pot. A transparent alien at the back, a ghostly creature who kept failing at drinking grog, floated away, leaving a puddle of ale. Bay bought them two more drinks—grog for himself, pink fizzypop for her.

They sat in silence for a moment, regarding each other.

Another human.

Rowan almost wept.

Before she could stop herself, she reached out and touched him.

"You're real," she said. "You're really real." She bit her lip. "I sound like an idiot." She quickly covered her mouth, realizing she had revealed her teeth. "I didn't know any others were left."

"There are a few of us," Bay said. "Survivors. They live in hiding. Many are gone." He stared into his grog, and demons seemed to dance around him. He looked up at Rowan, and his eyes were solemn. "And there are the Heirs of Earth. I used to be one of them."

Rowan leaped from her chair, knocking over her fizzypop. Mice scurried forward to drink the spilled pink soda.

"Terrorists!" she whispered.

Bay scoffed. "That's what aliens call us. No, they're not terrorists. They're the good guys."

She tilted her head, frowning. "So why did you leave them? Are you not a good guy?"

"I . . ." Bay winced. "It's complicated. The guy who leads them . . ." He shifted in his seat and gulped down grog. "It doesn't matter right now." He narrowed his eyes, examining her. "How long have you been hiding here? Where are your parents?"

What? No! Rowan had so many questions for him! Where were the Heirs of Earth? Did they really have guns, warriors, spaceships? How many other humans were there? Could she join the Heirs of Earth? Did Bay have his own spaceship? Could he take her to a planet with grass and sunlight? She didn't even know where to begin asking so much. And he was lobbing questions at her!

"Bay," she said. "I have many questions, and I'm sure you do too, but we have no time. The marshcrab who runs this place is a nasty fellow, a bully called Belowgen. Only a while ago, he tried to shoot me. And he threatened to call the scorpions over. He thinks we humans are breeding in the walls. He's so disgusting." Her cheeks flushed. "Not that I think you're disgusting. Or that, um, breeding is. Or . . ." She cursed her hot cheeks. "That doesn't matter. What matters is—Belowgen wants us dead. And he might call the scorpions over. The same creatures that killed my p—" She bit her lip. "That killed so many humans already."

Bay smiled thinly. "Yes, I've met Belowgen. He tried to stop me when I docked at Paradise Lost. A bribe calmed him. Rowan, I've met a thousand Belowgens at a thousand space stations and worlds. They rant about humans, call an exterminator or two, and by the time the guys show up, I'm long gone. They all say things like: 'I wish the scorpions came and took care of the humans.' Don't you worry about him. This is Concord territory. And Concord aliens hate scorpions just as much as humans. You don't have to hide in the ducts. You don't have to fear the Skra-Shen. If Belowgen threatens you again, I'll protect you."

Rowan blinked at him. "A thousand worlds . . ."

She could barely even imagine it. She hadn't even been to a thousand vents, let alone a thousand worlds.

"Take me with you," she blurted out. "I don't need you to protect me. I've been protecting myself for years. I know how to fight. I'm small but I've fought many battles already. Half the time I enter a bar to steal money or food, somebody picks a fight with me." She touched her cheek, just under her eye, where she was still bruised. "But I want to see those worlds. A thousand of them. Like I've seen in the movies. Like I read about in books." The words were spilling out from her now. She could not stop them. "I want to see worlds like Middle Earth, with mountains and glens. I want to visit planets like Tatooine and Arrakis and see golden deserts. I . . ." She frowned. "Why are you looking at me funny?"

Her cheeks flushed. Had he seen her crooked teeth? Rowan covered her mouth, cheeks burning. Or did he merely think her a fool who confused fantasy with reality? Perhaps she was a fool. Perhaps she had embarrassed herself, had blown her first meeting with another human.

Bay frowned. "Middle Earth. Tatooine. Those are . . ." It was his turn to leap from his seat, spilling his grog. "I know those. I remember those! I read those books as a kid. But how . . ." He gasped, eyes widening. "You saw it." He pointed at her. "You saw the Earthstone!"

Rowan blinked at him. "What, this?" She reached under her dress and pulled out the crystal. "Yeah. It's great."

Bay's jaw unhinged. He touched the stone, then pulled his hand back as if bitten. "Whoa." He clutched his head. "Whoa. Whoa. Whoa. You have the Earthstone." He pointed at her. "You have the Earthstone."

Rowan frowned. "Don't you have one?"

"No!" Bay cried. "Rowan. Rowan!" He grabbed her hands. "There's only one Earthstone in the entire galaxy. It's thousands of years old! It's a priceless artifact! It contains the cultural heritage of humanity. All of humanity's accomplishments in art, philosophy, poetry, science, literature, ethics—the very essence of our race, all that we created, that we were—it's all contained within that single, precious stone."

Rowan gasped.

I wear the cultural heritage of humanity around my neck, she thought. And I've been using it to watch Monty Python and listen to K-pop.

"Um, yeah," she said, twiddling her thumbs. "I've been protecting it. Our, um . . . cultural heritage."

Bay sat down again. He ran a shaky hand through his hair. "We used to possess the Earthstone. The Heirs of Earth. Back when I was a kid, when I still flew with the Inheritor fleet. But somebody betrayed us. He was my dad's best friend, cofounder of the Heirs of Earth. He was like an uncle to me. His name was David Emery. He claimed to be descended from Marco Emery himself, the legendary author from Old Earth. That David bastard stole the Earthstone. He ran off with it. He betrayed the Heirs and stole humanity's heritage. Last I heard, the scorpions killed that cowardly son of a—"

"He was not a traitor!" Rowan shouted, voice echoing across the pub. Her rage shocked her. "He was not a coward! David Emery was a good man. A kind and wise man! He was my father!" She pointed a shaky finger at Bay. "And you know nothing."

The bartender turned toward them. "Hey, keep it down, pests."

Rowan barely heard. Her tears flowed. Her chest shook. She leaped through the vent and crawled along the duct. Her world collapsed around her. She could barely see through her tears.

Another human was here. And he had brought with him only danger, insults, and pain.

Finally she reached her living room—the little area where several ducts met, allowing space for her blanket and shelves. And she found the place trashed.

A large hole had been carved into one duct, then crudely patched up. Somebody had sneaked in, smashed her monitor and keyboard, then left. A bear trap was set on Rowan's blanket, toothy jaws open. A candy bar lay in the center of the trap.

Bits of saliva and mud covered the living room. A piece from a model starship, covered with glue, clung to the ceiling.

Belowgen had been here. Belowgen had done this.

Rowan turned and crawled away.

The time for hiding had ended.

It was time for war.