The Heirs of Earth

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Belowgen stood in his office, his mandibles clacking, his legs trembling with fury.

Humans breeding in the walls. Threatening me. Infesting my space station. He grunted, and his barbels fluttered. I wasn't meant for this. I wasn't meant to ever be here.

Belowgen looked around him. The office was large as far as they came. A private office, more than most had in Paradise Lost. But it was still a damn metal box. He had installed a mud bath, but it was a pale imitation of the moist, foggy, aromatic swamps down on Akraba.

His model starships, his one escape from the stress of his job, lay shattered around him. He had smashed them in his rage. Belowgen had spent years assembling these models, gently lifting plastic pieces and tubes of glue with his barbels—nothing to sneeze at, considering the models were made for species with hands. Literally nothing to sneeze at, not when you used the tendrils around your nostrils. Now his beloved models lay in pieces. Much like his dreams.

He should be back on Akraba. Dwelling among the roots of wet trees. Rolling in the mud until the sweet scent of soil and spoor coated his shell. Finding a female, maybe two, marshcrabs with hard shells and soft innards. Protecting her eggs in a wet pit full of worms and moss and rotting things.

Belowgen's tendrils drooped. He had been born a runt. The weakest larva to hatch from his brood of eggs. The other males had all chosen mates, had scarred his shell with their claws. So many nights, Belowgen had huddled in the mud, hearing and smelling the males fertilize the females' eggs. So often he wished he could join them, but he remained out in the cold, mud below him, starlight above.

So he had flown to the stars.

He had come to Paradise Lost. Up here in space, it didn't matter that he was smaller than his brothers, that his back leg was twisted, that his claws were dull. He had mopped floors, unclogged toilets, risen from janitor to security guard, then to clerk, finally to Head Administrator of Paradise Lost.

He had no window in his office. Windows were reserved for the casinos and brothels, for those who brought money into Paradise Lost, not who sucked up a paycheck. But Belowgen could imagine Akraba orbiting outside, the planet of his kind, basking in the light of Terminus Wormhole.

"Someday I will return a wealthy crab," he vowed. "Someday you will lay your eggs before me, females. Someday you will beg me to fertilize them, and your broods will hatch in my pit."

But not if the humans remained.

Not if they kept breeding in the walls.

The past few years had been tough for Paradise Lost. Visitation was declining. Money was tight. Staff turnover was high. Every day now, his bosses called to berate him, and Belowgen never forgot they came from a species that loved crab legs. If Belowgen could not fix things, the entire station might shut down.

The humans had caused this. The damn humans in the walls. Who wanted to gamble and grog when pests were crawling around you? The humans were scaring visitors away, and it was Belowgen's shell on the line.

Belowgen ran Paradise Lost, but he did not own it. His masters lived on other worlds, places far nicer than this. If he failed them, if he let this infestation run wild, he wouldn't return to Akraba a hero. He would be chopped up and served to his lords on a platter. Instead of fertilizing eggs, he'd be served alongside them.

The scorpions could kill the humans.

Belowgen shuddered. His shell clattered, and he parted his mandibles. Then the terror became too great, and he curled up in the corner, legs folded beneath him.

Yes, he had threatened the pest in the vents. He had vowed to summon the scorpions. But once you unleashed those creatures . . .

Belowgen had seen the Skra-Shen scorpions before. Sometimes they crossed the border and visited Akraba to test their weapons. The marshcrab chiefs took the scorpions' money, then gave them clans of crabs to destroy. Years ago, Belowgen had stood atop a tree, watching as the scorpion starships flew, raining bombs on marshcrab broods. Every year, the scorpions returned with larger, more powerful ships, more weapons to test. And every year, Akraba's chiefs grew richer and fatter, selling their fellow marshcrabs for silvered scryls.

They are marvelous creatures, Belowgen thought. Scorpions are true hunters. Apex predators. Next to them, we crabs are nothing.

A longing filled Belowgen to kneel before the scorpions, to worship them, to roll over and expose his underbelly. There would be no shame to it. Only joy.

And yet fear too.

What if they saw Belowgen not as a fellow hunter but as prey? What if their claws tore through his exposed belly? What if the female marshcrabs heard of his weakness?

Belowgen sloshed through the mud bath, then fished out his prized possession: a scorpion's stinger.

It was a huge organ, so large he could barely lift it. It was empty of venom now. But it was still sharp, still powerful enough to crack a shell. Years ago, Belowgen had bought the stinger from a traveling merchant. Marshcrabs had no stingers, no pincers, only small claws on their legs. Here was a reminder of the scorpions' might.

Belowgen scraped the stinger across his shell, just enough to etch a small line. He shuddered. He could imagine this stinger piercing him, injecting him with venom.

No, I cannot summon those beasts. Not yet. They are too horrible. They are too mighty.

He put the stinger away.

He lifted his communicator and shook off the mud.

"This is Belowgen, Head Administrator of Paradise Lost. I need the best exterminators in the galaxy. My station is infested with humans, and they're breeding. Come with guns. Come and kill them. I will pay fifty thousand scryls for each human head."

It was ten times what he normally paid. But the best exterminators cost a splendid scryl. And Belowgen needed the best.

He looked up at the bullet holes in the duct.

"Soon, girl," he hissed. "Soon your head will hang on my wall."