The Heirs of Earth (Children of Earthrise Book 1)

CHAPTER THREE

Emet stood on the bridge of his flagship, faced the towering viewport, and gazed upon his fleet.

The Heirs of Earth. Some called them freedom fighters. Most called them terrorists. Twenty starships. Five hundred warriors, all of them human. It was barely an army. It was the flicker of a dream. It was humanity's only hope in the darkness.

Humanity had no more homeworld. But they had this fleet. They had the Heirs of Earth. They had a dream, and they had Admiral Emet Ben-Ari.

"Wherever a human is in trouble, we'll be there," Emet said. "And right now, all across the galaxy, there's a whole lot of trouble for humans."

He stared beyond the fleet, narrowing his eyes, trying to penetrate the darkness of space. The darkness loomed.

They should be here already, he thought. Where are they?

His warships hovered ahead, most of them rusty and aging, even older than Emet. And at fifty-five, he was not a young man. They had been cargo ships once, alien vessels he had purchased for cheap and refitted, adding armor and torpedo bays. Emet himself now stood aboard the flagship, the ISS Jerusalem, an old tanker converted into a warship.

And beyond them—the vast blackness.

The abyss.

Hierarchy territory.

Emet placed his hand on Thunder's wooden stock. Thunder was his rifle, a heavy double-barreled beast of a gun. Not just a gun—a companion. Rifles were of little use on a starship, but he found the touch of wood comforting. The stock was carved from an alien tree—wooden artifacts from old Earth had rotted thousands of years ago. Emet had carved it himself, sanding and polishing and staining, emulating an antique double-barreled rifle he had seen in the Earthstone. The Earthstone was gone now—the traitor had stolen it—but Emet still had his rifle, and the touch soothed him.

Thunder was his main weapon, but he also carried a pistol named Lightning. That smaller weapon hung on his hip, though "smaller" was relative. Lightning too was a heavy machine, shaped like an antique flintlock from Earth. It was all iron and brass gears, its handle curved and wooden. In battle, Thunder roared in fury, blasting bullets the size of Emet's thumbs. But Lightning was fast and deadly and fired electrical bolts. Both weapons had been with Emet for years. Both had saved his life countless times. Both had shed rivers of alien blood.

His eyes refocused, now seeing his reflection in the dark viewport. He was a tall man, among the tallest in the fleet. He wore the uniform of his people: brown trousers, symbolizing the soil of Earth, and a blue overcoat, symbolizing Earth's lost sky, inlaid with polished buttons like the stars. A wide-brimmed black hat completed the outfit. Cowboys on Earth used to wear such hats, Emet knew; he had watched several Westerns in the Earthstone. It seemed fitting. He was a shepherd here in the sky, herding his people home. The uniform was old, shabby, patched and stitched many times, its colors fading. Like everything in the fleet, including himself, it was old.

Many called him the Old Lion. It was easy to see why. Emet had long shaggy hair, once blond and bright, now strewn with many white strands. It framed a craggy face, flowing past his shoulders like a mane. His beard had once been golden, yet the frost of time had invaded it too. His eyes were amber, almost feline, and drooping now, filled with old pain. The Lion of Winter. Old Fang. He had many nicknames.

Yet they called him a lion not only because of his appearance. His surname was Ben-Ari, which meant "son of lions" in an old human tongue. He was descended of Einav Ben-Ari herself, the great heroine of Earth, the Golden Lioness, the warrior who had defeated Earth's old enemies and raised the planet to glory.

That was two thousand years ago, Emet thought. Einav Ben-Ari is gone. Earth is gone. But I'm still here. The Old Lion. And I can still roar.

"Any sign of them yet, lad?" The gravelly voice came from behind him, and a thump thump of heavy boots echoed through the bridge. "The poor bastards should be here by now."

Emet turned to see Duncan McQueen, the fleet's doctor—and a dear friend. Duncan was a stocky man, sixty years of age, with a glorious white beard and bald head. He too wore brown trousers and a blue jacket, though his were of a different design, personally sewn and dyed. Until the fleet owned a textile operation, every man and woman made their own uniform. So long as the pants were some shade of brown, and the top some shade of blue, Emet was happy.

"No sign yet," Emet said.

Duncan approached him. The man never walked so much as stomped. He came to stand by Emet, a foot shorter but just as wide, and gazed out into space with him. He huffed. "Trouble, lad?"

"Do we ever avoid it?" Emet said.

Duncan snorted. "Someday before I die, a mission will go smoothly. I know it."

Emet smiled thinly. "Glad to hear you plan to live to be two hundred. I could use you for a couple more centuries."

Especially now. Duncan was loyal. A good friend. Over the past few years, Emet had lost too many people. David Emery—his best childhood friend, cofounder of the Heirs of Earth—had betrayed him, had stolen the Earthstone, had defected from the fleet. Emet's own son had run, stealing a shuttle, leaving the fleet and vanishing into the darkness.

Being an Inheritor was a hard life, Emet knew, and he was a demanding leader. But every betrayal stabbed.

They abandon me, Emet thought, but I will never abandon humanity.

"Wherever a human is in danger," he repeated the old words, "the Heirs of Earth will be there."

Duncan nodded, stroking his luxurious white beard. "Aye, that's us, laddie. We chase trouble." He sighed. "I should have been a country doctor. I was happy down on Aberglen. Until you damn lot picked me up."

Emet huffed. "You were miserable on Aberglen, tending to broken hooves and sheep with worms."

"A vet is an honorary profession, lad." Duncan looked around him and groaned. "Space is no place for a man. Give me sunshine and hay and the smell of cow shit. Up here there's just darkness. Just emptiness. It's no natural place."

Emet couldn't help but crack a smile. "You don't miss shit. You're full of it."

Like every Inheritor, Duncan had lost people. Like everyone in this fleet, he had seen his home burn. So he had joined them, had switched from tending to farm animals to healing wounded soldiers. A handful of Inheritors had been soldiers in a previous life, serving in alien armies. Most were farmers, milkmaids, haberdashers, a couple of teachers, a few mechanics and engineers—ordinary people. People who dared to dream with Emet. Who dared sing the old songs of Earth. Who dared believe they could someday see that world again.

Yes, Old Duncan McQueen still grumbled and groaned. The vet-turned-doctor was set in his ways. But deep down, the stocky man with the long white beard dreamed of Earth with as much vivid color as anyone.

"Our contact said they'd be here," Duncan muttered. "I knew we couldn't trust the bloody Rawdiggers."

"The Rawdiggers have helped us before," Emet said.

Duncan grunted. "They're bloody arachnids too. Just like the scorpions. Never trust a—"

"There." Emet leaned closer. "Ships. Heading our way."

The ISS Jerusalem had no holographic interfaces like modern ships. Emet pulled out a clunky metal keyboard. He tapped a few keys, and the viewport zoomed in.

Three cargo ships were flying his way, emblazoned with two crossing pickaxes, symbol of the Rawdigger Guild. At a glance, they seemed like simple space freighters ferrying iron ore. But these miners were taking payment from Emet. These were friends—or at least business partners.

The three Rawdigger freighters were still in Hierarchy territory, but they were flying fast toward the border.

Emet squinted, scanning space for signs of trouble. Ahead was scorpion territory. But he saw no strikers, the scorpions' triangular warships, only the friendly Rawdigger freighters. The boxy black starships kept flying closer.

One of the Rawdigger ships was hailing him. Emet flicked a switch, taking the call.

On a viewport before him appeared an image of the alien ship's bridge. It was a dark, shadowy chamber stuffed with levers, pulleys, and chains. The Rawdigger captain hung from chains like a spider on a web. The Rawdiggers had evolved underground, natural miners. Four of their six limbs were tipped with claws like pickaxes, useful for clinging to stone tunnels. Their forelimbs were shaped like shovels, the blades made from the same keratin as their claws. Lures grew from their heads, tipped with luminous bulbs, useful both for attracting prey and seeing underground.

"Admiral Emet Ben-Ari," said the Rawdigger captain, voice like metal scraping on stone. "Do you have the second half of our payment?"

Emet nodded. "I do. Do you have the refugees?"

The Rawdigger swung aside on his chains, shining his lure toward the shadows behind him.

"Your cargo," said the alien.

Emet stared. He tightened his grip on his wooden stock.

"Ra damn scorpions," Duncan muttered at his side. "What the hell have they done to them?"

Tortured them, Emet knew. Broke them. Maybe beyond repair.

Behind the Rawdigger, filling the cargo ship, were human refugees.

They had come from deep in Hierarchy space, fleeing the scorpions. Many were naked. Most were wounded. All were cadaverous, their skin clinging to bones, their eyes sunken, their cheeks hollow. They seemed barely alive.

Emet had grown up in Concord territory, bouncing from world to world. The Concord was an alliance of peaceful aliens, and even here, life for a human was hard. Nobody knew that more than Emet.

But in Hierarchy space? In the dark empire of the scorpions? There, in that cursed realm, life for a human wasn't just hard. It was intolerable. Emet saw the proof of that before him.

"What the bloody hell did they endure in the Hierarchy?" Duncan said, voice rising louder, and his face flushed. "I'll tear those bloody scorpions apart! I wouldn't treat a rat that way. How dare they—"

Emet placed a hand on his friend's shoulder. "Hush now, Dunc. Wait. We make the deal first. We'll seek vengeance later."

"So, Emet!" said the Rawdigger captain. "This shipment has cost us a lot. Deliver your payment."

"Once you deliver the humans," Emet said.

The alien miner laughed. "No, Emet. That is not how this goes. Send forth the diamonds." The Rawdigger licked his lips. "Precious, lovely diamonds."

Emet nodded. Thankfully, he had found a lab that could produce diamonds for cheap. Diamonds had once been costly for humans too. Today all it took was some carbon and a good oven. The Rawdiggers had no such technology. They were good at digging. They were decent at flying. They knew little about chemistry.

The Rawdiggers admired the stones, not for their beauty but their strength. The miners had sharp claws for digging, but they couldn't dig through the harder minerals they encountered. With diamonds on their claws, they could dig deeper, seeking the iron they craved. The beasts not only built their starships with iron, they ate the element, craving it with the intensity of a druggie.

"Send them!" the Rawdigger said. "Send us our diamonds."

Emet tapped few buttons. His airlock opened, and a crate glided out toward the Rawdigger flotilla.

"Your diamonds, as promised," said Emet.

A hatch opened on the Rawdigger ship. A metal claw emerged, dangling from a chain. It reminded Emet of the claws he had seen in old movies, used to grab plush toys from a bin. The claw flew toward the crate, grabbed it, and began dragging the treasure back toward the Rawdigger freighter.

"Very good, Emet," the Rawdigger said. "A deal is a deal, and we Rawdiggers are arachnids of honor. We will count your diamonds, and if—"

Alarms blared across both bridges at once.

The Rawdigger gasped and cut off the transmission.

Emet stared into the distance and felt the blood drain from his face.

Ships.

A dozen or more.

Dark, triangular ships, leaving trails of fire.

Strikers.

Scorpion starships.