The Heirs of Earth

by Daniel Arenson

  "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.

  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, ba
ck 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.