A human world.
There was a rack with human weapons. Pistols with triggers. Blades with hilts. Weapons for human hands—not for tentacles, trotters, or claws. There was a closet with clothes—real clothes, not just an old blanket like the one Rowan now wore. There were chairs built for human bodies, not piles of straw, aquariums, pits of mud, or any other alien lounging place.
And on the wall hung a framed photograph of Earth.
Rowan recognized the photograph. She approached and gingerly touched the glass.
"The Blue Marble," she whispered. "I've seen this photo in the Earthstone. Astronauts took it in 1972, over two thousand years ago. It's one of the first times humans have seen Earth from space." A new tear flowed. "I pray that someday we see the blue marble again."
Fillister flew toward the closet, grabbed the handle, and pulled the door open. "First you should dress in human clothes, Row. Emet himself said you should. You can't show up on Earth wearing a blanket."
She felt her cheeks flush. "All right, all right! Jeez, you're worse than a nagging mother."
She approached the closet and began rummaging through the clothes. They were all in Inheritor colors. The Inheritors had no official uniform, but they stuck to brown trousers and blue tops. These came in a variety of shades and styles, anything the Inheritors had picked up or sewn on their travels.
Rowan's eyes widened with delight. Clothes! Real clothes! Trousers and vests and jackets and shirts! Socks and underclothes and hats! Belts and buckles and boots! Actual clothes!
Rowan hopped around in excitement, pulling out clothes, and trying them on.
Her smile soon faded.
She turned toward Fillister, wearing trousers that draped across her feet, a shirt that went down to her knees, and a jacket whose sleeves sloped well past her hands.
"I look like a Ra damn kid wearing his dad's clothes," she said.
"Or like a bunch of raccoons trying to pass as a human," Fillister said.
"Haha, very funny." She rolled her eyes and pulled the clothes off.
She found a measuring tape in the closet. She measured herself and winced. She didn't even stand five feet tall. There was a scale too. When she stepped on it she bit her lip. She would have to choose some heavy clothes if she wanted to weigh a hundred pounds. And maybe soak the clothes first. And add some rocks to her pockets.
"All those years in the ducts, feeding on scraps, left me as small as a child," she said.
Fillister nuzzled her. "We'll never have to sleep in no duct again. You'll grow."
She bit her lip. "I'm turning seventeen next week. I think I'm done growing."
Fillister flew toward a smaller closet and tugged the door open. "Look, Row! Here are the kids' clothes."
She rolled her eyes. "Wonderful. Maybe afterward we can stop by McDonald's for a Happy Meal." She walked toward the children's closet, muttering. "Just peachy."
These clothes fit better. She found a pair of brown trousers with many pockets and buttons, and they fit perfectly. She slipped on a white buttoned shirt with a collar. She needed something blue. There were a handful of jackets and blazers, but they seemed too clunky for battle, easy for an enemy to grab. Instead Rowan chose a navy-blue vest with brass buttons. It fit snugly and felt comfortable enough to fight in.
She turned toward the mirror and examined herself. Her short brown hair was messy, and she passed a hand through it, but that only messed it up further. She couldn't find a hat that fit, so she grabbed goggles from a shelf. She placed them on her head, using them as a headband. It helped a little.
"You look like a true Inheritor," Fillister said.
"I look like a steampunk hobbit," Rowan said.
Fillister nodded. "Must be the big hairy feet."
She cocked an eyebrow. "Aren't you on a roll today?" She found boots that fit and slipped them on. "Great. Now I look like a steampunk hobbit in boots."
Fillister buzzed across her chest, buttoning her vest. "You like hobbits, don't you?"
She sighed. "Yes, and I'm sure the sight of a hobbit will strike terror into the hearts of my enemies."
"That's what a weapon will do," said Fillister. "Come choose one."
She approached the weapons rack. She hefted a few rifles. They were heavy machines, built for large men like Emet. Instead, she chose a pistol. It too was large. For her, it was almost like a rifle. It was shaped like a flintlock from ancient Earth, the kind buccaneers might fire. Brass gears and pipes covered it, and its stock was carved of actual wood, polished and stained. Rowan had always loved gears. The wood was probably alien, not a tree from Earth, but its touch soothed her. The pistol was heavy, almost too heavy for one hand. Good. It would pack a punch.
It came with a belt and holster. When she hung the pistol on her hip, the weight was comforting. She patted the wooden stock.
"This one is ours," she said. "Our gun."
"What will you name it?" Fillister said. "Every weapon needs a name."
"Sting," she said. "Like Frodo's sword." She thought for a moment. "No. Not Sting. Sounds too much like a scorpion. I'll name my gun Lullaby."
Fillister frowned. "Lullaby?"
She nodded. "Because it puts my enemies to sleep." She drew Lullaby, aimed at her reflection in the mirror, and pulled the trigger. The gun was unloaded. Brass gears turned, and it clicked. She nodded and holstered the weapon. "Good old Lullaby."
"Maybe name it Gunny McGunface," Fillister said.
Rowan rolled her eyes. "Her name is Lullaby! Now be quiet."
She looked at herself again in the mirror.
Brown trousers, heavy with buckles and pockets. A blue vest with brass buttons. Goggles on her head. A heavy gun of brass and wood. Around her neck—the Earthstone, a shining crystal, hanging on a chain.
A tiny girl, yes. But not the same Rowan she had been. No more did she wear a blanket as a dress; she wore an Inheritor uniform. No more did she crawl through ducts; she stood in a mighty warship. No more she did hide in shadows; she wore a gun at her side, ready for war.
Her tears flowed.
"It's over, Fillister," she whispered. "Our old life. Who we were. We're strong now. We're strong and we have friends. We'll fly away from here. And we'll never come back."
Fillister nestled against her. "I wish I could hug you, squire."
"You are! With your tiny wings." She grinned, then sighed. "I always thought that if we made it out of the ducts, I'd become a filmmaker. Not a warrior. But there are still wars to fight. Still enemies, ones even worse than crabs." She nodded. "So I'll fight. Someday I'll lift a camera. Until then, a gun."
She stepped out of the storeroom onto the starship's bridge. Emet was waiting for her there. He too wore Inheritor colors, but instead of a vest, he wore a long blue overcoat. His black cowboy hat made him look even larger. With his powerful frame, double-barreled rifle, and mane of shaggy hair, he looked far more intimidating than Rowan. He looked nothing like a hobbit, more like an old lion still proud and strong.
He looks like a cross between Ned Stark and Robert Plant, she thought. I look more like Frodo's baby sister.
"I'm ready," she said.
Emet nodded. "Then we'll begin."
She looked around at the bridge. They were the only ones here. Through the portholes, she could see the hangar of Paradise Lost.
"Will Bay not come?" she said.
Emet's eyes darkened. "He's still busy repairing Brooklyn, he says."
She felt deflated. "Oh. I thought he'd want to come. To be here for me. But I suppose it's all still difficult for him. After what happened." She raised her chin. "But I'm ready, sir. I'm ready for my vows."
Emet nodded, his eyes warm. "In the old days, new Inheritors used to swear on the Earthstone. We would bring out the stone in a holy ceremony, place it on a table, and have our new member place their hand upon it. Since you already wear the Earthstone around your neck . . ." His eyes glittered—amusement, perhaps? "If you held the Earthstone, that will be enough.
"
Rowan nodded and wrapped her fingers around the crystal.
Emet looked into her eyes. "Normally, I demand rigorous training before admitting a new Inheritor. I demand that all my warriors know how to fight, uphold an ethical code, and know Earth's lore. But you've proved yourself a warrior, proved yourself ethical, and your knowledge of ancient Earth culture is vast. You're ready to take the Inheritor's Vow, to join our ranks. Please repeat after me."
He spoke the words of his order. And Rowan repeated them, her hand around the Earthstone.
"Earth calls me home. I vow to forever heed her call. I vow to cherish Earth, to sing her songs, to preserve her heritage. With all my heart, I believe that Earth is the homeworld of humanity, and that someday I will see Earth again. All of Earth's children are my brothers and sisters. They are lost, but I will guide them home. Wherever a human is in danger, I will be there. I am Earth's child. I am ready to fight, even sacrifice my life, for my homeworld. Someday Earth's lost children will return home. I will not rest until that day."
By the time she uttered the last words, tears were flowing down her cheeks. She had meant every word.
I will always fight for Earth. Always.
"Let us seal your vows with the Inheritor's salute," Emet said. He held one fist in front of his chest, then wrapped his second hand around it. Rowan repeated the gesture.
Emet pinned insignia to her sleeves—a single chevron per arm.
He smiled thinly. "You are now Private Rowan Emery, an Inheritor."
She raised her chin. She had never felt more proud.
She began to sing. It was the song her parents used to sing her. A song Rowan had almost forgotten. A song not on the Earthstone. She only remembered a few lines.
Into darkness we fled
In the shadows we prayed
In exile we always knew
That we will see her again
Our Earth rising from loss
Calling us home
Calling us home
She stopped singing and spoke softly. "My parents used to sing me this song. I forgot the rest."
"The song is called Earthrise," Emet said. "It's a song holy to all humans."
"Will you teach me the rest?"
He nodded. "I will."
He sang, voice deep and warm, and Rowan wept because she remembered now. She had been only two years old, but she remembered her parents with more clarity than ever. She sang with Emet. The song of her people. Of Earth.
Someday we will see her
The pale blue marble
Rising from the night beyond the moon
Cloaked in white, her forests green
Calling us home
For long we wandered
For eras we were lost
For generations we sang and dreamed
To see her rise again
Blue beyond the moon
Calling us home
Into darkness we fled
In the shadows we prayed
In exile we always knew
That we will see her again
Our Earth rising from loss
Calling us home
Calling us home
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
"We shouldn't be here, lass," Duncan grumbled. "Your old man forbade us from flying this far into Hierarchy space."
Leona smiled grimly. "Wrong. He forbade us from flying the Inheritor fleet so far into Hierarchy space. We're not flying the Inheritor fleet."
She clutched the controls, struggling to fly the deathcar. The scorpions used levers, not buttons, on their control panels. Leona needed all her strength to tug them. The deathcar clattered along, jolting, swaying, but still obeying her. Behind her the nine other deathcars followed, Inheritors piloting each one.
"Lass, you know what your father meant." Duncan stared ahead, eyes dark, his hand clutching his pistol. "He ordered us to attack the convoy. To rescue the prisoners. We did that. Now we must fly home."
Leona whipped her head toward him and glared. "I will not! I will not fly home while humans here need us. This deathcar convoy was heading toward a gulock only a light-year away. Thousands of humans might be there. Dying. Needing us. I will not abandon them. Wherever a human is in danger, we will be there."
Duncan grumbled. "I know our words. But we must choose our battles."
"Then I choose this one!" Leona said. "Duncan, I know this isn't what my dad commanded. But if he were here, if he saw what we saw . . . the prisoners naked, tortured, dying . . ." Her eyes burned, and her voice caught in her throat.
Duncan's eyes softened. "Lass, your father knows the cost of war. He knows the pain, the terror. I know his heart. I've been fighting at his side for thirty years."
Longer than I've been alive, Leona thought.
"And will you fight with me now, Duncan?" she whispered.
The old doctor looked at her for a long moment, then finally nodded. "Aye, lass. Now and always. Let's go teach those scorpion bastards a thing or two about human pride."
She nodded, smiled tightly, and clasped his shoulder. "I'm proud to fight with you, Doc."
She turned around, facing the deathcar's hold. Only an hour ago, hundreds of human prisoners, naked and beaten and starving, had filled this deathcar. Now dozens of Inheritor warriors stood here. They had served her aboard the Jerusalem. Now the freed captives were on the Jerusalem, heading back to the safety of the Concord, and Leona's warriors were here. Heading deeper into the darkness. They wore the brown and blue of their order. They held rifles, pistols, electric clubs, and laserblades. They all looked back at Leona, eyes somber. Ready for battle.
"I am proud to fight with you!" Leona said.
"For Earth!" they cried.
"For Earth," she repeated, eyes damp.
For a dream of our home. For humanity. For rising again from desolation.
The convoy flew onward. They were heading deeper and deeper into Hierarchy space, leaving the Concord far behind. Heading toward the gulock. Heading to hell.
The Inheritor fleet was waiting back in Concord space, seventeen warships and their Firebirds. Leona had left Duncan's daughter, Captain Mairead, in charge of the idling fleet. The redhead had raised hell—cursing, spitting, and refusing to remain behind while others flew to war.
But Leona had insisted. Mairead was perhaps the best pilot in the fleet. But she was as wild and fiery as her hair. The Firebug was terrifying in a dogfight, but this mission required finesse. In these deathcars, Leona had taken only her most prudent, responsible officers. Duncan was here, serving as her adviser and confidant. Captain Ramses al Masri, an Inheritor who had fought many battles, stood in this deathcar too, serving as her second-in-command. Three hundred enlisted marines filled the deathcars as well—the bulk of the Inheritor infantry.
Mairead is pissed off that she's missing this battle, Leona thought. But we fly toward horror. Only a madwoman would envy us.
Space stretched on before them.
Leona's hands trembled around the controls.
She sucked in air.
Be strong. Be brave. Like Dad. You can do this.
The faces of the dead danced before her. Corpses floating through space. Emaciated bodies on the floor. Her wedding ablaze.
For Earth. For humanity. For my family. I will do this.
They kept flying through the darkness.
An hour passed, and signals blinked on their radar. Strikers were flying nearby, a hundred in formation. Far too many to fight, even if the entire Inheritor fleet were here. Yet the scorpion starships didn't acknowledge them. The strikers flew by, heading toward the border.
Leona exhaled in relief.
They see only deathcars leading humans to slaughter, she knew. A common sight for them.
She kept flying deeper, leading the other deathcars, plunging deeper into the empire. There was no up or down in space, but Leona imagined them descending into a pit, plunging down and down into darkness.
Another hour passed, and they saw more enemy
ships. These strikers were larger—massive dreadnoughts that could dwarf even the Jerusalem. The largest were the size of skyscrapers, could hold thousands of scorpions, and their cannons were so large Leona could have flown her deathcar into the barrels. She counted five dreadnoughts and hundreds of smaller strikers. They too passed by the deathcars, rumbling on toward the border.
"They're mobilizing for war," Leona said. "Are they planning to invade the Concord?"
"Hard to say, lass," said Duncan. "But they're not moving this many warships for our sake. This is a force to conquer worlds."
Leona cringed. "Damn it."
Again, she wished her father were here. She desperately wanted to speak to him, to hear his wisdom. But she needed her own strength now. Her warriors depended on her. She must be as strong and wise as Emet, a leader they could rally around.
As they kept flying, they saw more and more scorpion ships, all emblazoned with the red stinger of the Skra-Shen empire. Some were warships, others starfighters. Some massive, square ships looked like troop carriers. As Leona flew, she took photographs of the enemy fleets. She had lost her data chip on The Human Solution, but here was new valuable intelligence. If the scorpions were truly planning an invasion, the Concord had to know.
Leona was no friend of the Concord. Both Concord and Hierarchy hated humans. Her loyalty was only to her people. Yet if a war between these two mighty alliances was truly brewing, Leona would choose sides. She would choose the Concord.
Both are evil, she thought. But the Hierarchy is worse. In Concord space, I'm an annoying pest, a mouse to be shooed away. But in the Hierarchy, we're all animals to be slaughtered. I cannot allow the Hierarchy to win.
Soon the ships of other species were flying by them. While the scorpions were the dominant race in the Hierarchy, sitting atop the pyramid, lesser civilizations thrived here too. Some ships were rusty and spiky, carrying the Bazurians—alien mosquitoes the size of wolves. Other ships were fleshy pods like giant wombs, carrying the Scolopendra Titaniae, giant centipedes that had attacked Earth two thousand years ago, that were now rising again. There were rocky ships, red spiral ships, ships that were long and flailing like metal snakes. The Hierarchy was mobilizing, and Leona shuddered.
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