A Memory of Earth

by Daniel Arenson

  Emet couldn't help but smile. "And your beard has gone completely white."

  "Age'll do that to you. Sneaks up on you, she does." He pulled Emet into a hug and slapped his back. "Good to see you again, old man. How are the kids? Last I saw Leona and Bay, they were about yea high."

  "Adults now," Emet said. "Leona is twenty-eight, Bay is almost twenty-five."

  Both far from me, he thought. Maybe dead. But he dared not articulate those fears.

  Luther shook his head in wonder. "Ra damn. As I said, sneaks up on ya." He turned toward Rowan. "And who is this lovely, hungry-looking soldier?"

  Rowan grinned, then covered her mouth. "Rowan Emery, sir."

  Luther snorted. "Sir? I ain't no fancy sir. Call me Luther or Big Blue. That's what my friends call me. Come on, come on, outta the airlock! We got some pancakes to fry up and stories to swap."

  Rowan's eyes widened. "Pancakes! My favorite!"

  He led them through a hangar filled with countless scrapped starships. A handful of robots bustled about, working at repairing what could still be salvaged, disassembling what could not. Dozens of deactivated robots lay stacked up inside crates. Rowan looked around with wonder at all the machines around her. The girl was always enthralled around engines, gears, and anything mechanical. But Emet lowered his head as he walked.

  This was the place.

  The pain stabbed him.

  Again he saw the blood wash the floor, heard the bullets fly, saw the scorpion claws. Saw the bloodlust in Sin Kra's eyes.

  "What is this, Big Blue, a nuclear twin-turbine engine?" Rowan asked, walking toward a derelict starship that stood on the hangar floor. "Sweet! How many Carvs does it run?"

  "This old dog?" Luther said. "Aye, you got a good eye. She used to run fifteen hundred Carvs, but she's busted now."

  "You should try replacing the copper coils," Rowan said. "Get silconian coils instead, and you can prime her by attaching her to a good hydrox generator. Might still be life in her."

  Luther barked a laugh. "I should hire you, girl. Want to switch careers?"

  "Sure," she said. "You can pay me with pancakes."

  As the two conversed, Emet walked toward a spot in the hangar. Where once blood had spilled, there was only a dark stain on the floor. Before him, on the wall—a framed photo. A woman with kind eyes and curly black hair.

  She looked so much like Leona, Emet thought.

  The conversation behind him died. Luther approached and placed a hand on Emet's shoulder.

  "I look at her whenever I walk by," Luther said in a soft, raspy voice. "She was a good friend."

  "This is the place, isn't it?" Emet said. "Right here. Where I'm standing."

  "Aye." Luther nodded. "She died here. Too young. Far too young. A tragic day."

  Emet turned around slowly and stared into Luther's strange golden eyes.

  Somebody tipped off the scorpions that day, Emet thought. Somebody betrayed me, told the scorpions that I—their most hated enemy—was docking at the Relic. For a long time, I thought it was you.

  And standing here, gazing into his old friend's eyes, that suspicion finally faded.

  It wasn't you, old friend, Emet thought.

  "Thank you," Emet said, voice hoarse. "For hanging up her photo. For remembering." He clasped Luther's shoulder. "Thank you, old friend."

  Duncan is gone. David is gone. Alexis is gone. But not everyone from my past is lost.

  They stepped into a kitchen—just a corner of the warehouse with a stove and plastic table—where Luther began to fry up the pancakes. Old electric blues played from an old stereo. Posters of bluesmen hung on the walls.

  "This is Earth music," Rowan said in wonder. "Pre-Hyrdian. It's on the tip of my tongue." She frowned, raised her finger, then smiled. "Bootstrap and the Shoeshine Kid! Mid-twenty-first century duo, from just before the Cataclysm."

  "You know your Earth lore." Luther glanced down at the crystal that hung around Rowan's neck, then up at Emet. "This one is entrusted with a special gift."

  Emet nodded, staring steadily into his friend's eyes. "As are we all."

  Luther stared for a moment, silent, then pulled the pancakes off the griddle. He placed them on the table, along with slabs of butter and syrup.

  "Tuck in," he said. "You look hungry."

  But there was something subdued and cold in his voice.

  Rowan didn't seem to notice. She began to feast. For somebody so small, she put a serious dent in the platter of pancakes. Syrup dripped down her chin, and she reached for more, eating so fast her cheeks puffed out.

  "What?" She blinked at Emet and Luther, who were looking at her in shock. "I like pancakes."

  Luther laughed, and soon Emet was laughing too, and some of the tension dissipated. They ate and the old electric blues played.

  "You know, Big Blue," Rowan said between bites, "I can let you copy more blues music, if you like. I have a lot on the Earthstone. How many Bootstrap and the Shoeshine Kid albums do you have?"

  "Both," said Luther. "Best damn albums ever made."

  Rowan gulped down another bite and licked her lips. "Both? Dude, they released three albums, you know. And I have hours of their live recordings as well. Not my usual music. I'm a K-pop girl, but I like all sorts of music. I can't actually copy files digitally off the Earthstone—the data is stored in crystals, not bits—but I can probably rig up an analog recorder."

  Luther's strange golden eyes widened. The star-shaped irises shone.

  "Rowan!" Luther walked around the table and knelt at her side. "You have no idea what a precious gift that would be." His eyes dampened, and he had to dab them with a napkin. "Barely anything from old Earth ever comes rolling in. I would Ra damn love to hear your music."

  Rowan swallowed a last pancake, then pulled out a pocket watch. She detached its thin golden chain. When she hit a button, wings, legs, and a head emerged, forming a robotic dragonfly.

  "Fillister," Rowan said, "we've got an audio interface to build."

  Soon new music filled the warehouse. To Emet, it sounded the same as before, but Luther was bobbing his head, almost in a trance.

  Emet wanted to interrupt. There was little time. The front line was moving closer, and Emet could not waste more precious moments on pancakes and music. But he also wanted to butter up the old man, as surely as Rowan had buttered up her flapjacks.

  And you're doing a better job than I could, Rowan, Emet thought.

  Luther and Rowan were now sitting on a tattered couch. He was teaching her to play a bass guitar, laughing and mussing her hair.

  Finally Emet had waited long enough.

  He walked up to the tattered couch.

  "Luther, we need to talk."

  Rowan looked up, hands on the bass, and smiled. "I'm slamming the bass!"

  "Slapping," Luther said, lighting another cigarette. "Slapping the bass."

  She plucked a reverberating note. "Slap. Rowan Emery, goddess of thunder!"

  Luther rose to his feet, joints creaking, and placed a hand on Emet's shoulder. "Aye, friend, I know you didn't come here for flapjacks and blues. You want another ship."

  "Another tanker like the Jerusalem," Emet said. "In fact, I need the same model. Modified the same way. Painted the same. I need an exact replica."

  Rowan stopped playing and looked up, curious. Emet had not told her of his plan. He had told nobody.

  It was a plan that could save humanity. And right now, it all depended on Luther.

  The old man nodded and scratched his chin. "Aye, old friend, might be I got another T-class tanker lying around. But the things ain't cheap. Aren't many left in the galaxy. They cost a splendid scryl."

  Emet frowned. "When you sold me the Jerusalem twenty years ago, you said it was a hunk of junk. The cheapest freighter you had."

  "Aye, that's before the civilization that built them went extinct," Luther said. "They're a classic now. A collector's item."

  "I'll pay you a million scryls," Emet said. "That's a lot of
money. I know it's less than what I paid last time. I know there's inflation. I need a favor."

  Luther winced. He scratched his chin. "Now, Emet, there's a war going on. Big one. There are certain risks involved with selling ships to terrorists—and that's what they're calling you. Prices have been going higher to handle those risks. You're an old friend, Emet. A good friend. But I'm gonna be honest with you. I haven't heard from you in twenty years. Now you swing by and want a favor. Well, I'm happy to do you a favor. I support what you're doing. You're fighting for a cause, and I can appreciate that. But these ships . . ." He gave a whistle. "They're going for ten million on the black market these days."

  Emet didn't have ten million. He could barely scrape together one.

  "We'll set up a loan," Emet said. "Name your rate, and—"

  "Now, Emet, you know I don't do loans," Luther said. "I deal in cash only. Everyone in my line of work does. This place is in no man's land. We get both Hierarchy and Peacekeeper goons here. You know how much it costs to bribe them, keep them away?"

  "Whatever you paid last time, it wasn't enough," Emet said, unable to keep the bitterness out of his voice.

  Luther went very quiet. He lowered his head.

  "I know, Emet." His voice was low and raspy. "And I'm sorry. Ain't a day go by that I don't think about that night. How the damn scorpions blasted in here, tore up the place, killed Alexis. I lost people that day too. And earned this scar on my side." He lifted his shirt, showing a long scar that stretched under his ribs. "And the damn Hierarchy has been getting fanatical. Lots of them flying by the Relic these days, causing trouble. We're half a parsec from the front line. Too many damn scorpions. I'm sorry, Emet, I really am, but I'm going to have to insist on the price."

  Rowan leaped from the couch. "But Big Blue, you don't understand! This isn't about money. This is about Earth!"

  "Corporal, sit down," Emet barked.

  "I will not, sir!" Rowan placed her hands on her hips. "Big Blue, you listen to me. I don't care what the damn Peacekeepers say. Emet Ben-Ari is not a terrorist. He is a noble, brave man. He sacrifices so much every day for humans. And you're one of us! He fights for you too!"

  "Corporal!" Emet roared.

  Rowan took a step back, paling at the sound of his fury. But then she tightened her lips and clenched her fists. Silent, she turned to glare at Luther.

  Luther stared at her. His eyes softened. He put out his cigarette. "Now, Rowan, that's mighty kind of you, calling me human. But I ain't one. Not fully. I'm a starling, only half human, half of me a mix of Ra knows what else. We starlings used to be men. But we flew too deep into space. Lost our humanity. Came back with our genes spliced and woven with alien strands. Human?" He barked a raspy laugh. "Humans never accepted me. Never wanted me among them."

  Rowan's eyes softened too. "I do." She stepped closer and embraced Luther. "I want you with us. To teach me the bass. To fry me pancakes. To listen to music with me. You might have strange eyes, Big Blue, but you're a human. And a good one. I don't need to see your DNA to know that."

  Luther held the girl in his arms. A sigh ran through him.

  "Girl, you know how to warm an old man's cold, shriveled heart." He laughed, though there was pain in his eyes. "You remind me of my own daughter. Haven't seen her in thirty years, but Ra above, you remind me of her." He looked up at Emet. "I'll give you the ship. On the house. Do good by this girl, Emet. You promise me you do good by her."

  Emet exhaled in relief. "Thank you, old friend. Let me pay you the mil—"

  "I don't want to launder your damn money!" Luther said. "Just you promise me that you kill some damn scorpions, and that you bring this girl to a good place to live. Or Ra above, I will chase your ass across the galaxy."

  Emet smiled wryly. "Join the club." He clasped his friend's shoulder. "Come with us, Luther. The scorpions are going to annex this sector soon enough. I know it. You know it. The days of bribing them are over. The scorpions will tear this place down. We all must fight now. So fight with the Heirs of Earth. We could use a guy like you."

  Luther lit another cigarette. He stared into the distance, thoughtful. Finally he shook his head.

  "I got the cancer in my belly, Emet."

  Emet inhaled slowly. The news spun his head. "I'm sorry, Luther."

  "Yeah, I am too, Emet. Doc says I only have a few months to live. Maybe only weeks. Thousands of years of doctors tinkering around, and still ain't nobody got the damn cure. Fight?" He shook his head. "I'm too old, Emet. Too damn old and too damn sick. I've lived here in the Relic all my life. Let me die here."

  Rowan approached slowly. She held the old man's callused hand.

  "Or you can die fighting for a cause," she whispered, gazing up into his eyes. "You can die among friends. Me. Emet. And many other humans who will accept you. Don't die alone here, Luther. Don't die alone in space, so far from Earth." She smiled and her tears fell. "Besides, who will teach me to smack the bass?"

  "Slap the bass, child, slap the bass." Luther heaved a sigh. He looked at Emet. "You sure you want an old fool flying with you?"

  Emet nodded. "That's all we are, friend. A bunch of old fools with an old dream."

  Luther huffed. "Well, seems you got one more old fool with you." He winked at Rowan. "At least this one can fry up some flapjacks."

  Rowan grinned, too happy to even cover her teeth. "And we'll listen to lots of blues together. Wait till you hear everything on the Earthstone!"

  A few hours later, they flew out.

  Emet had come here to buy another T-class tanker, one that could be refitted with shields and canons, made to look like the Jerusalem, a decoy he would need in the battle ahead. That old tanker now flew behind the Jerusalem, Luther at the helm. And behind it flew fifty other ships, every spaceworthy old beater Luther had, robots at their helms.

  Emet stood on the bridge of the Jerusalem, and Rowan stood at his side.

  "Corporal," Emet said, "today you were disobedient, insufferable, and impudent. You spoke out of turn. You contradicted me, your superior officer. And you also might have saved humanity."

  He gave her a thin smile, but she stared at him, face blank, fear in her eyes.

  "I didn't save humanity," she whispered. "But I saved Luther's life, didn't I?"

  Emet lost his smile. "What do you mean?"

  "What would you have done, sir?" Rowan stared steadily into his eyes, a feat few in his fleet dared. "If Luther had refused to sell you his ship. You would have stolen it, wouldn't you? If he fought back, you . . ." Her eyes strayed toward the rifle hanging across his back, then she looked into his eyes again. "I intervened, sir, not because I was afraid we wouldn't get the ship. I knew you wouldn't leave without it. I was not afraid for us." Her voice dropped to a shaky whisper. "I was afraid for him."

  Emet looked ahead into space, jaw tight. "I would not have harmed him."

  "And if he had fought you? Pulled a gun, tried to protect his—"

  "You forget yourself, Corporal," Emet said. "It's not for you to question my motives, plans, or decisions."

  "I will always question them, sir," Rowan said, voice cold. "Because they affect me. They affect my sister. They affect all of us. You chose to take me on your missions. To put me here on the bridge. To mentor me. And I will not be silent, not when I see you veer into immorality."

  Emet felt rage flare in him. His fists tightened. He took a deep breath and looked at Rowan.

  "Emery, suppose Luther had resisted. Suppose I killed him, stole his ships. Horrible crimes. Horrible. Theft. Murder. Betrayal. Enough to get me into hell if such a place exists. But if I had left without the decoy ship I need? We could lose the war. Millions could die. Would I not be a greater monster if I allowed millions to perish?"

  Rowan hesitated. "I don't know."

  "These are the decisions soldiers must make," Emet said. "These are the decisions soldiers have had to make since the dawn of history. Sometimes we must take one life, even an innocent life, to save many. We are sol
diers. We deal in death and life. We kill to save. And it is a heavy burden."

  Rowan gazed ahead into space, silent for a moment. "Today goodness won," she finally said. "Today I was kind, and I swayed him with my kindness, without needing your gun." She looked at him. "Sir, perhaps I'm naive. But I believe that goodness always wins."

  Emet nodded. "You are naive. Your father was like you. He believed in goodness. Rowan, I admire your kindness. You have a deep sense of justice. But do not let your compassion lead you to weakness. Cling to your righteousness. But burn away the innocence. Burn away the girl. Become the soldier."

  She nodded. "You're good too, sir. I know it. I can see it. You were hurt many times, and you saw more than I can imagine. But there is goodness inside you. I forgive you, sir." Her eyes dampened. "For blasting me out of the airlock. I forgive you."

  They flew on through the darkness. The front line loomed before them, a scar of light across space. The Heirs of Earth flew toward it.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Bay was flying through space, seeking the Weeping Weaver Guildhall, when he saw the front line ahead.

  At first he mistook it for a galactic spiral arm. The stream flowed across space, gleaming with countless lights, blue and white and beautiful. He put down his drawing—the paper featured an elven archer battling a dragon—and leaned back to admire the view.

  I've never seen the spiral arm look so bright, he thought. It almost looks like—

  He frowned and leaned forward.

  The small lights were swarming, swirling, flashing bright then vanishing. It looked as if the galaxy were breaking apart, supernova after supernova raging with white fury.

  That was when Bay realized: this was not the Milky Way. It was a battle. The largest battle he had ever seen.

  Thousands—maybe even millions—of starships were flying, firing, and exploding ahead.

  "The front line," he whispered.

  He stared, for a moment struck by how oddly beautiful it was. Horrifying. A tragedy. But sickeningly beautiful from a distance.

  And it was blocking their way.

  Both Brooklyn and Coral were asleep. Brooklyn was humming in sleep mode, running her background threads to clean up databases, scan for corruptions, archive old files, and tweak her algorithms. She called it dreaming, and she often woke up with memories of her various files.