The Heirs of Earth

by Daniel Arenson

  One shard slammed into a woman, tearing through her. She fell, gasping, dying, her flesh gleaming with crystal shards. A stalactite cracked and fell, crushing a boy.

  From the shadows, like a gushing river, the scorpions roared forth. Each was larger than the largest man. They scurried up the walls, raced across the ceiling, and leaped down from above. Their pincers ripped through humans like scissors through yarn. One man tried to fight, only for a stinger to burst through his chest, dripping blood and venom. The heart fluttered on its tip like the last leaf on a winter branch. The shimmering webs of moths caught fire and curled inward, racing with luminous lines of fire, eerily beautiful wings of angelic death.

  We were lions, David thought, gazing at the terror, at hell unfolding around him. Now we are lambs.

  Those who had guns fired as they ran. But their bullets could not stop these creatures. Even the Inheritor warships had been unable to fight them. The scorpions swarmed, taking life after life. Humanity fell in darkness, so far from home.

  Once we ran on green fields.

  They ran on hard stones.

  Once we were masters of the sky.

  They bled underground.

  Once we were heroes.

  They died, screaming, afraid.

  "Earth," David whispered, running with his family, delving into the darkness. He clutched his amulet, the precious Earthstone, the treasure of their lost homeland. "It's real. We must believe. We must remember. We must find our way home."

  "Home," Rowan whispered, held in his arms.

  "Home," Fillister repeated, fluttering his dragonfly wings in the toddler's hand.

  Only a handful of survivors reached the spaceport. It was an echoing cavern, the walls inlaid with uncut diamonds, jewels that were worthless for those who craved but food and shelter and memories of home. The colony's starship stood in the cavern, draped with lichen and cobwebs. The ISS Whitehorse was old and slow and clunky, a warship past its prime. It was the ship David had once commanded, part of the Inheritor fleet. It was the ship he had fled in. The Whitehorse had taken the colonists here, abandoning the war. Tonight perhaps it would offer salvation.

  "Into the ship!" David cried. Behind him, the scorpions were already entering the cavern, chortling, draped with human remains and hungry for more.

  "Fillister, open the roof!" David said.

  The robotic dragonfly buzzed, still held in Rowan's hands. The little machine could interface with every electronic component in the starship and hangar.

  "Happy to comply!" the tiny robot chirped, and his eyes shone.

  The stone ceiling parted, opening like a cat's eye, revealing the storming sky. Lightning flashed and rain fell into the cavern.

  And there were more scorpions above.

  They had been waiting.

  The arachnids plunged through the opening into the cavern, claws lashing.

  Some landed atop the ISS Whitehorse, denting the starship. Other scorpions landed on colonists, and their pincers sliced through flesh, and they feasted. Colonists tried to reach the starship, only for the scorpions to tear them down. A few humans tried to flee back into the crystal cave, but there too they found waiting claws and lashing stingers.

  David stepped close to his wife, rifle raised. Jade stood near her mother, eyebrows pushed low over her green eyes. Her chin was raised, and she held her toy sword high, but tears wet her cheeks.

  "I will fight them, Daddy," Jade said. "I'm a fighter."

  Rowan, four years younger and always so somber, clutched her robotic dragonfly, whispering to her toy.

  "Be brave, Fillis'er," Rowan whispered. "I keep you safe."

  Around the family, the last of the colonists died. Blood washed the floor, hiding the shine of diamonds.

  A familiar laugh rose.

  Across a carpet of death, he walked forth.

  His claws tore into bodies. A grin stretched across his massive jaws, and blood mottled his teeth, each one like a dagger. He was different from the other scorpions, twice the size, and rather than black, his exoskeleton was crimson and gleaming, the color of deep wounds. His eyes blazed gold and cruel like pools of molten metal eager to swallow flesh.

  David knew him.

  Here rose the emperor himself, the lord of the Skra-Shen. The creature that had murdered David's brothers.

  David spat out the beast's name, twisting the words with his hatred.

  "Sin Kra."

  The arachnid clattered closer, grinning. Two long white tongues emerged from his mouth, sizzling, and licked his teeth.

  "David Emery," the scorpion hissed, his words dripping saliva and mirth. "The great warrior, second-in-command of the Heirs of Earth—found cowering in a hole like a maggot."

  David stood, shielding his family behind his body. He raised his chin. "I left the Heirs of Earth long ago, Sin Kra. I sought merely life for my people."

  Sin Kra chortled, the sound like shrapnel jangling in a can. "You are still pests. You are humans." The scorpion's face twisted, and he spat out severed fingers. "There can be no life for you. I will purify the galaxy. All pests must die."

  David raised his railgun. He had only a few rounds left. Perhaps enough to slay the beast.

  "You will not harm my family!" he said. "Take me if you must. Spare them."

  David tried to sound strong, but he couldn't help it. His voice cracked with those last words. The memories flooded him. The birth of his daughters. Joyous days, reading the few books they had salvaged from their last hideout. Nights of gentle lovemaking, his wife in his arms. Rowan's eyes widening in delight as Fillister, her dear dragonfly, sang and danced. Evenings around the campfire, singing the anthem of Earth, an ancient song called Earthrise.

  As if they could read his mind, Rowan and Jade began to sing that song now. Their voices were soft and pure.

  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

  Sarai joined the song, her voice shaky but clear, singing the second verse.

  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

  And now David sang with them, voice soft.

  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

  Their song ended. The scorpions crept in from all sides, surrounding the family, crushing corpses beneath their claws. They covered the ceiling, the floor, the walls, slowly advancing, black and demonic, a shell of death. Between them, so small, the two girls began to sing again, voices nearly drowning under the shrieking cries of alien hunger.

  Sin Kra looked at the girls and snorted. He turned his massive, serrated head toward the scorpions behind him.

  "Take the children alive," he said. "We'll bring them home. Our hatchlings can torture them for sport. Kill the adults."

  The scorpions roared and stormed forth.

  David fired his railgun.

  His shell slammed into Sin Kra's head. It was a blast that could have torn through a tank, but it did nothing more than knock the emperor's head aside, leaving the smallest of dents.

  The creature laughed.

  The scorpions lashed their claws.

  Sarai shouted, firing her own railgun. At such short range, her rounds did real damage. One bullet slammed into a claw, tearing it off. Another bullet cracked a scorpion's exoskeleton, and gooey flesh oozed out, gray and quivering. David fired too, round after round, wounding but not killing the beasts. Even little Jade was fighting, swinging her crystal sword.

  "Into the Whitehorse!" David cried.

  He backed toward the starship
, firing rapidly. A scorpion leaped from the ship's roof, but a blast from David's gun knocked it aside. Claws tore into David's thigh. He fell to his knees. He rose, Rowan weeping in his arms. He fired more rounds, inching toward the starship door. If they could only fly, break through . . .

  He reached the airlock.

  He swung the door open.

  "Sarai, into the ship!" he cried.

  His wife nodded. She ran, holding Jade in her arms.

  An instant before she could enter the starship, Sin Kra reached her.

  The massive beast lashed his claws, severing Sarai's arms.

  Sarai screamed.

  The crimson scorpion lifted Jade in his pincers, careful not to harm the girl. Sarai's hands still held the child.

  "Mommy!" Jade screamed.

  Sin Kra laughed—a sound like shattering stones—and tossed the girl toward the scorpions behind him.

  Then his stinger thrust, impaling Sarai, tearing through her chest and ripping out her heart.

  As she fell, Sarai looked at David. Tears filled her eyes. And then those eyes went dark.

  David stood by the starship's open airlock, holding Rowan in his arms. The toddler stared around in shock.

  "What happened to Mommy?" she said.

  "Daddy!" Jade screamed, the scorpions clutching her, carrying her off. She was swinging her crystal sword, unable to harm the pincers.

  David stood, torn. To one side—an open starship, a chance to maybe save Rowan, precious and pure. To his other side—his sweet Jade, his firstborn, carried away to torture and death.

  Smirking, Sin Kra tossed down Sarai's severed arms. The scorpion met David's gaze.

  "Choose," the emperor said.

  David unslung the Earthstone amulet from around his neck. The gem gleamed, hanging from a chain, more precious than any crystal in this cave. Here was a crystal from home. It was no larger than his thumb, yet it contained the cultural heritage of Earth. He placed the amulet around Rowan's neck. She looked at him with huge, teary eyes.

  "Keep this stone safe, Rowan," he said. "Keep yourself safe. I love you. Always."

  "What happened to Mommy?" she said, lips trembling.

  Tears in his eyes, David shoved Rowan into the airlock, then fired his rifle, knocking scorpions back.

  "Fillister!" he shouted. "Fly her out! Fly high!"

  The tiny dragonfly extended wings and rose from Rowan's arms, buzzing. He nodded. "Happy to comply!"

  "Daddy!" Rowan screamed, and David wept as he slammed the airlock door shut, sealing her inside.

  David knelt and lifted his wife's fallen rifle. He rose, a railgun in each hand. Before him spread the swarm. Dozens of scorpions. Maybe hundreds. Filling the chamber. David stood before them alone. In the distance, Jade was still screaming, but her voice was growing dimmer. He could no longer see her.

  But I can still give Rowan a chance.

  He screamed and pulled the triggers, firing both railguns.

  Scorpions shrieked as bullets peppered them. Behind David, the starship's engines were rumbling, belching out smoke. Fillister would be hovering over the controls, operating the starship. Scorpions leaped onto the Whitehorse, tearing at the hull. David fired on them, knocking them down.

  The starship began to rise.

  "Daddy!" Jade screamed somewhere deep in the caves. "Help me, Daddy!"

  The ISS Whitehorse blazed out fire, soaring toward the opening in the ceiling. Scorpions leaped from above, but the Whitehorse extended her cannons and fired, cutting through them. The ship blasted out into the smoke and clouds. David heard the cannons still booming as the Whitehorse engaged the enemy starships above.

  The fire burned David. His hair smoldered. His legs were lacerated. He no longer cared. The only thing that mattered now was saving his daughters. He didn't know if the Whitehorse could make it into space, if it could dodge the scorpion ships that filled the sky. He didn't know if he could fight his way toward Jade.

  I failed. My people are gone. My wife is gone. My daughters are gone. Our world is gone.

  He stared up at the sky, and he saw the Whitehorse high above, carrying his youngest away.

  If you survive, Rowan, do not forget Earth. Remember always. Remember our home.

  He took a step, still hoping to reach Jade.

  A pincer snapped shut, severing his leg.

  David fell.

  "Daddy!" Jade cried in the distance, deep in the caverns that coiled through this cursed world.

  David crawled.

  Inching forward. Still trying to reach her. His precious Jade.

  Her voice in the distance faded, and David wept.

  A clawed leg slammed down before him, its shell crimson. David saw himself reflected in that exoskeleton—his hair burnt, his face a bloodied mask, his eyes haunted.

  He looked up. Sin Kra was staring at him, grinning toothily. Sarai's blood still stained the scorpion's jaws. Above the beast's serrated head, his stinger curled, dripping venom, ready to strike.

  David fired his last round.

  The bullet slammed into Sin Kra, shattered, and ricocheted. Shrapnel tore into David, sizzling hot, digging into him.

  The gargantuan scorpion leaned close. Claws slammed into David's hands, nailing him to the floor. He bellowed.

  Sin Kra brought his jaws near David's ear.

  "I will not kill Jade," the scorpion hissed, his breath rancid. "I will hurt her. I will twist her. I will make her one of us. She will hunt pests. Die knowing that will be her fate."

  David stared into his tormentor's eyes. Small, golden, alien eyes.

  "You cannot defeat us," David said, voice growing stronger with every word. "We have not forgotten our home. We are not all cowards. The Heirs of Earth will fight you, beast! Humanity will rise again!"

  As the stinger tore through his chest, David closed his eyes.

  The pain was fading now. The sounds melted into a murmur like waves. He had never seen the waves of Earth, but he imagined that he floated upon those distant seas.

  We came from Earth's oceans, he thought. Someday, Rowan, may you walk upon golden shores.

  He thought of his fallen wife. He thought of Jade. He wept. There was no more pain now, only the waves rolling over him, pulling him under, then an endless field of stars until their lights went out one by one, leaving only darkness.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Most folk didn't believe Earth was real, but Rowan was not most folk. She believed.

  She knew.

  "It's real," she whispered, huddling in the steel duct. "Earth is out there. And someday we'll go there. You know that, right, Fill?"

  Her robotic dragonfly tried to flap his wings, but they creaked and shed rust. The poor little creature looked a fright. Rust, dust, and grime coated him, and dents covered his little body. Rowan kept repairing him, but every day, air whistled through the vents, blowing the tiny robot away. Often it took an hour to find him in the ductwork, then another hour to repair him, lovingly tightening sprockets, unbending the teeth of broken gears, and oiling aching joints.

  "Course I do, Row!" Fillister said. His voice sounded a little too grainy today, his speakers perhaps clogged with dust. "Real as the gears in me body."

  Rowan smiled. "Someday we'll be there," she whispered. "We'll walk along the beach and feel the sand beneath our feet. Well, I will. You can fly beside me. We'll smell the sea air, then find a forest, and we'll walk among the trees and see horses."

  "Horses knock about grasslands, not bloomin' forests," Fillister said.

  "We'll walk in grasslands too, and we'll feel the sunlight, and we'll drink water from streams. Real water, cool and refreshing, not just condensation on air conditioners. We'll run and fly, not crawl through ducts, and we'll see sunlight, Fill. Warm and yellow like in the stories. And we'll eat real food! Not just scraps. Food like in the movies." She smiled shakily. "I've always wanted to taste some pancakes. They look really good."

  Tears filled Rowan's eyes. When she tried to wipe them awa
y, she winced. Her black eye was still swollen, still painful. She had dared to climb out of the ducts last night, to try to steal some food from the casino trash bins. The janitor had caught her—a hulking alien with stony skin and fists the size of her head. One of those fists had left her bruised and reeling and cowering here in the ducts. She had not eaten dinner that night, but Fillister had grabbed her some discarded seeds from the floor before artificial dawn.

  She turned toward one of the stainless steel walls of the duct. In the dim light from Fillister's eyes, Rowan could see her blurry reflection. The black eye looked as bad as it felt. Her eye was narrowed to a slit. She touched the puffy bruise and cringed.

  She sighed and looked at the rest of her reflection. As always, Rowan wondered if she looked like her parents. She could barely remember them, only what she saw in the single, smudged photograph she kept in her pocket.

  Her hair was brown and short. She cut it herself, leaving it just long enough to cover her ears and fall across her forehead, but not long enough to cover her eyes. Those eyes were almond-shaped and dark brown—at least, the eye that wasn't squinting through a bruise. She had a young face, round and soft. She was sixteen already, but it was still the face of a girl.

  Earth had fallen two thousand years ago. All the old races of humanity had mingled in their long, painful exile. But Rowan had watched many movies from the Earthstone, and she knew old Earth well. Often she thought herself a mix of Caucasian, Asian, maybe a touch of Hispanic tossed in—but it was hard to tell. The old nations of humanity were long gone, and the survivors had mingled in their diaspora. Today humans were few and far between, the last exiles from a long-lost world, struggling to survive in the darkness of space. As far as Rowan knew, she could be the only human left.

  I wish I could see you again, Mom and Dad. She lowered her head. I wish I could see Earth.