The Heirs of Earth

by Daniel Arenson

  He worked for twenty-six hours straight. He saved lives. He saw lives end. Finally he returned to his shuttle, flew off the Kos, and returned to the Jerusalem, the ship where he made his home. He walked through the cavernous hold, a chamber full of soldiers ready to fight the next battle.

  May I never see them in my hospital, he thought.

  He passed the Firebird hangar, walked down a corridor, up a staircase, and finally reached his cabin. Duncan paused outside the doorway, breathing heavily, and placed a hand on his chest.

  It hurt.

  That damn pain again. Just under the left ribs.

  A pain in his old heart.

  I'm overworked, he thought. I'm overstressed. And yes, dammit, I'm overweight. A deep thought bubbled up. I'm dying.

  Duncan snorted. Nonsense. He had decades ahead of him! It was the wee ones who were in danger. Not him. And the wee one needed him, dammit. He would be strong for them.

  Yet it took him extra long to catch his breath.

  He needed a shower. He needed a long sleep. And more than anything, he needed a stiff drink of good Scotch.

  Finally he opened the door and entered his cabin.

  Duncan's eyes widened.

  "What the—?" he blurted out.

  A group of pilots filled his home! They were grogging his booze, sitting at his dinner table, and playing poker with his cards!

  Duncan stormed into the cabin.

  "What is the meaning of this, ya no-good rascals?" he roared.

  Mairead turned toward him, laughing. "Hi there, Da! Care to join us?"

  Mairead "Firebug" McQueen was a young woman, only twenty-three years old, barely more than a girl. Yet she already commanded the Firebird Fleet. She was loud, rude, and drunk half the time. She was also the best damn pilot they had.

  She looked so much like her late mother. Mairead had the same mane of red hair, untamed like wildfire. Her eyes were green and fierce. Freckles covered her pale face. She wore a jumpsuit, carried a pistol on her hip, and was chomping on a cigar.

  Duncan scowled at the girl.

  "I told ya, lass, no playing poker in my home." He turned toward a player across the table, and his eyes widened. "And you, Ramses! I told ya to stay in bed, dammit! Now I find ya playing cards at my own dinner table!"

  Ramses had the grace to look ashamed. "I'm sorry, Doc. The Firebug insisted that I play. Dared me, in fact. Called me a chicken."

  Mairead snorted. She pointed her cigar at him. "I called you a yellowbelly, not a chicken."

  Ramses stiffened. "I faced scorpion fleets in battle, you know."

  Mairead scoffed. "And yet you're scared of playing poker with a girl."

  Ramses leaped to his feet, scattering cards. "I'm not scared of you, Firebug. You're nothing but a card cheat."

  Mairead roared, shoved the table aside, and it slammed down, scattering chips and drinks and cards. The other players leaped back, laughing. Mairead lunged at Ramses, pounding him with her fists.

  "I'll show you a card cheat!"

  Ramses winced, struggling to hold her off. "There are aces falling out your sleeves even now!"

  Mairead stepped back and quickly shoved the aces back into her sleeves. "Those are just my backup cards." She glared at Ramses. "Yellowbelly."

  When they began to argue again, Duncan roared.

  "Out! Out, all of you!" He began shoving pilots out the door. "Ya damn scoundrels! Get yer backside back to bed, Pharaoh. As for the rest of ya, play yer games somewhere else, ya louses. Out, out!"

  They began shuffling out of the room, laughing. They knew Duncan would be calm tomorrow. He knew it too.

  They know I love them, Duncan thought. They know they're all like my children.

  As Mairead made to leave, Duncan held her arm. "Not you, lass."

  She reeled toward him, her red hair flouncing. "But I want to play cards with them!"

  Duncan growled. "You can later. First you're going to clean up this mess." He gestured at the fallen table, spilled drinks, and scattered chips and cards.

  "But—" Mairead floundered, lost for words. Finally she stiffened. "I'm a captain in the Heirs of Earth, Da. I command the Firebird Fleet!"

  "Aye, ya do, lass," Duncan said. "And you're also my daughter, and a rotten one at that. Get ye to cleaning! Then we'll eat some supper."

  "I already ate," she said.

  Duncan snorted. "Pork rinds aren't a meal."

  "They're a glorious meal."

  Duncan growled. "We'll have some proper food. Like a family."

  Mairead seemed ready to argue, and then her eyes softened. She nodded. "Aye, Da. Like a family."

  They were both silent for a moment. Thinking of those they had lost. Of Mairead's mother. Of her brothers. Of those Duncan had not been able to heal. Those he had comforted as they lay dying.

  She cleaned up. Duncan even helped her. They ate a quiet meal.

  They remembered.

  "Hey, Da," Mairead said. "Remember that time the twins pretended to be each other for a whole week?" She laughed. "You believed them!"

  "I did not!" Duncan said. "I was pretending to keep them happy."

  "Yeah, yeah, sure," Mairead said. "You never could tell those two crazy buggers apart."

  "Well it's not my fault you all look like bloody red toothpicks!" Duncan said. "Too skinny, the lot of you."

  Mairead glanced down at Duncan's ample belly. "You could learn a thing or two from us."

  "Nonsense." Duncan sucked in his gut and puffed out his chest. "This is all muscle, lass. That's what you need more of."

  She snorted. "I have a Firebird starfighter. That's my muscle." Mairead smiled softly and looked at their old family photo on the wall. "I wish they could have seen me. Ma and the boys. Seen me become a pilot."

  Duncan reached across the table and patted her hand. "Maybe they do, lass. Maybe they do."

  He didn't really believe that. An afterlife? No, Duncan had seen too many boys and girls die in agony, their bodies torn apart, their minds going mad at the end. Too much pain to believe the soul could carry on. To believe humans were anything but meat. But he also knew something about comforting the grieving.

  Yet as he lay in bed that night, Duncan wondered: Who would comfort him?

  And he knew the answer.

  His daughter comforted him. His friend Emet. All the Heirs of Earth did. Every one of them, every warrior who fought, every refugee who cowered, every human calling out for aid—they were all his children.

  May I heal you all, he thought. May I guide you all home.

  His eyes closed, and Duncan slept.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  For the first time in her life, Leona Ben-Ari was leading the Inheritor fleet to battle.

  Her father was not here. He had gone to rescue Bay.

  Many of her warriors were still wounded, recovering from their last battle.

  Leona herself was bandaged, burnt, still weary after fighting at Hacksaw Cove only yesterday.

  But she flew onward. Toward Hierarchy space. Toward the scorpions. Perhaps toward her death and the fall of the Inheritors.

  But I will fly onward, she thought. I will face my enemies. I will fight with all my strength and courage. Because ahead of me, in the darkness, there are humans in danger. And wherever humans are in danger, the Heirs of Earth will be there.

  She stood on the bridge of the ISS Jerusalem, flagship of the fleet. Her officers stood around her. Like her, they wore brown trousers and blue jackets, uniforms of the Heirs of Earth. No two uniforms were alike. They had no textile factory, no tailors or seamstresses. They had collected scraps of clothes across the galaxy, had sewn some, had stitched and dyed cotton and wool. Their weapons too were varied. Many carried rifles and pistols. Some bore electrical prods, and a few warriors just carried swords and clubs. They looked more like a ragged group of mercenaries than an army. But for Leona's money, they were the best damn warriors in the galaxy.

  The rest of the fleet followed the Jerusalem. Six
teen other warships, all smaller than Jerusalem, all freighters in their previous lives, but fierce and ready for battle.

  Several starfighters circled them in constant vigil, small vessels only large enough for a single pilot. Emet had designed them himself, had named them Firebirds. A holy name. A name from antiquity. The name of old Earth's starfighters, which the Golden Lioness had commanded two thousand years ago. Like the ancient firebird from legend, a magical bird that rose from the ashes, so too did humanity's fleet rise again.

  It was a small fleet. Barely more than a flotilla. Compared to the fleets of powerful civilizations, the Inheritor fleet was laughable.

  "Aye, we're not much of a fleet, lass." A deep voice rumbled behind her. "Some would say we belong in a museum. Most would say the scrap yard."

  Leona turned to see Duncan walking toward her. The doctor wore cargo pants with jangling pockets, a blue overcoat with many buttons and patches, and a pair of goggles that rested on his great bald head. On one hip, he carried a medical kit. On the other, a pistol the size of his forearm. The doctor was sixty, old for a human these days, and his white beard hung down to his belt. But the squat man was still powerful, his shoulders wide, his back strong. Leona was only twenty-seven, but she doubted she could take him in a fight.

  "This is all we have," Leona said. "These few old clunkers. This motley crew of warriors in shabby clothes. But I'm proud of this army. This is the best army in the galaxy. Because this is Earth's army." She wrapped her right hand around her left fist, the Inheritor Salute. "For Earth!"

  Across the bridge, the other warriors returned the salute. "For Earth!"

  Leona turned to stare through the front viewport. The darkness spread before them. The stars streamed at their sides. They were near now. Near the border. Near Hierarchy space. Near the greatest battle of her life.

  I wish you were here, Dad, she thought.

  She had wanted Emet to come. But once, long ago, he had flown to battle and left his son behind. He would not abandon Bay again.

  You're ready, Leona, the admiral had told her. Command the fleet. You can do this.

  She activated the communicator pinned to her lapel, and she transmitted her voice to the entire fleet.

  "Warriors of Earth. This is Commodore Leona Ben-Ari, acting commander of the fleet. Yesterday, we received intelligence that the Skra-Shen, those we call scorpions, have ramped up their hostility toward humanity. Across Hierarchy space, which they fully control, they have implemented a genocidal program they call The Human Solution. Their forces sweep from world to world, capturing humans wherever they hide. With trickery and false promises of safety, they lure humans into their ships, only to transport them to gulocks. In these camps, on barren worlds, the scorpions exterminate their prisoners—our brothers and sisters, our fellow humans. We've learned that over the past year, the scorpions have slain millions of humans. Let us observe a moment of silence in their memory."

  She stood, silent, head lowered. Across the Jerusalem, the others stood silently too.

  Leona spoke again.

  "Today, a scorpion convoy will be hauling a fresh batch of human prisoners to a gulock. The enemy will be transporting the humans in cargo starships we've called deathcars. Their flight path will take them close to the border between Concord and Hierarchy space. If the convoy arrives at the gulock, the human prisoners—there are likely to be hundreds—will be slain. It's our mission to invade Hierarchy space, to attack the deathcar convoy, rescue the human prisoners, and transport them back to the Concord. We can be in and out of Hierarchy space within an hour. The scorpions will dare not chase us back into Concord space; they still observe the treaty of nonaggression between the Concord and Hierarchy civilizations. But we are the Heirs of Earth. We are not bound by such treaties. We will complete our mission. We will save our people. We cannot save the millions of humans who cry out in anguish across Hierarchy worlds. But we can save the prisoners in this convoy! And every life we save is a world entire."

  Leona paused. She knew her soldiers were afraid. But she knew they would fight for her. For humanity. She knew that to save even a single life, they would charge into battle.

  "If we save only one life," she said, "that will be enough. Every human life is precious. Every human life is a world. The battle today will be harsh. The scorpions will fight well. They will be vicious and terrible in their fury. We will be afraid. Some of us will die. But we will not run. We will face them with courage and strength, and we will win! For Earth!"

  "For Earth!" her warriors cried.

  Leona took a step closer to the viewport. She clutched her pistol and narrowed her eyes. A holographic display was counting down the kilometers to the Hierarchy. They would be there in seconds.

  She touched the seashell she wore around her neck.

  I love to sail forbidden seas, Leona thought.

  They crossed the border.

  They flew through Hierarchy space.

  There was no sound, no flashing lights, no assault of a thousand enemy ships. There was just more space. If not for their navigational charts, they would not have known the difference.

  Yet here, everything was different.

  Here space felt a whole lot darker.

  Long ago, Leona knew, the Galactic Alliance had ruled the Milky Way. Once Earth itself, under the leadership of Einav Ben-Ari, had even been a member. But centuries ago, the Galactic War had torn the galaxy apart. Entire civilizations burned. Worlds crashed. The war ended, leaving the Milky Way in ruin. The Galactic Alliance was dead.

  For a long time, chaos reigned. Finally a few thousand civilizations formed the Concord, an alliance that spanned millions of stars. The Peacekeepers were founded—a police force to hold the Concord together. Species who joined the Concord tended to respect science, art, culture, and trade. They dreamed of law, order, and peace. After years of desolation, they birthed a galactic renaissance.

  Of course, the Concord wasn't perfect. Especially not for humans. But despite the problems, the Concord attempted to restore civilization to the Milky Way, to rise from the ashes of the horrible Galactic War. To bring peace to the galaxy. Today, at the height of its power, the Concord stretched across half the Milky Way.

  The Hierarchy was different.

  In the aftermath of the Galactic War, the galaxy's brutal, warlike species formed their own alliance. They were apex predators, hunters, barbarians, warlords. They loathed peace. They detested civilization. They lived for conquest and bloodshed. They formed the Hierarchy and soon controlled the galaxy's second half. They became as mighty as the Concord. Perhaps mightier.

  At first, thousands of species competed within Hierarchy space, but bitter struggles soon established a pecking order. The Skra-Shen were on top. The scorpions now dominated all aspects of Hierarchy society. The scorpions allowed a handful of other species, the particularly vicious ones, to fight for them. Most species they chose to enslave. Others to exterminate.

  Humans were in that last bucket.

  But some among us still fight, Leona thought. You will not find us so easy to kill.

  "We should be seeing the deathcars by now." Leona narrowed her eyes. "Where are you, scorpions?"

  Had she misread the data on the scorpion's memory chip? Had they changed their plans? She was traveling the right way, set to intercept the enemy. Yet she saw only empty space.

  "They should be here," she said. "Damn it."

  "They might be running late," Duncan said.

  She shook her head. "No. I saw their data. They planned this genocide down to the second. Where—"

  Boots thudded. An officer raced toward her. "Commodore! Incoming vessels off our starboard bow!"

  Leona inhaled sharply. She leaped into her seat, grabbed the helm, and spun the Jerusalem around.

  There.

  She saw them.

  She bared her teeth.

  Muck.

  Twenty vessels were flying their way. But these were no deathcars. No cargo vessels with trapped
humans inside.

  These were strikers—scorpion warships.

  "They knew we were coming," Leona said. "They knew we had their memory chip." She hit her comm. "All Inheritor ships, assume defensive positions! Prepare for battle!"

  They all spun toward the enemy, spreading out. The Firebirds formed the vanguard. The heavier warships flew behind them, cannons thrusting forward like pikes.

  From the darkness they came. The strikers. Angels of death.

  The ships were shaped like arrowheads, dark and glimmering, nearly invisible in space. Their red portholes shone like wrathful eyes. These were ships built for one purpose: to kill.

  The Hierarchy border stretched for parsecs. No civilization could patrol it all.

  These ships were waiting for us, Leona knew.

  The fleets stormed toward each other. The enemy's cannons began to glow.

  "Artillery, fire!" Leona cried.

  She grabbed the controls and pulled the triggers. The Jerusalem jolted as the massive cannons fired. Torpedoes roared forward, streaming through space, leaving trails of fire. Around her, the rest of her fleet unleashed its fury. Missiles stormed forth.

  The shells slammed into the strikers.

  Explosions filled space.

  Shards of metal flew. Smoke blasted outward. And the strikers kept charging—dented, cracked, but still very operational.

  Leona stared, teeth bared, breath fast.

  Those shells should have torn them apart.

  "Fire ag—" she began.

  The enemy returned fire.

  Plasma bolts streamed forward and crashed into the Inheritor fleet.

  The Jerusalem's bridge jolted, knocking Leona to the floor. Fire blazed. Smoke blasted from the controls. Alarms blared and people ran everywhere. Through the viewports, Leona saw plasma slam into her other ships, cracking hulls. Warships floundered.

  "Fire!" she cried, struggling to rise. "Take them down! Fire everything!"

  She limped toward the controls and fired the cannons.

  Torpedoes flew from the Jerusalem. Three missed, but the fourth slammed into a striker, and the enemy ship cracked open. The other Inheritor ships were firing a barrage of shells, torpedoes, and photon beams, but the enemy kept charging. The strikers were cracked, a few were burning, but the damn ships still charged.