Daniel Arenson - The Heirs of Earth (Children of Earthrise Book 1)

"Fellas!" Bay said, waving his twisted hand. "Nice to see ya. You're looking extra, uh . . . wormy today. Been drinking all your stomach bile?"

"Spare us your toadying," the weegles said. "You owe us fifteen thousand scryls. Pay up. Or our grugs will swallow you whole, and we will digest your flesh over centuries."

"How can your grugs—in plural—devour me whole?" Bay said. "You have three asteroids. There's only one of me."

"Then we'll slice you into three pieces and devour you that way!" the weegles shrieked. "Do not think that you can fool us with your tricky words, pest. We beat you at Five Card Bluff, and your bet was fifteen thousand. Pay now or die."

Bay grumbled. "Muck you guys. You cheated, yo."

"That is irrelevant!" they screeched. "You still lost. You still owe us. Since you refuse to pay with scryls, you will pay with flesh. We will enjoy drinking your stomach acids."

The transmission died.

Bay groaned. "Drink this!" he said to the blank monitor, grabbing his crotch.

"Really, dude?" Brooklyn said. "That was crude. You should have said something like: Why don't you drink coffee instead?" The starship paused for effect. " Poisoned coffee."

"That is horrible, Brooklyn. Ra damn, you need a humor upgrade."

"I need an upgrade like I need a poisoned cup of coffee!" The starship laughed.

"Brooklyn, please shut up."

The living rocks were charging forward again, even faster than before. More than ever, Bay wished he had two working hands. He could have flown and fought at the same time. But there was no use using the ship's weapons now, not if he hoped to keep piloting.

He had won quite a few scryls down on the grimy moon of Koralon Ceti, a lawless world overrun with casinos and fighting pits. The tiny crystal skulls, each the size of a bean, jangled in his pack. The skulls came from the heads of starflies, pesky buggers bred on some distant, heavily-guarded world. The Concord Mint harvested the starflies, cleaned their skulls, and released them into circulation. It was one of the few currencies—along with slaves and fuel—accepted across all Concord worlds, this alliance of planets where Bay wandered.

None of these planets were his home. Bay had no home. He was a human. Among all sentient species in the galaxy, only humans had no homeworld. Even the damn weegles had a planet of their own somewhere. Bay had spent his life wandering from world to world, station to station. Since running away from his father at age fourteen, he had been flying this starship between casinos and brothels, gambling, saving, hoarding.

He was twenty-four. Someday, maybe even by his thirtieth birthday, it would be enough.

Enough money to buy a new hand, he thought. A prosthetic that can type. That can hold tools. That can hold a woman. And then I'll settle down. I'll get a decent job somewhere. I'll find a secret world where weegles, exterminators, and Peacekeepers can't find me. I'll find a real human girl—not a robot, not a vemale hologram, but a real woman, flesh and blood, a human like me. And I'll have peace.

He blinked away tears. He looked at his pack full of tiny, chinking crystal skulls. None of those dreams would come true if the weegles caught him.

And the asteroids were gaining on him.

Bay cursed his slow starship. To be honest, the ISS Brooklyn was not a starship at all, not a true one. Brooklyn had originally been a mere shuttlecraft, a small vessel used for ferrying a handful of passengers between a mothership and planet. Bay had stolen the shuttle years ago from his father, the legendary Admiral Emet Ben-Ari.

Some called Emet a hero, others an outlaw. The Concord Peacekeepers called him a terrorist mastermind. Whatever the case was, Emet Ben-Ari claimed to be descended from the Golden Lioness herself, the mythical leader of Earth who had slain many aliens. Emet now commanded the Heirs of Earth, a fleet of twenty starships and five hundred human warriors—the only human army in the galaxy.

Bay had no guilt over stealing one measly shuttle.

Fine. Maybe a little bit of guilt. But not enough to return the vessel.

Bay had modified the shuttle, of course, adding an azoth engine for warp speed, mounting cannons onto the prow, and installing a rudimentary AI system, one normally used on larger vessels. Like a true starship, Brooklyn could now fly faster than light, fight in a battle, and—regrettably—sass the pilot. The Inheritors named their starships after old Earth cities. So Bay had chosen a borough. Earth's Brooklyn had not been a true city, and this was not a true starship. The name fit.

This tiny vessel, not much larger than a van from old Earth, was Bay's only home.

For a decade now, Bay had lived in this cramped space, wandering from world to world, fleeing exterminators, bounty hunters, creditors, and even his father. Sadly, cardsharps chasing him was nothing new. It was life.

The starship piped up again.

"Proximity alert!" Brooklyn said. "Dude, proximity alert!"

The grugs were getting uncomfortably close. One of the asteroids belched, spewing molten rock. Bay cursed and yanked the joystick, tugging Brooklyn sideways. He dodged the spray, but droplets sizzled against the hull.

"Dude!" she cried. "I was just painted!"

Another grug charged from their port side, jaws snapping. Bay swerved, narrowly escaping the chomping stone jaws. A third asteroid tumbled from above, chortling, and Bay floored the throttle. Brooklyn blazed on afterburner. They just barely dodged the rolling stone.

Bay slammed at his communicator, hailing his attackers.

"Boys, boys!" he said, sweating now. "We can work this out. Maybe over a nice round of ale. I'm buying. And—"

"Devour him!" the weegles shrieked. "Grugs, swallow him whole!"

"Again with the plural!" Bay shouted, hanging up on them. Boring conversation anyway.

The grugs were snapping their jaws, banging into one another, desperate for the meal. One asteroid chomped on Brooklyn's wing, clipping the edge. The starship howled and careened.

It was a moment before Bay could right the ship. He pulled the joystick toward his chest, soaring, desperate to rise higher, to flee the beasts. The asteroids roared below him, jaws open like baby birds hungry for the worm. Inside their mouths, waiting deep in the gullets, the parasites waited.

Bay couldn't outrun these beasts. He'd have to pay up. Or fight.

"Mucking hell," Bay muttered, spinning Brooklyn around.

He faced the enemy.

"Um, dude?" Brooklyn said.

He shoved the throttle down, charged toward the grugs, and released the joystick.

"Dude!" Brooklyn screamed. "You're gonna get us killed!"

Bay grabbed the cannon controls.

He opened fire.

He had splurged a year ago. After snatching the golden watch off a dead exterminator—a tentacled son of a bitch who had tried to remove Bay from a bar—he had spoiled Brooklyn, buying her a good pair of cannons. Now shells the size of fists flew toward the grugs, leaving trails of fire.

The living asteroids shut their mouths and eyes, becoming balls of featureless stone.

The shells exploded against the beasts, chipping off bits of rock but otherwise doing the grugs no harm.

And now they were only meters away.

"Ra damn it!" Bay said.

He released the cannons. He grabbed the joystick. He tried to veer in time, and the grugs opened their jaws again, and—

He slammed into stone.

Sparks blazed across the starboard, blinding him.

Alarms blared.

The engine died.

A wing snapped off.

Brooklyn screamed.

Bay worked in a fury, reigniting the dead engine, shoving the throttle again. More grugs surrounded him. He managed to break free, to spurt outward like a wet fish from grabbing hands. But he was spinning madly. The stars spun around him. Only by miracle was the hull not breached, but ugly dents deformed it, and Brooklyn would not be flying through an atmosphere anytime soon.