She knew that she should sneak away. She knew it was folly to tempt the beast.
But damn it, let the crab hunt her. For the first time in Rowan's life, there was another human in Paradise Lost. It was real. He was really here, grogging at the Drunken Truckers bar, and Rowan would not allow Belowgen to hurt him. To hurt the first human Rowan had seen in years.
"You'll never catch me, you walking seafood platter!" she cried through the vent. "Also, your model ships suck, and your lumpy red shell looks like a chimpanzee's ass!"
Belowgen raised his head toward the vent and gasped. He reached into his mud pit and fished out a dripping pistol. Rowan fled as gunshots peppered the ducts.
Belowgen's claws tore the vent open. His eyestalks popped into the duct, and his barbels followed, flailing like a sea anemone.
"Your days are numbered, pest!" the alien rumbled. "I won't let you keep breeding in the air vents. I'll call the damn scorpions if I must. They'll take care of you and your kind!"
Rowan blew him a raspberry, then scurried around a corner. Gunshots boomed. Bullets hit the duct, punching holes through the steel. She kept crawling until the marshcrab's roaring faded to an echo.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
As Rowan crawled through the ducts, leaving Belowgen's office behind, a tremble seized her. Her breath shook.
"Do you think Belowgen was serious, Fill?" she said. "About calling the scorpions?" She shuddered. "Exterminators are one thing. We know how to escape those. But scorpions . . ."
The dragonfly was flying beside her. "Not bloody likely, squire. Got to be an idle threat. Paradise Lost is near the border, but this is still Concord space, innit? Skra-Shen are Hierarchy beasties. They ain't welcome here. Don't you worry."
Rowan winced.
The sudden memory pounded through her.
A scorpion reared before her, a monster the size of a god. Its shell was the color of blood. Its pincers sliced the arms off her mother. Its claws stole her sister, and it laughed. Rowan still remembered that laughter, that cackle. Still remembered her sister screaming. Her mother bleeding.
"What happened to Mommy?" Rowan had asked, not understanding, so scared.
She froze in the ducts. She forced a deep breath, forced her mind to return to the present. That was her earliest memory. Her only memory from outside Paradise Lost. It was the day the scorpions had killed her parents and stolen her sister. A day she would never forget.
"I want to believe you, Fill," she whispered. "That it's just an idle threat. But I'm scared. Hierarchy space is right nearby. What if Belowgen calls the scorpions, has them hunt me, and they tear down these ducts, and—"
"He won't, and they won't," Fillister said. "Belowgen is a businessman. Well, businesscrab, at least. He knows that a horde of angry scorpions in Paradise Lost is bad for business. Aliens hate humans, it's true. But they don't want the Hierarchy knocking about here either. He might call in another exterminator, one of the usual sorry lot, and we'll flee that one too. Scorpions?" The dragonfly huffed. "He's full of shite."
Rowan couldn't help but laugh. "I love it when my robot dragonfly swears." She sighed. "Come on, Fill. Let's go to Drunken Truckers and find this human. If he has a starship, and if he lets us hitchhike, I want outta here." She looked around her at the ducts, and she inhaled deeply. "You kept me safe in here for fourteen years. But it's no longer safe. We have to leave. Farther from the Hierarchy. Farther from crabs, casinos, and all this crap. We'll find a planet with grass. With sunlight." Her eyes dampened. "We'll film Dinosaur Island or maybe another movie we write. We'll never be afraid or hurt or hungry. We'll be happy, Fill. All right? We'll be happy."
"I don't have sensors to feel sunlight," Fillister said, "or grass beneath me metal feet. But I care deeply for your happiness, Row. Seeing you smile—a true joyous smile—will warm me microchip."
She laughed. "That sounded almost dirty." Hurriedly, she covered her mouth. "Besides, my smile is ugly and filled with crooked teeth."
"Crooked teeth are easier to repair than broken hearts."
She snorted. "Not on Paradise Lost. The one dentist here only treats tusks. And my teeth are that bad."
But maybe soon she could leave Paradise Lost. Yes. Maybe this human had a spaceship of his own. Or maybe he had enough money to buy them both tickets on a commercial ship. They could fly away together. To a planet with soft grass, with warm sunlight, and with affordable dental care.
She gently folded up Fillister and placed him in her pocket. Pubs were dangerous for the little robot; many drunkards carried flyswatters. But Fillister would be right with her should she need him.
Rowan crawled onward, heading in the opposite direction. Finally she was crawling above Drunken Truckers—the dingiest, sleaziest, and cheapest bar in Paradise Lost.
The showy pimps, champion gladiators, and drug barons grogged in the glittering clubs near the space station's crest. Pickpockets, failed boxers, and small time smugglers drank in smaller pubs halfway down the station, their windows affording a view of the neon glow. If you couldn't afford those places, you went deeper. You went to Drunken Truckers.
Ostensibly, the Drunken Truckers pub was for cargo pilots. But even that gruff lot had begun to avoid the place, spending their money instead at the competition, a nearby joint called Truckin' and Muckin' Bar and Brothel.
These days, only the lowest of the lowlifes came to Drunken Truckers. Beggars who had collected enough scryls for moonshine. Down-on-their-luck slobs, their fortunes devoured by the glittering jaws of slot machines. Smalltime thugs too weak to intimidate anyone but one another. They congregated here. If Paradise Lost had a hell, here was its lowest circle. There were cockroaches in the sink, mice on the floor, and a human at the bar.
Peeking through a vent in the wall, Rowan caught her breath.
There he was.
A living, breathing, grogging human.
He was a young man, probably in his mid-twenties. He had dark blond hair. Like hers, it was messy and just long enough to fall across the ears. But unlike her, stubble covered his face, almost thick enough to be called a beard. He wore shabby clothes. A gray sweater with a hood. Baggy blue cargo pants. Frayed shoes. Still, these were a lot nicer than the dusty dress Rowan wore, her own handiwork, sewn from a pilfered blanket.
The human hunched over his mug. His head was lowered, his eyes somber. He seemed so sad that Rowan wanted to weep. She crawled along the duct to a closer vent, one near the floor, right by his feet. She peeked up at him.
He's so sad, she thought. What happened to him?
Suddenly he turned his head.
He looked right at her.
Rowan's heart nearly stopped. She pulled back and began fleeing.
"Wait!" the man said. He leaped off his barstool, spilling his grog.
But Rowan kept scuttling through the duct. All her courage had fled.
"Yo, girl!" His voice filled the duct. "What's your name?"
She kept crawling. She reached a bend in the ducts. She crawled around the corner, then paused, panting. Her heart pounded against her thin ribs. She took several long, deep breaths.
Courage, Rowan, she told herself. Courage for Earth.
She winced and peeked around the corner, back toward the bar. The man had removed the vent's grid. He stared into the duct.
"What's your name?" he repeated.
"Rowan!" she called out, amazed and proud that her voice did not shake.
He stared at her for a moment long, then spoke. "I'm Bay. Can I buy you a drink?"
"I'm too young to drink grog, and you're too poor to buy me a milkshake."
They stared at each other for a moment longer. Rowan was frozen, torn between fleeing and staying.