"We're inside an actual Inheritor starship," she said to Fillister. "A starship Admiral Emet Ben-Ari himself flew here."
A tear streamed down her cheek, she laughed, and she twirled around. Yes. All three.
Her dragonfly spun through the air, doing his own little dance. "It's beautiful."
The Cagayan de Oro was still docking at Paradise Lost, parked in the hangar. Rowan stood alone in the ship's storeroom. Emet was in the cockpit, calibrating his instruments. Bay was across the hangar, fixing Brooklyn, his own starship. For now, Rowan was still stuck in Paradise Lost, this space station where she had spent nearly all her life.
And yet here, inside Emet's starship, was a different world.
A human world.
There was a rack with human weapons. Pistols with triggers. Blades with hilts. Weapons for human hands—not for tentacles, trotters, or claws. There was a closet with clothes—real clothes, not just an old blanket like the one Rowan now wore. There were chairs built for human bodies, not piles of straw, aquariums, pits of mud, or any other alien lounging place.
And on the wall hung a framed photograph of Earth.
Rowan recognized the photograph. She approached and gingerly touched the glass.
"The Blue Marble," she whispered. "I've seen this photo in the Earthstone. Astronauts took it in 1972, over two thousand years ago. It's one of the first times humans have seen Earth from space." A new tear flowed. "I pray that someday we see the blue marble again."
Fillister flew toward the closet, grabbed the handle, and pulled the door open. "First you should dress in human clothes, Row. Emet himself said you should. You can't show up on Earth wearing a blanket."
She felt her cheeks flush. "All right, all right! Jeez, you're worse than a nagging mother."
She approached the closet and began rummaging through the clothes. They were all in Inheritor colors. The Inheritors had no official uniform, but they stuck to brown trousers and blue tops. These came in a variety of shades and styles, anything the Inheritors had picked up or sewn on their travels.
Rowan's eyes widened with delight. Clothes! Real clothes! Trousers and vests and jackets and shirts! Socks and underclothes and hats! Belts and buckles and boots! Actual clothes!
Rowan hopped around in excitement, pulling out clothes, and trying them on.
Her smile soon faded.
She turned toward Fillister, wearing trousers that draped across her feet, a shirt that went down to her knees, and a jacket whose sleeves sloped well past her hands.
"I look like a Ra damn kid wearing his dad's clothes," she said.
"Or like a bunch of raccoons trying to pass as a human," Fillister said.
"Haha, very funny." She rolled her eyes and pulled the clothes off.
She found a measuring tape in the closet. She measured herself and winced. She didn't even stand five feet tall. There was a scale too. When she stepped on it she bit her lip. She would have to choose some heavy clothes if she wanted to weigh a hundred pounds. And maybe soak the clothes first. And add some rocks to her pockets.
"All those years in the ducts, feeding on scraps, left me as small as a child," she said.
Fillister nuzzled her. "We'll never have to sleep in no duct again. You'll grow."
She bit her lip. "I'm turning seventeen next week. I think I'm done growing."
Fillister flew toward a smaller closet and tugged the door open. "Look, Row! Here are the kids' clothes."
She rolled her eyes. "Wonderful. Maybe afterward we can stop by McDonald's for a Happy Meal." She walked toward the children's closet, muttering. "Just peachy."
These clothes fit better. She found a pair of brown trousers with many pockets and buttons, and they fit perfectly. She slipped on a white buttoned shirt with a collar. She needed something blue. There were a handful of jackets and blazers, but they seemed too clunky for battle, easy for an enemy to grab. Instead Rowan chose a navy-blue vest with brass buttons. It fit snugly and felt comfortable enough to fight in.
She turned toward the mirror and examined herself. Her short brown hair was messy, and she passed a hand through it, but that only messed it up further. She couldn't find a hat that fit, so she grabbed goggles from a shelf. She placed them on her head, using them as a headband. It helped a little.
"You look like a true Inheritor," Fillister said.
"I look like a steampunk hobbit," Rowan said.
Fillister nodded. "Must be the big hairy feet."
She cocked an eyebrow. "Aren't you on a roll today?" She found boots that fit and slipped them on. "Great. Now I look like a steampunk hobbit in boots."
Fillister buzzed across her chest, buttoning her vest. "You like hobbits, don't you?"
She sighed. "Yes, and I'm sure the sight of a hobbit will strike terror into the hearts of my enemies."
"That's what a weapon will do," said Fillister. "Come choose one."
She approached the weapons rack. She hefted a few rifles. They were heavy machines, built for large men like Emet. Instead, she chose a pistol. It too was large. For her, it was almost like a rifle. It was shaped like a flintlock from ancient Earth, the kind buccaneers might fire. Brass gears and pipes covered it, and its stock was carved of actual wood, polished and stained. Rowan had always loved gears. The wood was probably alien, not a tree from Earth, but its touch soothed her. The pistol was heavy, almost too heavy for one hand. Good. It would pack a punch.
It came with a belt and holster. When she hung the pistol on her hip, the weight was comforting. She patted the wooden stock.
"This one is ours," she said. "Our gun."
"What will you name it?" Fillister said. "Every weapon needs a name."
"Sting," she said. "Like Frodo's sword." She thought for a moment. "No. Not Sting. Sounds too much like a scorpion. I'll name my gun Lullaby."
Fillister frowned. "Lullaby?"
She nodded. "Because it puts my enemies to sleep." She drew Lullaby, aimed at her reflection in the mirror, and pulled the trigger. The gun was unloaded. Brass gears turned, and it clicked. She nodded and holstered the weapon. "Good old Lullaby."
"Maybe name it Gunny McGunface," Fillister said.
Rowan rolled her eyes. "Her name is Lullaby! Now be quiet."
She looked at herself again in the mirror.
Brown trousers, heavy with buckles and pockets. A blue vest with brass buttons. Goggles on her head. A heavy gun of brass and wood. Around her neck—the Earthstone, a shining crystal, hanging on a chain.
A tiny girl, yes. But not the same Rowan she had been. No more did she wear a blanket as a dress; she wore an Inheritor uniform. No more did she crawl through ducts; she stood in a mighty warship. No more she did hide in shadows; she wore a gun at her side, ready for war.
Her tears flowed.
"It's over, Fillister," she whispered. "Our old life. Who we were. We're strong now. We're strong and we have friends. We'll fly away from here. And we'll never come back."
Fillister nestled against her. "I wish I could hug you, squire."
"You are! With your tiny wings." She grinned, then sighed. "I always thought that if we made it out of the ducts, I'd become a filmmaker. Not a warrior. But there are still wars to fight. Still enemies, ones even worse than crabs." She nodded. "So I'll fight. Someday I'll lift a camera. Until then, a gun."
She stepped out of the storeroom onto the starship's bridge. Emet was waiting for her there. He too wore Inheritor colors, but instead of a vest, he wore a long blue overcoat. His black cowboy hat made him look even larger. With his powerful frame, double-barreled rifle, and mane of shaggy hair, he looked far more intimidating than Rowan. He looked nothing like a hobbit, more like an old lion still proud and strong.
He looks like a cross between Ned Stark and Robert Plant, she thought. I look more like Frodo's baby sister.
"I'm ready," she said.
Emet nodded. "Then we'll begin."
She looked around at the bridge. They were the only ones here. Through the portholes, she could see the hangar of Paradise Lost.