With a wish he let the fragile, tender petal flutter to the grass at his feet.

Like it or not, for the moment the Earth is where we make our stand.

—Carl Sagan, Pale Blue Dot: A Vision of the Human Future in Space

Something Worth Saving

LEO STOOD OUTSIDE THE OPEN DOOR, ALONE.

His brother had asked if he wanted company, but Leo insisted he wanted to do this himself. Maybe, if things went well, they could all come back as a family, but this time would just be him.

His father had been reluctant to let him go at first. A fourteen-year-old boy. A two-hour hover car ride to an unfamiliar city. But then Leo reminded his dad that only four months ago he’d infiltrated a Djarik military research facility (looking for him, no less) and had been caught up in no fewer than five deadly battles, not to mention that he’d helped save the entire planet. He could have gone on, but his father had already given in.

“Point taken. Just be careful,” Dr. Fender said. “And say hi for us.”

And so here he was, looking up at a neon yellow sign. The Captain’s Orders. Cute name. Leo wasn’t even sure he was legally allowed in, but then this wasn’t the first hole-in-the-wall bar he’d ever been to either.

One foot inside and Leo already knew he was in the right place. He was immediately assaulted by loud music—old-fashioned rock and roll—pulsing out of hidden speakers. The place was dark, the lighting all the buzzing, flickering variety, but Leo could still make out the decorations hanging on the walls—anchors and flags and powder horns, cutlasses and tricorn hats. Relics and artifacts from long ago. Long, long ago. From a time when humans used the stars to chart their path from island to island rather than charting paths from star to star. Still, the owner was making very little attempt to hide her past. Leo glanced at the digital kiosk inquiring if he would like a table and wondered if he could use it to page someone when he heard an oddly familiar voice. A salty, surly voice.

“Seriously? You call this a tip?”

He peered past a small gathering of people enjoying their drinks to find the source of the rant: a robot with a snowman build and polished silver plating, zipping around the bar on two omnidirectional treads. One extendable claw held a magnetic drink tray full of empty metal cups. The other held a towel stained several shades of brown. It wasn’t unusual to see mechanicals as service staff, but this particular robot was different. It looked top-of-the-line, its parts gleaming. But only what you could see of them. Much of its chassis had been plastered over with stickers sporting all manner of slogans and advertisements. Everything from Frank’s Fresh Fish Market to something called Guns N’ Roses, which seemed to Leo like an odd store to shop at.