Page 12 of Seven Oars (Rix Universe #3)

In the following days, no one came to the Cargo Hold to abuse Sassa or the other women.

Except for Tutti. Tutti came. And stayed.

Whatever operational problems it may have, Tutti’s ability to watch and gather information seemed to be in perfect working order. So, Rosamma surmised, was its ability to incapacitate even a grown Rix with a single zap.

The robot didn’t explicitly make the women’s existence worse, but it frightened them.

It parked itself near the bathroom stall and stood there, unmoving, riveting Daphne with its purple light. Its presence effectively stifled all conversation. Even their own language was off-limits on the outside chance Tutti could translate. Discussing escape plans? Forget it.

“Tutti, what are you doing in the Cargo Hold?”

Rosamma prompted the robot.

Since no one else wanted to be on the receiving end of Tutti’s zaps in case it lashed out, Alyesha and Anske had prodded her to once again assume spokeswoman duties.

“I am observing your interactions, females.”

“What is the purpose of your observation?”

“I am adding the information to my repository.”

“Dirty bot,”

Gro muttered quietly.

Tutti picked up on that.

“While my maintenance is overdue, I am equipped with multiple self-cleaning features that keep me fully operational.”

That contradicted what Phex had overheard about Tutti’s abilities, but far be it from Rosamma to argue.

She asked several more leading questions, but the sly robot provided no additional information beyond what it had already revealed: that it was merely observing.

“Yes, and I’m the king of this space station,”

Eze mumbled through swollen lips.

An idea occurred to Rosamma.

“Tutti, scan Eze for injuries.”

Then she held her breath as Tutti approached Eze’s pad, praying it wouldn’t pull some nasty trick.

The robot subjected Eze to a blood drawing and took a minute to process it.

“The biomarkers are weak.”

“No shit!”

Gro exclaimed.

“No excrement is observed in the sample,”

Tutti followed up on the exclamation.

Eze’s snicker ended in a groan of pain from engaging her abused facial muscles.

Rosamma wasn’t amused. Nothing personal, but she hated the robot in a way inmates hate their guard, no matter how well-meaning and kind. And Tutti was neither.

“What is the nature of Eze’s injuries?”

she asked.

Tutti whirred and then enumerated in its feminine voice, “The damage is consistent with traumatic injury: a concussion, three muscle hematomas, a left shoulder sprain, a dislocated right ankle, hairline fractures in three ribs and the jaw, and lacerations to the face. None life-threatening.”

Rosamma shared a look of relief with Gro. Bad as it was, Eze would recover.

“Where can we get medical supplies for this subject?”

“Medical supplies are located at the medical station in the Crew Quarters.”

Rosamma sat back, her mind working. The path to the Crew Quarters was familiar, and she could take another look at the weapons rack.

“You may not access the medical supplies without approval, alien prisoner,”

Tutti added.

So much for that.

“Who will need to approve?”

“Striker Fincros.”

Rosamma sighed. She wasn’t going anywhere near that one.

The women settled back into their uneasy routine of doing nothing in particular. They were bored but on edge. Tired but not sleepy. Waiting, always waiting for another shoe to drop. This anticipation of the worst yet to come was relentless, because no matter how bad things got, they knew by now that there was always the next level of hell.

They didn’t know what fresh horrors each day would bring, and the unknown itself became a quiet torment.

Only Fawn slept away like a baby, her midriff bared by the shirt that twisted around, smacking her lips and drooling a little.

Gro moved close to Rosamma and whispered in her ear, “You’re going nowhere. Got it?”

Rosamma pursed her lips.

“Don’t pinch your face at me, missy. They catch you snooping—you’ll end up looking worse than Eze. And you aren’t half as strong as she is.”

But that was precisely the point.

“They don’t see me as a threat. They don’t even see me as a conscious being. More like a hamster.”

“The more fun they’ll have pulling you by the leg.”

Gro’s warning dulled Rosamma’s nervous need to act, but couldn’t abolish it entirely.

She assured Gro she wasn’t going anywhere and settled down for a bit to make it look convincing. Then she used the bathroom as a decoy to get up and move around, acting normal in front of both Tutti and Gro. Maneuvering closer to the exit, she quietly slipped from the Cargo Hold.

She walked fast down the passageway, but when she turned into the Bridge, she had to stop. Weakness assaulted her. She fisted her braid and gulped in the cold, dry air that always smelled faintly of ozone.

She was growing weaker, and the limits it placed on her functions angered her.

Always a burden.

Pushing away from the wall, Rosamma made her way to the Crew Quarters.

It was silly to hope that she’d be lucky a second time and not run into its inhabitants. But at least this time, she came armed with an excuse.

All was quiet.

There was a small section in the Crew Quarters’ front room with a gurney and a row of neat gray boxes she hadn’t noticed before. A med center? It had to be, right across from the weapons rack.

She tested the lid on one of the boxes that surely held medical supplies. Tutti had said Eze’s injuries weren’t life-threatening, but a painkiller would be nice to have.

Cursed pirates.

The box yielded a couple of vials of dark liquid with mold on the cork and nothing else.

I’m sorry, Eze.

She turned to her real destination, the weapons rack. What weapons were these? She knew nothing about the guns common on Meeus, let alone what Rix might use.

She inspected them closely, trying to memorize the details to share with Phex. He’d make sense of them.

The flap covering the nearest sleeping node moved aside, and Rosamma came face-to-face with Massar.

“Hello, creature. You came to me.”

She took a step back. Her heart was already hammering full-throttle, her head was already swimming, and his sudden appearance nearly sent her into a faint.

He approached. The wicked blade hung at his hip, unsheathed.

“Show me your eyes, wisp.”

Slowly, Rosamma raised her head to look at him.

The gauntness made him appear more malevolent, like a living skull, with pointy cheekbones and flat, empty eyes. She’d take any other short-tempered, violent pirate over this alien, even the Striker.

The Striker would kill her swiftly.

“Weird eyes. Funny being.”

Massar’s clawed finger traced her throat.

“You have a heartbeat. How many hearts?”

“One,”

she whispered.

The flight instinct was so strong that her legs twitched. But on a space station, there was nowhere to run that Massar couldn’t follow.

“Puny. Skin so thin I can see blood flow in your veins. Your blood is so bright. I’ve seen it, between your legs. Are you still bleeding down there?”

He slowly slid his knife between Rosamma’s legs, pressing the flat of the blade against her mound.

Rosamma couldn’t even swallow, petrified by what he might do next. His black-hole eyes gleamed with unnatural excitement.

A flap to another sleeping node was yanked open, and another pirate emerged, Keerym, the Tarai alien. He stopped in his tracks at the sight of her.

“What’s this sickly cunt doing here?”

he asked Massar.

Massar removed the knife.

“It’s none of your business.”

“I fucking sleep here. Why’d you bring her in?”

“I didn’t. She came on her own.”

Keerym turned to Rosamma, his light-green, pupil-less eyes more eerie than Rix’s oversized black ones.

“What do you want?”

Rosamma managed to swallow, moistening her dry throat.

“I came looking for a disinfectant. For my friend Eze. Tutti said to look here.”

Keerym’s ears twitched like a cat’s.

“The fuck Tutti is blabbering to you… Disinfectant? Tell it it knows shit. Dumb machine. Thilza binged all that junk a long time ago. He then popped every pill he could find and felt pretty pain-free for months.”

Keerym smiled a mean smile.

“Your friend Eze can keep hurting.”

Massar got tired of being ignored.

“You’re in my business, Tarai. Go away, or I’ll cut off your balls one at a time.”

Keerym peered down at the blade Massar was waving in front of his crotch.

“Shove your pruning shears up your backside.”

Massar made a stabbing motion. Keerym parried with a blade of his own that he produced out of nowhere.

Rosamma didn’t delay and backed out of the Crew Quarters, fleeing.

Almost immediately, she heard footsteps behind her in the passageway.

She quickened her pace, heading for the familiar confines of the Cargo Hold, with its perceived safety in the presence of the women. But it was a dead end, like any other room she might try to retreat into. No place was safe, no corner a hideout.

The footsteps that followed her were light, yet her every heartbeat echoed them.

Panic swamped her in the way panic does, debilitating and clouding her reason. Stifling sobs, she flew to the Bridge, her destination the Meat Locker. She’d hide behind the Tana-Tana’s corpse. He’d save her. It. Was a headless, skinned corpse gendered?

She was losing it.

She stalled at the door, wasting precious seconds. If there was any other escape outlet, a gate to Hell, maybe, she’d jump in without reservations, because the Meat Locker, with its single un-living inhabitant, gave her a terminal level of creeps.

Then she saw it: a narrow door, blending into the wall.

She didn’t stop to think what horrors might hide behind its accordion construction. Nothing could top the Meat Locker.

Slipping in, she quickly pulled the door closed, praying the pirate didn’t see the movement.

Beads of cold sweat rolled down Rosamma’s neck. She pressed against the folding panel, listening to the footsteps as they entered the Bridge.

Then stopped.

He was here. She felt his presence on the other side of the flimsy partition.

Time slowed, but not her heartbeat.

He knew exactly where she was.

Trapped.

A swirling, palpable awareness of him engulfed Rosamma. She felt him breathe without hearing a sound.

He was going to pull that door open now.

Now. He was going to… He would…

She waited.

The footsteps resumed, a heavy man with a light tread.

Like smoke sucked away by an exhaust fan, the fog of awareness vanished. She rested her forehead against the door.

Once more, she was delivered from evil. How many more reprieves did she have left before her time was up?

She shook her head, refusing to think about the future.

Expecting to see cleaning supplies—unused, of course—or perhaps another headless body, Rosamma slowly turned around.

But she beheld neither.

She was standing in a fairly large octagonal room. Pieces of metal shelving and discarded equipment cluttered the floor, piled up everywhere. Wall coverings draped over seven of the eight sides; the eighth contained the door.

The room was cozy in a claustrophobic, burrow-like way and smelled, not unpleasantly, of dust.

Rosamma picked her way around the junk, moving deeper inside. She found a switch on the wall and flipped it, expecting lights.

Instead, the wall coverings—no, not coverings, but window shades—began to roll up. Slowly, silently, they wound up, inch by inch, revealing the Universe beyond. It was brighter, closer, and more magnificent than she’d ever seen. When the shades finally rose all the way, she stood surrounded by cosmos.

In a daze, she approached one window and placed her palms on the reinforced glass. The proximity to space was immediate, as if she had stepped outside without actually doing so. She now was, truly, next to the stars.

“Hello, world,”

she whispered, pressing her face to the window.

A myriad of stars winked against the black backdrop of the endless sky, welcoming her.

The beauty of the Universe and its enormity awed Rosamma and calmed her. So little to see, yet so much. A distant part of her brain marveled at its own capacity to be amazed, still, after all the things she had endured.

And she was amazed, blindingly so.

She peered out, and the stars and planets, arranged in precise and intricate patterns, peered back: cold, silent, eternal.

The sky was deeply, elementally black and so vast, it took her breath away. She felt insignificant, lost, and very alone… yet connected. She was a part of this vastness, a child born of its very fabric.

“I am here,”

she whispered.

Her breath fogged up the glass that both separated and protected her from the big, silent world beyond.

“I’m a part of you.”

So were the other women. And Phex. And the evil pirates. So was everyone.

So was everything.

Memories of her life on Meeus came pouring in.

Her dear Uncle Zaron. His club, Atticus, with its crazy, fun performances and bitter drinks that he swore were posh and sophisticated. The club was a haven for so many, but not for her.

She remembered vividly her little apartment with books and mismatched crockery she was fond of collecting. Many items had come from Zaron, bartered from the aliens passing through Atticus, some wondrous and weird artifacts.

Ren and Paloma.

Her heart ached. Had they made it to Enzomora? What were they doing now? How was Ren?

She wondered if Lyle had gotten better. Cricket would be by his side, fighting everyone who stood in the way of his well-being. If only determination alone were enough.

Rosamma stayed glued to the glass for a long time, staring at the stars, lost in thought.

A distant crash sounded, but she ignored it. Another fight.

The “music”

started up again in the Habitat. Smoke wafted in, sour and revolting as always. She ignored that too.

She wished to stay here forever. Oh, she wished for so many things…

Lowering the shades back down to cover the boundless expanse beyond, Rosamma returned to the Cargo Hold.

*****

“Don’t worry about it,”

Eze mumbled with her misshapen mouth after Rosamma had shared how little she could find in the way of medical supplies.

“I look worse than I feel.”

Rosamma frowned.

“You can’t know what you look like. We have no mirrors.”

Eze smiled, then winced.

“I can imagine, from what he looked like after the thrashings.”

She pointed at Phex.

“What now?”

he snapped, clearly annoyed at the women for discussing him in a language he didn’t understand.

For once, he looked presentable, certainly better than Eze. The swelling on his face had subsided, revealing his chiseled cheekbones. His eyes had returned to dark pools of stoic resolve. A cut on his temple would scar, but it only added to his warrior good looks.

The scene in the Habitat flashed across Rosamma’s mind: his veiny, flexed arms; the gleeful, crude shouts of the pirates; Sassa’s pale, bruised skin…

She looked away.

She didn’t blame him for his actions there. If anything, she blamed herself for not giving him more energy to break the effects of the spice charm. And she blamed the pirates, of course. In particular, the Striker who had orchestrated the whole thing and then knocked her out to keep it going.

He couldn’t have known about her energy, could he?

But the shrewd beast must have guessed she was helping Phex.

Ogre.

The Striker was already guilty of so much that it hardly warranted a special distinction.

Still, it was difficult to look at Phex now and not think about Sassa.

She wondered what he truly felt. There was a subtle change in him that was impossible to deny: an acceptance. But of what?

It made Rosamma uneasy.

“I took a better look at the weapons the pirates keep in the Crew Quarters,”

she said, turning her thoughts to more immediate matters.

She described the weapons rack’s contents, giving as much detail as she could muster, limited by her weapons knowledge.

Phex listened attentively.

“It sounds like they are simple handguns. Some projectile, some laser. May not even be Rix in origin.”

Gro paced nearby.

“Wouldn’t hurt to get ahold of them.”

Phex, as usual, was more reserved than the women. He just wasn’t a gung-ho plans kind of guy.

“There’s a reason those guns are under lock and key,”

he said.

“Notice that our combative overlords don’t have shootouts inside the station. Even they aren’t that stupid.”

“I get that,”

Gro said, stopping her pacing and crossing her arms.

“But we’re talking about fighting for our lives, not entertainment. Sure, there’s a risk of hitting a wall and making a hole, but we’re not stupid either. Shoot only as a last resort. Aim only at a body.”

“Are you a good shot?”

Phex asked.

Gro let her arms drop.

“Me? No. We’d only give the guns to those who can shoot,”

she amended.

Phex turned to the room.

“Hey, everybody! Who knows how to shoot a gun? Stunners don’t count.”

Blank stares were his answer.

“Bro, we’re from Meeus,”

Fawn said.

“You can’t get a real gun there. It’s against the law.”

The notion didn’t sit well with Phex.

“How were you supposed to protect yourself?”

“On Meeus, we had a peacekeeping force,”

Fawn said.

“They come when you call.”

Phex sighed.

“We’re far from Meeus. Who will defend you here?”

“You, bucko,”

Gro said quietly.

“You were supposed to defend us.”

In the ensuing silence, the covers heaved, and Sassa appeared.

“I do,”

she announced.

“I know how to shoot a gun.”

Phex’s jaw tensed when he saw Sassa.

“Have you ever shot a live target?”

he asked stiffly.

“Yes,”

she said, looking him square in the eye.

“I shot a man. In the chest.”

“Good lord,”

Anske muttered.

Sassa turned her dry, burning eyes to Anske.

“He survived, unfortunately. He was—is—a high-level political appointee with a lot of influence. He abused me in the worst way a man can abuse a girl since I was little. He’s my father.”

Phex’s face revealed nothing, but all the women looked sick. Rosamma knew she did, because that’s how she felt.

“I knew I couldn’t take it any longer,”

Sassa continued.

“I waited until he was in a good mood and begged him for money, pretty please. For a necklace, I said. I bought an illegal gun with that money and hired a bearded, one-legged dwarf to teach me how to use it. He was a sorry trainer who ogled my boobs more than he improved my aim. In hindsight, I should’ve practiced on him first, but too late now.”

Anske gasped.

“Sassa, surely you don’t mean that.”

“Oh, I mean it.”

This was a different Sassa from the one who cowered and cried. This was a woman with nothing left to lose.

“I was fully prepared to go to prison for murder. There are no men in women’s prisons, so I figured it couldn’t be that bad. But I messed up.”

Her voice cracked, and with it, the hard facade.

“I panicked and ran, hoping to disappear on Priss. The worst decision I ever made.”

She looked tearfully, beseechingly at Phex.

“I’m afraid. He comes to me in my dreams and makes me do disgusting things with his body. It makes me want to die.”

It was impossible to say if Sassa still meant her father.

Phex exhaled in one long whoosh. The base of his neck, visible in the open neckline of his shirt, vibrated with the pulses of his hearts, a sign of strong emotion.

“I’m sorry,”

he ground out.

“I never meant to hurt you.”

The silence in the Cargo Hold was painfully heavy.

“Can humans and Rix have babies?”

Fawn asked.

Gro smacked her on the head to a chorus of outraged outcries from the women.

Sassa shot Fawn a raw look before disappearing again beneath her covers.

The women dispersed.

Later, Alyesha went into the shower stall and didn’t come out for a long time. When she emerged, she busied herself brushing her hair and massaging her face, humming softly under her breath.

No one spoke, but the quiet time they were given was cherished.

They knew the reprieve wouldn’t last.

*****

It wasn’t Tutti who barged into the Cargo Hold this time. It was Esseh.

He kicked Gro and her mattress out of his way and stopped in the middle of the room, surveying it with a sweep of his flat, white-less eyes. The dim lights made lumps out of his puckered facial scars.

“Where’s the female?”

he said to Rosamma. He meant Sassa.

Rosamma looked helplessly at Gro, then at the others. Her tongue refused to form words. Esseh would find Sassa eventually, but she simply refused to help him.

So, apparently, did the others.

Silence reigned in the Cargo Hold. Every scrape of the oar against some invisible part of the ship rang like a bell tolling in the absolute stillness. It stretched for five seconds. Ten.

Then Alyesha pointed at the corner.

In two strides, Esseh was there, yanking the covers off. He hauled Sassa to her feet.

She screamed, breaking the silence, and fought him like a wildcat, hurling insults.

In his spot by the wall, Phex briefly closed his eyes, his third eyelid popping out and in.

“Damn,”

he said succinctly, startling Rosamma.

He never cursed. This place was getting to him.

Driven by a bad feeling, Rosamma sidled up to him.

“Quick! Give me your hand.”

“Rosamma,”

he said, but she heard Risana. Poor man, he still couldn’t pronounce her name.

She caught his hand and held it briefly, her fingers sliding up to his wrist where the skin was more supple. His callused palm would’ve worked too, but he never took her hand, and she was careful not to cross their boundary.

Pretending his wrist was an injection site, she “injected”

him with a strong burst of energy.

In another second, he was on his feet, blocking Esseh’s exit.

“You can’t have her,”

he said in a clipped tone.

Esseh bared his teeth.

“And who are you, slave?”

“I’m a defender. Not that you know what it means.”

“Move,”

Esseh barked.

“You can’t have her,”

Phex repeated calmly.

“I said move.”

Phex did, but not in a way Esseh meant.

Displaying the graceful power so characteristic of him, Phex pivoted in a blur, raising his leg high in a sort of karate kick. It landed squarely in Esseh’s face.

It happened almost too fast to process. Both the speed and the force of Phex’s attack took Esseh completely off guard.

He staggered.

Two more kicks, and he was down.

Sassa stopped screaming, but she’d already drawn attention.

Boots pounded the mesh floor. Nud and Xorris were the first to pop into view. Others weren’t too far behind, crowding at the entrance to gape at fallen Esseh.

As one, the pirate crowd rippled with a dark sort of energy. The swell of rowdiness grew. Phex was going to get it something fierce, no two doubts about it.

He fought them, but it was one against many. Like malevolent vampire bees, they swarmed him and whisked him away from the Cargo Hold.

Only Massar lingered, sweeping his glinting eye-orbs over the women. The chill of his attention brushed against Rosamma before he, too, was gone.

The women were left standing over Esseh’s unconscious body.

“Who knows how to open the trash chute?”

Eze’s garbled question brought everyone’s attention to her.

“You aren’t suggesting what I think you’re suggesting,”

Gro murmured.

“Who says we can’t?”

“No,”

Anske said firmly.

“He’s too big for us to carry,”

Sassa said with disappointment.

“Bro, what if he comes around before we trash him? Just imagine,”

Fawn shuddered.

Alyesha eyed the body critically.

Then Sassa ran for her corner and burrowed into her blanket.

Eze sighed and winced in pain.

“I mean, it was just a suggestion.”

Tutti whirred into the Cargo Hold and took its place near the door, letting the opportunity pass.

Rosamma only half-listened to the exchange, her ears trained on the sounds coming from outside the Cargo Hold.

“What are they doing to him?”

she asked aloud.

“I don’t know,”

Fawn replied.

“It’s so quiet. What he did for Sassa… I think it was very noble of him.”

Anske harrumphed.

“Let’s ask Sassa if she thinks that alien’s noble.”

“He’s trying, Anske,”

Rosamma said.

“He can’t win, but he’s not giving up. And neither should we.”

“Who says we are?”

Anske shot back.

Rosamma glanced at Sassa’s bunched-up covers.

“I’m going to the Habitat,” she said.

Gro raised her head.

“Haven’t you done this before?”

she asked in frustration.

Rosamma had already stepped over Esseh, but Gro’s words stopped her in her tracks. She looked around the Cargo Hold. It was their room, but there was no safety to be found inside.

“I don’t think it matters very much where they kill me, if they decide to do it,”

she said quietly to Gro.

“You can’t help Phex, anyway,”

Alyesha piped in.

“I know.”

Rosamma swallowed the lump forming in her throat.

“I just hate that he always faces them alone.”

Alyesha scoffed.

“He won’t appreciate it. Don’t be a fool. That alien will never have an interest in you. He doesn’t care, Rosamma, and he hates being responsible for us.”

Rosamma straightened her spine.

“Maybe not, but I care. I’m not afraid of being responsible.”

*****

She arrived at the Habitat alone.

This time, she didn’t stop to peek in. She simply walked in and stood by the door.

Phex was on the floor with his hands and feet bound, surrounded by the pirates. The Striker was there, seated in his chair, overseeing this important assembly of his motley crew. They were hotly debating how best to maim Phex in retaliation for knocking out Esseh, and whether they should wait for Esseh to recover so he could do the honors himself.

“Didn’t Esseh already have his chance?”

the Striker mused.

Thilza laughed by the wall, releasing wild puffs of white smoke.

“I've said it before, and I’ll say that again: keeping the defender alive is asking for trouble.”

Massar’s six fingers caressed his wicked blade with tenderness.

“Send him to the trash chute. Piece by piece.”

A disjointed chorus of agreement with Massar’s general idea rippled through the room, although thoughts on its execution varied.

“And the females?”

the Striker posed the question casually, as if bored with the topic and unconcerned about the outcome.

As before, the heavy weight of his attention threw Rosamma off-kilter. He knew she stood there, listening. He was toying with her, just as he was toying with his comrades, who were, with some exceptions like Thilza, too dense to understand that he’d already made up his mind.

Why the Striker would want to pick on her, of all people, she wasn’t sure. It could be her peculiar appearance, or her dual-species nature. Many reacted to it, she knew.

But with him, it felt different. The Striker despised weakness, and her obvious and increasing frailty must be triggering to him.

Nud was the first to vote for killing all the women off.

“Why are they even here?”

“Pussy,”

Xorris replied.

Nud had nothing to say to that.

Rosamma kept her expression smooth, but the pulse beating at her throat refused to be tamed. She stood far from the Striker’s chair, yet couldn’t shake the feeling that he was tracking her pounding heart.

Suddenly, Gro appeared at Rosamma’s side, followed by Fawn, Anske, and even Alyesha. No words were exchanged between the women, but their glances communicated unity.

Rosamma sagged in relief. She hadn’t realized how much effort standing there alone had cost her.

Meanwhile, Massar also voted yay to dispense with the women, but only on the condition that he be granted “quality time”

with them beforehand.

The rest of the pirates, surprisingly, weren’t so quick to condemn them. And Ucai said nothing at all.

Sensing movement behind her, Rosamma caught Alyesha turning her head ever so slightly to keep Ucai in her sights. Her hair looked smooth and shiny, lush despite the few silver threads that had appeared in the ebony mass, threads she would’ve covered up with dye, if she had it. She held her head high like a dethroned queen.

Phex struggled against his bonds, which earned him kicks in the ribs.

“Stay down, lard-ass, or else,”

Nud threatened.

“No, pull him up,”

the Striker ordered.

They hauled Phex upright as the Striker slouched in his chair, one leg thrown over the armrest.

He curled his lip at Phex.

“I understand you formed an attachment to the Meeus woman we let you sample, eh?”

Phex only flexed his arms in response, letting ropey veins snake up and down under the slick chainmail of his defender shirt.

“Yes, that’s right,”

the Striker sneered.

“You’re highly moral and our superior.”

“I am. It’s not difficult,”

Phex ground out.

Phex, what are you doing, baiting them? Rosamma thought.

Nud swung, but the Striker put up a hand, halting the violence.

“See, we have a problem, defender,”

he murmured.

“Your morals aside, Esseh has now claimed that woman for himself.”

Phex’s perfectly traced brows rose.

“And where is Esseh?”

Striker Fincros chuckled, and it was not a merry sound.

“Look around, fucker. So many great warriors, and every one of them is itching to beat that nerve and morals out of you.”

The “great warriors”

leered at Phex, displaying dark teeth in varying stages of growing back from having been knocked out.

Phex flexed his shoulders.

“All I see is you, sitting in a chair and sneering while your people do all the dirty work. They beat me, many to one, as you watch. Are you afraid to lose in a fair fight?”

“Fair?”

The Striker almost laughed.

“We don’t know what that means.”

“Coward,”

Phex spat, unmistakable challenge in his voice.

Rosamma caught her breath.

The pirates grew quiet.

Fincros cocked his head.

“You know very well I’m the strongest male here,”

he said, with no trace of pride.

“That’s why I sit in this chair. It’s earned, not given.”

Phex wasn’t impressed.

“Empty words, until you win a fight against a true defender.”

Fincros made like he was thinking about it. He even tapped his lips with a finger tipped by a talon that gleamed like chrome in the fluorescent light.

“I don’t fight for entertainment,”

he finally said.

Phex curled his lip, his teeth sharp and even, unlike the pirates’ serrated mountain ranges.

“I take that as a forfeit.”

Slowly, Fincros rose from the chair and stepped down from the platform.

The pirates shuffled back, leaving Phex exposed to their leader. At the same time, the energy in the room heightened: they wanted to see the Striker and Phex fight.

“What would we fight for? Give me a purpose,”

the Striker said, stopping within arm’s reach of Phex.

Extracting a small cutting tool from a side pocket, the Striker sliced through Phex’s bonds. Standing close, they were the same general height and build, startlingly well-matched.

Phex was ready.

“If I win, I claim protection for all the women.”

Fincros wrinkled his forehead, the motion pulling at his skin and further disfiguring his right side.

Rosamma hoped it hurt.

“Aren’t you precious,”

he sneered.

“And would you like us all to just launch ourselves the fuck out of the trash chute and leave this station to you?”

The pirates brayed with laughter.

Fawn clapped, misunderstanding what was being said, until Gro slapped down her hands.

The Striker raised one finger.

“One woman. The one you fucked. Win—and you get to keep her.”

“And if I lose?”

Phex asked.

“You’ll have problems if you lose.”

“I already have problems. I bet you fight dirty too.”

An ugly sneer curled Fincros’ mouth.

“I fight to win,”

he said.

“And you’re a moron. With your stupid convictions, it’s no surprise you’re stuck on Seven Oars.”

“So are you,”

Phex parried smoothly.

Fincros’ sneer slipped.

“You’re here because you fucked up a field trip with a bunch of girls. I survived Sir-Sar. We’re not the same.”

He moved then, a blur in Rosamma’s eyes, launching himself at Phex. She’d never seen a body move so fast. Not even her brother Ren could snap into action like that.

Phex wasn’t slow himself. He’d anticipated the attack, yet his defense slipped at the collision.

The Striker slammed him against the wall. He was just a tad faster.

Was he also stronger? Possibly, though Phex matched him so well in size.

Rosamma gripped her braid.

Fincros knew that Phex was weakened. He knew. He’d allowed and encouraged the pirates to beat Phex and beat Phex and beat him again. It was a deliberate tactic to keep their captive defender controlled.

Ah, but the Striker hadn’t counted on one crucial detail, Rosamma’s healing touch. Phex wasn’t as weak as he expected.

They churned around the Habitat like a tornado, threatening to mow down the women in their deadly path.

Phex evaded a punch and struck Fincros across the face.

Rosamma almost cheered.

Visually, theirs was a beautiful fight. Unlike Nud and Xorris sloppily swinging around, every move from Phex and the Striker had precision and accuracy. If it were a show, she might’ve enjoyed the display, despite abhorring violence of any kind. Their speed and force were better than any movie’s special effects.

But it wasn’t a show.

If Phex lost, the Striker might decide to kill him, after all.

She looked around, noting the hyper-focused attention from the pirates who’d moved out of the way.

Ucai’s fists were clenched, and dark veins pulsed in his arms with every hit, every jab, every move. Alyesha was now by his side, tracking the fast-moving bodies with bright eyes.

What was she doing?

Rosamma refused to guess.

Phex held his own against the Striker until, somehow, the Striker got the upper hand.

Phex wobbled—still upright, still fighting.

“You wanna see a clean move, by the fucking rules?”

Fincros growled.

“Here’s one.”

It happened too fast to follow: Phex doubled over… rallied… then rammed into the Striker, only to get picked up and pile-driven into the floor, setting off the vibrations that seemed to echo through the entire space station.

He did not get up.

Someone cheered. Ucai grunted in displeasure.

Fincros planted his boot on Phex’s head.

He looked worse for wear himself, face bloody and grimy, dirtied hair falling from his tight knot to stick to the burn marks on his right cheekbone. His shirt was torn, and Rosamma glimpsed ropey, bulging veins snaking up his arms and shoulder.

On him, this expression of physical strength was a sign of unchecked male aggression. There was nothing attractive about it. She abhorred the sight, knowing he’d never used his power to protect, only to punish.

Beasts, all of them. Vile, mindless beasts.

“You ruined my shirt.”

The Striker’s voice came out hoarser than usual and a little wheezy.

A jab of dark satisfaction pierced Rosamma’s battered heart.

He wasn’t immune to pain. Phex had given as good as he got, and he’d hurt that… asshole.

Asshole, she repeated snidely in her head. Scum.

Phex swiped at the foot that was flattening the side of his face.

The foot was removed, only to deliver a vicious kick that left him gasping and gagging.

The Striker looked down at his shirt, which, like the shirts of everyone on Seven Oars, resembled a poorly preserved rag from prehistoric times. Phex couldn’t have ruined it. It had been beyond repair long before he set foot on Seven Oars.

“Yep, ruined,”

the Striker confirmed for the room.

“I think I’ll take yours. As a prize.”

Another humiliation, that’s what it was.

Phex still wore his defender uniform, a beautiful, strong garment that remained whole after everything he’d endured.

Now, the Striker was claiming it and making a show of it.

All of it was one giant show.

He could’ve claimed Phex’s shirt at any time. He could’ve had any woman, or all the women, in every way possible. He could’ve simply killed them at capture.

But no. Too easy.

Because games.

“Hey, I wanted that shirt!”

Ucai rushed over, elbowing the Striker.

He slugged Ucai, but Ucai parried.

Nud came bounding in, jumping into the fray, and it was unclear if he was for or against the Striker.

Xorris picked up a tool from the floor and swung, hitting someone…

A giant wave of weariness swamped Rosamma, which had nothing to do with her waning energy.

It was the Habitat, with its performative fights that were, at the same time, real. This place was sucking dry her will to live another day.

Gro grabbed Rosamma’s arm.

“Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

“No, wait. Phex…”

But she was already pulling Rosamma out of the Habitat and down the passageway toward the Cargo Hold.

“They will kill him or they won’t,”

Gro said.

“Nothing you can do.”

Halfway to the Cargo Hold, they ran into Esseh, back on his feet and moving toward where they’d just come from. They pressed against the wall to let him pass, expecting violence, but he didn’t acknowledge them, too preoccupied with the fight happening without him.

Alyesha, Fawn, and Anske were still in the Habitat with the pirates.

“The others…”

“Screw the others, let’s go back.”

Gro pulled, but Rosamma’s feet refused to move.

“We need to help them get back. Staying there right now is dangerous!”

she pleaded with Gro.

Gro stopped pulling.

“They don’t need our help. And you can’t save them from themselves.”

“But I don’t understand.”

Anxiety gnawed on Rosamma.

“Why would they want to linger?”

“Different reasons. To watch the fight. To size up whatever little advantage they could find.”

“Advantage! The pirates aren’t our trading partners.”

“Of course not,”

Gro said.

“They’re our captors. But even so, now that we’ve gotten to know them better…”

A tide of mixed-up feelings rose in Rosamma.

“There isn’t ‘getting to know them better!’”

she exclaimed.

“Just look at what the did to Sassa, to Phex! Gro, I thought we had a plan, to send out that signal. Our only goal is to escape!”

“We do have that plan! It’s still our goal. Why would you think otherwise?”

“Because they… I don’t know. How’s that part of the plan?”

They were alone in the passageway, with the sounds of fighting coming strong from the Habitat.

Gro took her shoulders in her strong, leathery hands.

“I know. It’s a weird feeling. I remember it from prison. At first, you hate it so much that you think you’ll die. But then life takes over. You still hate it; it just fades to the background, and you can think again. You learn the lay of the land, start using the system… Do you understand?”

“I’m not sure I do,”

Rosamma said.

It upset her that three of the women were now—voluntarily!—in the Habitat, watching the fighting spectacle. It seemed wrong. Especially Alyesha, with her marked interest in Ucai, threatened to blur the clear demarcation in their established order, where the women were “us”

and the pirates were “them.”

Her feet moved, and she ran in the direction opposite the Cargo Hold. Gro called her name, but Rosamma let the sound be drowned out by the din of the oars.

She followed the passageway to the Bridge. Her steps were light, the same as her head--so light she was dizzy with it.

The flimsy folding door to a wonderful, cozy place. The dusty smell, the windows.

She wanted to be alone. To see the stars…