Page 14 of Seven Oars (Rix Universe #3)

As the women stirred awake and began their morning routines, Rosamma lay on her pad, eyes wide open. To say she’d had a restless night would be an understatement.

She was still a little wired, itchy, uncomfortable in her own skin.

“How’re we doing on drinkable water?”

Eze asked, tinkering again with the shower filter.

“So far, so good,”

Gro replied.

“It’s a blessing they don’t drink. Or eat the bean mash. Wish they hadn’t taken all my jerky…”

The conversation turned to Rix eating habits. The women puzzled over how little protein the Rix required to function.

Alyesha quietly entered the Cargo Hold and rustled through her neatly arranged things. Without a word to her companions, she disappeared inside the shower stall.

Gro looked at Eze.

“I thought you filtered the water for Daphne.”

Eze spread her hands.

“You’re welcome, I guess,”

she muttered toward the shower stall.

The water ran and ran, and Alyesha didn’t emerge for a long time.

When she finally did, Fawn pounced on her with questions.

“Hey, was it Ucai? Was he nice? Did it hurt at all?”

Alyesha blinked in surprise.

“I survived just fine. Let’s leave it at that.”

“But did you enjoy it?”

Fawn asked.

Alyesha pinned Fawn with a haughty stare.

“This is not the time or place to enjoy yourself, Fawn. Grow up.”

“Well,”

Eze said sweetly, “at least you rinsed off all the alien microbes.”

Alyesha just shrugged.

“You can judge all you want, but I’m not hurting anyone,”

she said coolly.

“And what I do with my life is no one’s business but mine.”

She began brushing her hair, parting it down the middle.

Suddenly, Sassa poked her small, rabbity face out of the burrow of her rags.

“Have you really been with a pirate?”

she asked, hurling the question like a gauntlet.

Alyesha paused her hair brushing.

“That’s my business, but yes, if you must know.”

She gave a delicate yawn from one side of her mouth.

Evidently, Rosamma wasn’t the only one who’d had a sleepless night.

Sassa fully emerged from her nest to stand in front of Alyesha. Her delicate, sharp features were pinched.

“You’re a traitor!”

she accused, piercingly loud.

Alyesha raised an eyebrow. “To whom?”

“To us! Do you even want to escape anymore?”

Alyesha looked taken aback.

“You’re mad to think I don’t! Who would want to stay here?”

She made a broad sweep with her arm, indicating the station.

“Then why do you have to degrade yourself with an evil, dirty alien?”

Sassa cried.

“How can you even bring yourself to be near them? I hate them!”

“You hate all men, alien or not,”

Alyesha said flatly.

Sassa bared her small teeth at her.

“I have a reason to! Men are repulsive. Even if they look normal, average—filthy lechers, the whole lot. But these…”

She jabbed a finger toward the Habitat, struggling for words.

“They aren’t even men.”

Alyesha tapped her chin.

“I can now say, on good authority, they are, in fact, men.”

Sassa shook her head in disgust, letting her dirty, stringy hair fly.

“You’re behaving like an escort.”

“Oh, I’ve done that, when I was, like, sixteen. Too much work and no real money.”

Alyesha put down her hairbrush.

“Yes, men want the same thing, and it’s your body. So use it. You aren’t completely without agency.”

Sassa stumbled backward.

“I’d rather die!”

“Well, I’d rather not,”

Alyesha snapped.

Angrily, she marched to the shelf and grabbed some breakfast food.

“I didn’t survive poverty and orphanage by hiding in a corner,”

she threw over her shoulder.

“No one ever handed me anything. I had to claw everything I’ve ever owned out of life with my own wits and hard work. Yes, there were men willing to be used. I’ve learned to think strategically.”

Fawn was listening attentively, hanging on Alyesha’s every word.

Sassa’s eyes filled with tears.

“Come on, Sassa.”

Alyesha’s voice gentled.

“Rix males are territorial. If one likes you, he won’t want to share. That scarface, Esseh, is a good choice.”

Sassa’s mouth dropped open.

“A good choice? You think I’m stupid?”

Even Rosamma blinked at Alyesha.

Regardless of any potential benefit to thinking strategically, imagining a pirate touching her body, joining with her down there, made her shudder. Their six-fingered, clawed hands. Soulless black eyes. And those scars… the burn scars…

She clamped a lid on her runaway imagination.

No point in dwelling. Unlike the rest, her womanly charms left much to be desired. Even Massar only wanted to torture her.

“Control your destiny,”

Alyesha was telling Sassa.

“He may not be your type, but how about big and strong? Calm your raging hysterics and look around. Esseh is top-tier goods in this rusty flying can.”

She started counting on her fingers.

“He isn’t on drugs. He isn’t rabidly impulsive. And he doesn’t abuse women.”

Sassa gaped at Alyesha.

“Doesn’t abuse women?”

Alyesha’s eyes turned cold.

“Being fucked hard is not the same as being abused.”

“You’re vile,”

Sassa whispered.

Alyesha’s mouth thinned.

“Esseh likes you. Be nice to him, and you’ll get an easy ride.”

Sassa covered her ears and shut her eyes, rejecting Alyesha’s message.

“Nice advice there,”

Gro said snidely.

“Anything for the rest of us? The old and the ugly?”

Alyesha didn’t miss a beat.

“Spare me your sarcasm. You may think yourself lucky ‘cause you don’t get railed by an alien. But I’ll tell you this: When times get lean, as they inevitably will, you’ll be the first to go to the chute. Ballast tossed overboard.”

As she imparted that piece of wisdom, Alyesha wasn’t looking at Gro.

She was looking at Rosamma.

Abruptly, Daphne stood up.

“Mama?”

Everyone froze, then turned to her.

Daphne’s vacant eyes roamed the room, brushing past every face. Her brow furrowed.

“Mama?”

she repeated, her voice wooden and insistent.

“Mama, mama, mama…”

Eze hurried to her side, murmuring. She reached out like she often did, pulling her into an embrace, but this time, Daphne resisted. She stiffened, rejecting Eze’s touch. Then she hit her.

“Oh no, you don’t!”

Gro rushed over.

Daphne screamed and flailed, smacking and pinching Eze and Gro, though her blows lacked focus.

Anske shrank back, watching warily.

“Somebody, shush her quick!”

she hissed, throwing fearful glances at the door and clutching the Holy Guide to her chest.

But Eze and Gro struggled to contain Daphne’s escalating tantrum.

Just when they thought they had her, she broke free, bolting across the room, stomping over Anske’s unfinished breakfast and Fawn’s outstretched legs.

“Ouch!”

Fawn yelped.

“Unhinged loon!”

Daphne ran headfirst into the water filter, but the slam didn’t slow her down. Shrieking nonstop, she evaded grasping hands and darted to the provisions shelves.

She was surprisingly, almost unnaturally, nimble.

Grabbing the flimsy structure, she yanked at it, sending items tumbling to the floor, cans flying.

One struck poor Anske in the face.

“Help!”

Gro screeched.

“What are you standing there for?”

Galvanized by the command, Rosamma and Fawn snapped into action. Even Alyesha rushed forward, catching Daphne’s arm.

Slippery as an eel, the girl twisted and thrashed, stubbornly fighting them and flinging more food and water pouches. She shook the shelves—until, finally, the anchors gave way, and the entire structure came crashing down.

Gro cursed.

The destruction seemed to stun Daphne, snapping her out of it.

She stopped fighting.

Blood dripped from her temple where she’d hit the water filter.

“That’s okay, we’ll fix it,”

Eze panted.

“It’s over. Come on, Daphne.”

Rosamma shook herself off, a bit dazed from being pelted by cans.

“I didn’t sign up for this,”

Alyesha muttered, breathing hard.

“Nice of you to point that out,”

Gro snapped, clearly fed up.

“As opposed to the rest of us? Get out.”

The look Alyesha threw toward Rosamma was full of murder.

“If I could get a hold of your brother right now,”

she said, “I’d twist his little balls into knots.”

“None of it is his fault!”

Rosamma shouted, her control as thin as it had ever been.

“He planned to fly with us.”

“But he didn’t! And where’s he now? And where are we?”

Alyesha glanced around the Cargo Hold.

“I think I’ll take my meal elsewhere.”

She scooped up her food and stomped out.

*****

It took the women a while to clean up the mess.

Under Anske’s uneven singing of holy hymns, Gro worked to reinstate the shelving, while Rosamma and Sassa restored the provisions to their proper place.

Eze took Daphne to the shower.

Phex still hadn’t returned to the Cargo Hold.

By now, Rosamma had imagined the worst. Was that why the Striker had come last night? Was his vile game of pretend to forewarn her that if she wanted Phex, she had to pretend he existed?

Even now, Rosamma broke out in cold sweat just thinking about those soulless eyes. He could’ve killed them and gone back to sit in his sinister chair in the same breath. Nothing fazed him, certainly not dead bodies.

But he hadn’t.

I don’t kill my captives.

It was almost like he meant to reassure her…

Games. All games.

What have you done to Phex? she almost asked out loud.

Great, she was now having internal dialogues with Striker Fincros. Madness must’ve snuck up on her without warning. That’s how they were all going to end up if they survived Seven Oars: crazy.

The oar ground and chuffed, breathing life into this metal box that drifted across the dark nothingness of space with no purpose and no destination. In many ways, it was a prison for the pirates as much as it was for the women. They must realize that.

She’d sensed the Striker did, and resented it.

Rosamma debated the pros and cons of venturing out to find out Phex’s fate. Not to save him—she knew she couldn’t. Still, she felt oddly responsible.

When the “music”

started up in the Habitat, accompanied as always by the fresh fumes of the pipe, she gave in.

“I’ll check the Habitat. Anske said they chained him. Where else would he be?”

Fawn sat up, alert.

“You know what, Rosamma? I’ll go with you. Just to the Habitat and back.”

Feeling a lot more confident with Fawn at her side, Rosamma approached the Habitat.

To her surprise, only Thilza was inside, reclined by his favorite wall.

“Go on, enter.”

His eyes glittered with light that was hard to define.

After a moment’s hesitation, Fawn stepped in, and Rosamma had no choice but to follow.

There was no trace of Phex, and her concern mounted.

“Join me.”

The massive pirate waved his pipe at them, inviting them to sit.

It wasn’t an invitation they dared refuse.

“I’m Thilza,” he said.

“Hi, Thilza. I’m Fawn.”

She gave him her bright, ready smile, dimples and all.

“Hello,”

Rosamma said politely, unsure how to react.

Thilza had a bland, round face with the typical Rix eyes and somewhat animal features. His facial structure looked like it had been smashed to smithereens and put back together a few times.

Even reclined, his size dwarfed them.

“Have a drag,”

he said.

“Don’t be shy. I’m offering.”

Tentatively, Fawn leaned over and inhaled. It made her cough, but she worked through it under Rosamma’s concerned gaze.

Next, he waved the French horn-shaped bong near Rosamma’s face. The acrid smoke emanating from the pipe felt like raw onions stuffed under her eyelids.

“I don’t think it’s good for me,”

Rosamma coughed, her eyes watering.

“I know it’s bad for you, but it makes you feel like flying. Right, Fawn?”

Thilza took a drag himself, swathing them in another toxic cloud.

“Oh, for sure,”

Fawn wheezed.

“Aren’t we flying already?”

Rosamma asked, suppressing another violent coughing fit.

“In this bitch of a station?”

Thilza scoffed.

“That’s not flying. We’ve got no destination. We’re a lost air bubble stuck in the bowels of a Gaorz alien, floating in layers of liquid shit. Did you know that Gaorz bowels take up four-fifths of their body? No? Well, it’s true. I gutted one once. Never again! So much shit. No beginning and no end.”

He sucked in more smoke.

“Well,”

Rosamma surrendered to a shuddering cough.

“I think… I get your meaning.”

“Good. I have a lot of important things to say. They don’t listen to me anymore ‘cause it offends them.”

He propped the massive pipe on his bent knee and stretched the other leg out.

“Where are they?”

Rosamma asked.

What she wanted to know was where Phex was.

“At the Engine Room.”

Just then, the “music”

hit a particularly high note, drowning out every other sound before descending into complete chaos. Thilza swayed, finding rhythm in this sonic wreckage.

Fawn plugged her ears with her fingers, making him laugh. He offered her another drag and pulled her hands away, saying that she had to learn to appreciate art if she wanted to stay here.

Fawn laughed in response, while Rosamma’s mind snagged on the words “art”

and “wanting to stay” there.

Thilza was clearly off his rocket, but at least he didn’t hurt them.

“And the defender?”

Rosamma prompted.

“Also at the Engine Room,”

Thilza said.

“Is he… alive?”

Her question surprised him.

“What good would he do us dead in the Engine Room?”

Shoved into the furnace like coal?

There was no furnace, of course, but still. Some of their minds were truly twisted.

Still, a weight eased from Rosamma’s shoulders.

“He’s doing hard, dirty work, like a slave should,”

Thilza said, clearly in a talkative mood.

“Cleaning the valves from buildup. It’s getting too warm here. Didn’t you notice?”

Only now did Rosamma realize that she’d stopped shivering. If anything, the temperature was pleasant.

For the first time since arriving—involuntarily—aboard Seven Oars, her fingers and toes weren’t stiff from cold.

“Wait.”

Fawn waved the worst of the smoke away from her face.

“Didn’t someone tell us that you were the station’s mechanic?”

Thilza chuckled, revealing those dark-blue canines they all sported.

“When I want to be.”

His eyes were hard.

“And there’s nothing Fincros can do if I don’t. Not a single fuck.”

Fawn leaned in, her pillowy breasts almost flush with Thilza’s upper arm.

“Are you and Fincros related?”

Thilza was aware of the breasts. He accidentally-on-purpose moved his arm so that they rested against him.

“Not by blood. Although I think my sire did nail Fincros’ mother back when she first came to us. Does it make us brothers of a sort?”

Rosamma’s insides twisted.

Thilza wasn’t saying that for shock value. No, he was merely sharing a fact of their life on Sir-Sar, and doing so indifferently at that.

“Wow,”

Fawn said.

“Did the Striker, like, avenge his mother?”

“The Striker,”

Thilza chuckled.

“A fledgling then. What could he do? It took him years to mature into what he is today. Hard years. Long…”

Thilza inhaled from the pipe.

Rosamma shivered, uncomfortable.

That planet, Sir-Sar, had been a netherworld unlit by a single virtue. As the pirates’ birthplace, it explained so much of their behavior.

“We worked side by side at Metalworks, Fincros and I,”

Thilza continued.

“Been through a lot together, and sometimes at each other’s throats. More like that, yeah. Old story, nothing special. Now everyone’s dead. Blown up by the defenders. Bloop—and gone. Like bad seed.”

“Bro, that’s so harsh.”

There were real tears in Fawn’s eyes.

Thilza grinned then and blew smoke into their faces.

“I dunno. Being supervised by Nud while cleaning oil buildup on all fours is pretty damn harsh, too, if you ask me.”

He made Fawn laugh.

They shared the pipe again. He openly placed a hand high on her firm thigh. She didn’t mind.

Rosamma rose, tugging Fawn’s stretchy shirt to make her move.

“We should go back to the Cargo Hold.”

The tugging accidentally revealed the top of one white, round breast, almost to the nipple.

Flushing, Rosamma promptly let go of the fabric.

Thilza seemed absorbed by the breast.

“What’s at the Cargo Hold?”

Fawn pouted, making no effort to adjust her shirt.

Her eyes grew bleary and shiny at the same time. Bright pink tinted her sweet, dimpled cheeks.

She was brazenly leaning against Thilza.

“Actually, you go,”

she said.

“I’ll be back in a few.”

“Fawn, I don’t think you should…”

Rosamma switched to their language.

“Should what?”

Fawn snapped.

“Go! I’m so bored with you all.”

Rosamma quietly left, helpless and filled with worry.

She wished Fawn hadn’t come with her to the Habitat. Fawn wasn’t Alyesha. Rosamma wondered if she even knew what she was doing.

As she passed the turn to the Bridge, a shadow fell across her path.

A thin blade of a sharp knife prickled her chin, halting her progress toward the Cargo Hold.

“Funny creature.”

Massar.

Rosamma knew fear.

If she called for help, no one would come.

The blade slid to her chest, its tip pointing at where her heart beat like a trapped bird.

He seized her upper arm, yanking her in the direction opposite the Cargo Hold.

Struggling was futile. It would only annoy Massar, and he’d kill her slow-er.

But the self-preservation instinct could not be denied. Rosamma dug in her heels.

“I don’t want to go with you.”

The rubber soles of her sneakers offered barely any friction against the mesh floor.

Massar smiled at her words.

“Why not? Don’t females like attention? You have all mine, wisp.”

“You don’t even like me,”

she tried again.

“I want to know you.”

He stopped and leaned closer, the oily, pitted skin of his sharp cheekbones stretched tight under the glittering black eyes of a madman.

She struggled.

He simply readjusted his grip.

“Share your secrets with me.”

He pricked her again with the tip of his blade. She felt blood on her neck; saw it spellbind Massar as it slid, slow and wet, into the collar of her sweatshirt.

Leaning all the way in, he liked it.

She screamed then.

“Do that again,”

he said, shaking her, “and I’ll carve out your tongue. First.”

“You’re sick,”

she hissed and kicked him.

She had nothing left to lose. She was already dying.

She would never see her brother again.

Worthless, weak, and helpless—it was high time to quit her useless existence.

Still, she hated for Massar to be the one to snuff it out.

He’d make her hurt so bad. He’d laugh at her pain.

She’d much rather the Striker do it. He’d make a clean cut and set her free.

Painless.

His hard, scarred face rose in her mind.

She wanted Fincros. She wanted him now.

Massar threw back his head and laughed, showing uneven dark teeth, a horror mask of bloodlust and feverish anticipation.

Curse you, Fincros, help me die! tore through her mind.

A mournful wail of a siren rent the air, silencing Massar’s maniacal laughter.

*****

The flashback hit Rosamma so hard, she momentarily lost touch with her surroundings.

She was back in their cruiser, in the “back room”

with the rest of the women. Fawn’s player still belted out the cheery music. Phex’s voice shouted orders as the defenders scrambled to mount a resistance. The flashlight, the waiting, the distant clung…

Then, like now, the alarm had beeped and wailed, the harbinger of doom.

Rosamma froze, bracing for the moment when the lights would go out…

Massar shoved her aside.

“Later, wisp. Business.”

His expression registered no concern, but his retreating steps were fast.

Rosamma shook her ringing head, forcing the illusion of the cruiser to dissolve.

The defenders were long dead.

The lights stayed on.

When she stumbled into the Cargo Hold, she collided with Galan, beating it out of there under the shriek of the sirens.

She stared, stunned, as he disappeared down the passageway. What on Earth…?

Fawn rushed in behind her.

“We’ve come across another ship!”

she cried.

Gro leapt to her feet.

“Holy-moly.”

Anske closed the Holy Guide, eyes wide.

“Is it true? A ship?”

Catching her breath, Fawn stuttered over a piecemeal of information.

“That’s what I heard. Thilza said. A big freighter. Super armed!”

“All spaceships are armed,”

Eze muttered.

“Except for our stupid cruiser.”

Sassa emerged from her hiding spot, glancing between Rosamma and Eze.

“You think there’s going to be a confrontation?”

Tutti rolled past the Cargo Hold on squeaking wheels.

Fawn hugged herself.

“I’m afraid. What if it’s pirates?”

They all turned to gape at her.

“I’m serious!”

she insisted.

“It’s not like we have some pirate immunity. They can kill all of us.”

She looked truly frightened.

“We need to see Phex!”

Rosamma’s voice was sharp with urgency.

Alyesha arrived just in time to catch it.

“He’s in the Habitat,”

she said.

“They’re all in there now, arguing.”

“Arguing? About what?”

“About whether to attack,”

Alyesha said.

A loud crash reverberated from the direction of the Habitat.

As one, the women spilled out of the Cargo Hold and ran toward the sound, propelled by a shared need to know.

They stopped short of entering, hovering at the threshold, eyes locked on the scene unfolding inside.

And what they saw surprised no one.

Nud hopped from foot to foot with pent-up aggression.

“We’ve got ammo! We can tear into them before they know what hit’em. Grab what we want and go.”

“It’s a large freighter,”

Keerym pointed out.

As usual, he stayed in control, and only the twitch of his big, off-putting ears betrayed his tension.

“Too large for us to net. And we can’t dock it. We’ve run out of airlocks.”

Nud hopped higher.

“No docking. We take what we can, then bomb them.”

Xorris and Galan were in full support.

”Fight! Fight! Fight!”

They pumped their fists, eager to do just that.

Massar licked the blade of the wicked knife he always carried.

The Striker pushed through the women and tore into Galan without warning. Just tore into him, swiping his clawed hand across Galan’s arm, shredding fabric, skin, sinew.

“The fuck are you doing here? On deck! You’re on duty!”

Galan howled, baring ugly blue teeth fit for a prehistoric carnivore. Reactive animal fury replaced his placid demeanor.

“Tutti’s there, you rancid fuck!”

Blood dripping, he charged the Striker—a bad idea in general, but especially with his arm half-shredded.

The Striker slammed him onto the mesh floor with such force that it dented inward and stayed bent.

“We’re on autopilot? Tutti’s not even working half the time.”

To reinforce his point, he smashed Galan’s face, wiping all expression and replacing it with something like a badly molded Frankenstein mask.

“Ouch,”

Anske squeaked.

“We were just getting into the first commandment.”

Eze shrugged, nonchalant.

“Maybe your Guide can teach him not to call his boss a rancid fuck.”

“I hope he doesn’t have a concussion,”

Anske fretted.

Rosamma eyed Galan.

His brain must’ve flipped inside his skull. His eyes probably looked out the back of his head now, for all the effort the Striker had put into that punch.

A mere concussion would be a blessing, she thought, but said nothing to Anske.

Xorris and Nud crowded Fincros, radiating blatant aggression.

He sidestepped them.

“Get off my hide. Go do your part.”

Ucai, who’d hung back until this moment, pushed forward.

“We have a chance at them.”

“Not a good chance,”

Fincros said.

“Stop being a pussy.”

“They outnumber us!”

“So? Wouldn’t be the first time,”

Ucai said with confidence.

“Our men are strong. Our station is armored. It’s worth the risk.”

The Striker’s face registered something like frustration, the first time Rosamma had seen him show emotion.

“Worth the risk?”

He snapped his fingers.

“Wake up, we’re not on Sir-Sar anymore. Reinforcements aren’t coming. We have no backup, no cover, no spotters, and no home base to retreat to.”

Ucai got all veiny and mad.

“We need their cargo!”

“The fuck you say!”

Fincros roared.

“But we’re in a former science space station, and they’re in a fucking warship!”

The Striker flung his arm out, pointing at the women hovering in front of the door in the passageway.

“More’n likely, we’ll lose our cargo and our lives if we engage.”

Ucai bristled.

“Do we need to trap you in the chute chamber like we did with Aolis to raid that Xosa box ship?”

“I remember,”

the Striker drawled in that distinctive, goosebumps-inducing voice.

“The box ship split into five and escaped. And now we’re all wanted because you stupid fucks revealed our existence to the entire Universe. So fuck off with your ideas.”

Ucai’s slanted nostrils flared, sending air whooshing.

“I should’ve killed you then.”

“You can try again. But be quick about it.”

Ucai charged.

The air thickened with violence so hot it scorched the skin.

Nud and Xorris joined him, forcing the Striker to fend off all three.

“The boss is under a bit of pressure, isn’t he?”

Gro muttered.

Massar moved in on the fight, blade in hand.

A strangled cry lodged in Rosamma’s throat. No, surely she hadn’t meant to warn the Striker. He wasn’t their friend.

But neither was Ucai.

She didn’t have time to think it through.

Keerym intercepted Massar, knocking the blade out of his hand. It set off a sideline tussle, forcing the women to retreat deeper into the passageway.

Only Thilza remained unengaged. Cool as a cucumber, he smoked, watching the fights as if they were an old movie on repeat.

Someone grabbed Rosamma’s hand, jerking her around.

“Give me a boost. Now!”

“Phex!”

He looked worse for wear, with fresh blood smeared over his face. New bruises marred his skin.

“What happened?”

“No time! Do it.”

Rosamma closed her fingers around his and sent a controlled burst of energy into his receptive Rix body.

He drew in a deep breath, then another.

As abruptly as he’d grabbed her hand, he released it.

“All good.”

He turned to go, but she held on fast.

“Where are you going?”

“Command Center. It’s unmanned. It’s now or never.”

He took off down the passageway, and Rosamma flew after him, ignoring her weakness, her ringing head, her fear, and every instinct that screamed at her to be careful.

Whatever that meant nowadays.

They passed the Service Block and the far side of the Crew Quarters, where they jumped over Esseh’s body sprawled on the floor.

“Is he dead?”

Rosamma panted.

“I don’t know.”

“Did you knock him out?”

“Yes. I know what works.”

They skidded to a stop outside the Command Center.

Tutti stood in the middle, her purple light blinking serenely despite the controls lit up in ominous shades of red.

“Here’s our challenge,”

Phex said, stepping inside.

Tutti came to life.

“Access denied, prisoner. Stand back.”

It rotated to face Phex. Its eyes moved rapidly, scanning him.

“Yeah, what are you gonna do?”

he muttered, heading straight for the controls.

Tutti moved with him.

After a brief moment of deliberation, Phex punted the robot.

It zapped him, even as it rolled back from the blow.

Phex grunted, dropping to one knee. His neck arched back, teeth clenched, riding out the charge.

Rosamma’s mind spun.

They had precious seconds to send a distress signal. The other ship was so near, their first real chance at freedom.

Tutti rebalanced and rolled closer. Its flex-arm whipped out like a lash, but Phex’s instincts, boosted by Rosamma’s energy, took over.

He dropped and rolled clear, so fast Rosamma could hardly track the blur of his movement.

Good.

Between the two of them, they had a chance of tricking the robot.

She jumped into the Command Center, but the robot was in on her. Its flex-arm spun like a propeller.

Another body burst into the room. And oh God, it was Thilza.

Standing upright, he was huge, with traps like a Marvel character despite his degenerate lifestyle.

He moved fast too, wielding the drug pipe as a blunt-force weapon.

“We should trip him!”

Gro called from behind Rosamma.

Sassa came too, out of breath and deathly pale from exertion.

Her reinforcements—so ineffective, but oh so dear.

“How?”

she cried.

“I don’t know!”

Tutti rolled closer, preventing them from moving any deeper into the Command Center.

Gro tried to kick it, but the flex whip got to her in a flash. She dropped, further blocking the way.

“The golden panel!”

Rosamma shouted.

“That’s the place. The buttons… Avoid Tutti!”

Phex smashed his fist into Thilza’s face, briefly gaining advantage.

Strong as Thilza was, Phex was not easy to subdue in one-on-one combat. Their struggle dragged on. Thilza cursed violently. Phex fought in silence.

More pirates were coming—the mesh floor vibrated from their pounding boots.

Rosamma’s heart sank along with their chances.

“Why are you standing there, stupid humans?”

he growled at Rosamma and Sassa, still engaged in a vitriolic dance with Thilza.

“The golden panel! Pop it up and smash every button you can…”

Thilza’s retaliating fist rammed into Phex’s jaw, cutting off the rest of his command.

Rosamma’s eyes briefly locked with Sassa’s before she dove for controls, arching over Tutti, hating how slowly her body moved. She bumped into the edge, the golden panel within her reach.

“Don’t!”

the Striker’s desperate shout sliced her down to her soul.

She didn’t want to listen. He wasn’t a defender—hers or anyone’s. Nothing he said would serve their purpose.

Yet a tiny piece of her brain responded to the anguished urgency in his sharp call. She hesitated for two precious heartbeats, and that time was lost to her forever.

Tutti zapped her in the stomach—twice, three times—making her double over. The continuous charges that pierced her body were a torrent of crippling energy. Her alloy bracelets caught the current and spun it over, refusing to release it.

Now they’re working? flickered through Rosamma’s head.

The zaps left Rosamma in an agonizing, out-of-body state, as though she were levitating above her mortal shell.

At the same time, Phex charged the Striker from the side, with Thilza looming behind, trying to block his path.

Unable to move, Rosamma watched in slo-mo as Sassa slipped past the three Rix locked in a grapple and slithered toward the controls.

Her pale hands touched the gold-plated cover and lifted it open.

The Striker turned. His powerful body burst forward, dragging Phex and Thilza behind him. The defender shirt he wore caught light, shimmering like the scales of an exotic, deadly dragon.

Rosamma watched his huge, clawed hand wrap around Sassa’s arm, jerking her back. Watched Sassa claw at him like a cat, her eyes burning with the same frantic determination she had shown before. Her face was set in determined lines, like she was once again firing her gun at an evil man, fighting for freedom that was only a breath away. She would not stop now.

“Do it, for fuck’s sake!”

Phex roared, displaying his massive fangs.

He slugged the Striker, despite Thilza’s bulk hampering him.

Sassa reached again for the panel.

Before he even recovered, the Striker swiped, precise and powerful—his hand caught Sassa’s head, and her neck gave way with a sickening snap.

In the midst of it all, his ruined face was austere and oddly compelling.

If Rosamma could close her eyes, she would have. But in the throes of paralysis, she could only stare.

And scream.

But no sound emerged.