Page 16 of Seven Oars (Rix Universe #3)

In the days that followed, the Habitat remained silent after the unseen showdown between Fincros and Thilza. It was a breather, a pause that allowed the women to find their footing, mourn Sassa, and regroup.

And to brace for the next round.

They tidied up the Cargo Hold and rearranged things out of boredom and the need to stay active. They entertained Daphne. Anske sang hymns.

Sassa’s belongings were folded and tucked away. Every personal item was precious here, yet no one took anything of hers.

The heat was getting worse, passing the balmy category and jumping straight into sweltering.

Languid lethargy gripped their small underworld, and even the perpetually cold Rosamma had started to perspire.

The pirates had scattered and stayed hidden away in whatever quarters they’d claimed for themselves. Rosamma hadn’t ventured out personally, but Fawn shared the news when she came back from her fishing expedition.

“Phex’s still in the Habitat,”

she informed them.

“But the rest of them are gone. I only saw Galan in the passageway.”

“Galan?”

Anske perked up.

“Yeah. He looks horrid. The Striker really turned his head inside out. Even his eyes look like they’re in the wrong place.”

Fawn screwed up her face.

“Oh boy. That’s not good at all. Did he ask about the Holy Guide?”

Anske wanted to know.

“Well, no. But he hinted he might want to get to know me better.”

Fawn tried—and failed—to hide smugness on her face.

“You’re incorrigible,”

Gro sighed.

“Don’t worry, nothing happened,”

Fawn assured them.

“The Rix don’t do heat, who knew? This place is so dead. Not literally! I mean, just so boring.”

“Goddammit, it was such much fun before,”

Eze said drily.

Fawn only laughed.

“Gotta make the best of it, Gro,”

she said.

“We only have one life. Is there any food left for today?”

“Buzz off, Fawn,”

Gro snapped.

“What a grouch,”

Fawn replied without rancor.

She picked up the sheet she used as a wrap and sashayed into the shower stall.

The rest of them sat silently and listened to her bang around and curse in there.

“She’s going to use up all the water,”

Anske grumbled.

“That’s okay. I’ll filter more,”

Rosamma quickly offered.

They had to stay united. They had to trust one another. It was their only strength, all they had left. It troubled her greatly that not everyone saw it.

Sassa’s loss should have pushed them closer, but instead, it seemed to accelerate their unraveling.

Alyesha had never come back to the Cargo Hold.

Anske only obsessed over snaring Galan as a potential disciple.

Fawn was sniffing around the Habitat for male attention.

Their unified structure was beginning to wobble at the base.

“If the Rix don’t do heat,”

Anske said quietly, then dropped her voice even lower, “Do you think they can die from it?”

Gro stretched her legs in front of her.

“I wouldn’t complain if they did.”

Eze shook her head.

“I’m afraid you would. Something’s wrong with the station, and someone better fix it, or we’re all screwed.”

“Thilza was supposed to fix it,”

Rosamma pointed out.

“Yeah, we’re screwed,” Eze said.

As far as they knew, the pirates showed no urgency in performing repairs. No one bothered to do anything more than bemoan the heat and get plastered. Even Fincros was only pissed at Thilza for acting out.

Maybe it was nothing. Maybe the station was programmed to resolve such problems without intervention.

Still, it was becoming uncomfortably hot.

Rosamma rose.

“I’m going to see Phex. He might know something.”

She crept out of the Cargo Hold and stealthily made her way to the Habitat.

Fawn was right: the station was so unusually silent.

In the stillness, the hum of the oars seemed louder and more menacing. Rosamma’s steps, no matter how hard she tried to be quiet, made the mesh floor respond with squeaks, screeches, and clangs.

The Habitat stunk, the usual combo of lingering body odors, congealed blood, and stale smoke, underlaid by the metal tang of the aging equipment.

The Striker’s swivel chair was turned sideways, concealing the tattoos.

Phex was in stasis.

She dropped to her knees next to him and pulled his restraints, testing their strength.

A silly action. If they had any weak links, Phex would’ve already broken them.

The chain rattling woke him.

“Rosamma.”

His eyes opened, the inner lid sliding away slowly.

“Are you hurt? Hungry?”

she asked, her eyes roaming over him.

“Not hungry. Hot.”

He reached out and placed one large six-fingered hand on her sleeve. His enormous eyes were trained on her face.

She lowered hers.

In another world, he might have touched her with concern and affection. But this wasn’t that world. He assumed she was here to give him her energy.

She tugged her arm away, but couldn’t help but notice a fine sheen of sweat covering his skin. He was breathing heavier than usual. She had also caught him unawares in stasis, a troubling sign.

“The heat keeps rising,” she said.

He nodded.

“The gravity’s changed, too. Can you feel it?”

That’s why her steps were so heavy, and her feet felt like lead.

Anxiety filled her chest with unpleasant tightness.

“What’s going to happen?”

“Depends on how fast things can be fixed. If they can be fixed.”

“I don’t think anyone’s fixing anything, Phex.”

She smiled without mirth.

“From what Fawn told us, the pirates are resting.”

“I know. Thilza’s checked out. The rest are waiting for him to check back in, like it’s going to happen.”

“Did he get his drugs back?”

Rosamma asked.

“I don’t know. Probably,”

Phex said in a tired voice.

“They messed with the Striker. It didn’t go well.”

That was, weirdly, troubling news.

Yes, the Striker was a horror. But without him, this place would be worse.

Could it be worse?

Rosamma didn’t want to imagine.

“What do you mean, they messed with him?”

she asked.

“The Striker laid into Thilza first about the drugs and not fixing the station,”

Phex told her.

“Thilza’s a serious fighter. I underestimated him. The Striker had his hands full. Then Ucai jumped in, using his chance. Massar, too. All of them. A full revolt.”

Rosamma sat back, felling a little funny.

“Is he still alive?”

Phex snorted.

“He shouldn’t be, right? But this place is never straight. Thilza switched sides in the middle of their fight, and the two of them slapped the others around. Nothing makes sense here. Nothing.”

Rosamma refused to admit it was relief she felt at his words.

If it was, she only felt it because she trusted the Striker more than the others to keep the station functional and the rabid ones marginally in check. That was the only reason for the easing in her chest. Better the devil you know kind of thing.

Once more, she pondered their current situation.

“Phex,”

she leaned close, whispering in a rush, “it’s a perfect moment. The pirates are resting. It’s our chance to escape!”

They were face-to-face, and she saw his multiple pupils trained on her face.

“We already tried that.”

His voice was flat.

“No, we tried to send a distress signal. I’m talking real escape!”

“How?”

He sounded curiously detached.

“Well, first, we have to free you.”

Her mind spun with ideas.

“And then we have to free one of the pods. You can fly one, can’t you?”

“I could,”

he said slowly and without enthusiasm.

“But I won’t.”

She sat back. “What?”

“It’s not doable, Rosamma,”

he explained to her as if she were a toddler.

“You can’t release a pod without a code. And you can’t fly one without provisions, protection, fuel. They might be broke for all I know!”

He sounded like he was trying to convince himself, to find excuses why it couldn’t be done.

“We can’t just sit here and do nothing.”

She searched his face, looking for strength there, for his usual glow.

She found nothing but a blank mask.

“We can do nothing,”

he said.

“Let it run its course. Let the heat peak and take us all. Damn them.”

This heat must’ve gotten to him.

She touched him, fast, pulsing a burst of energy into his hand. There. Maybe that would help clear his head.

Then she rose.

Her head swam a little. The burst of energy cost her precious reserves.

She shook it off.

It was such an incredibly opportune moment, this heat situation.

“How would you access the codes?”

she asked.

“From the Command Center?”

Phex rolled his head to loosen his neck.

“Most likely from the Service Block.”

“Great! That’s where I’ll go. What should I search for?”

“This place is an antiquated heap, and not even Rix in origin.”

He swept his hand around, indicating the ugly monstrosity that was their station.

“It’s been patched up ten times over by its different occupants. I’ve no idea what to look for,”

he said sourly.

She could see he had no confidence in her. He wasn’t on board with her plan.

But then, he hadn’t been on board with much of any plan, except sending a distress signal and hoping it would stick.

And when it hadn’t, he got lost.

Essentially, that had been Phex’s problem from the start: a great warrior with strong principles, he struggled handling life’s curveballs. He hadn’t known what to make of flying the women to Priss in a stolen cruiser, and he was out of his depth on Seven Oars.

Not because he was alone against many.

Because it was a zoo.

Well, Rosamma refused to let this opportunity pass. Defiance filled her veins with purpose.

“I’ll poke around the Service Block,” she said.

“It’s a bad idea.”

She stood up.

“Rosamma!”

But she’d already moved away.

The coast was clear.

She made a short trip down a clangy passageway to the Service Block without a mishap. Sliding in, she took a good look around.

Unlike the Habitat, the equipment here was still affixed to the walls. Mounted workstations and desks looked functional.

She took it all in, squinting at screens, control panels, and levers, feeling as useless as ever. Why wasn’t she like Ren, a wiz with technology?

Uncomfortably hot, Rosamma stubbornly refused to abandon her snooping.

She went clockwise around the Service Block, poking screens and pressing buttons. One small break was all she needed. One button to respond in just the right way.

Fear of setting off an alarm dominated the dense clump of other fears rooted inside her chest. Her fingers shook, and she kept looking over her shoulder, expecting an irate pirate to stumble through at any moment.

If she got lucky here, they would still have to release Phex from the chains. The station must have tools. They just needed to find the right one. The women would think of something. Gro, Eze.

She wasn’t alone in this.

“What are you doing?”

The sound of that quiet, accented voice was like a blade slicing along her spine.

Her hands slipped from the panel and dropped to her sides. It was like her whole body shut down.

But not her pulse. It hammered, pushing hot blood through her malfunctioning body.

“Turn around and answer me.”

She turned slowly. She didn’t want to face her death, but she couldn’t help looking.

She had always measured him against others of his kind and found him large. But now, with nothing to compare him to except her own unimpressive frame, her mind struggled to process how absolutely massive he truly was. A solid wall of a male.

Without a shirt, his bare torso was a study of tight flesh molded with high tolerance in mind. Burn scars marred his right shoulder and side, a continuation of the injury that had disfigured his face.

He had the indigo Rix tattoos at the base of his throat, and not a few random hieroglyphs like some other pirates—a full, intricate set.

All of that barely registered before other details of his appearance snagged her attention.

The Striker’s body was glistening with sweat. It saturated his hair, making it look darker. Left loose, it hung down the sides of his battered face, softening its rough aspect.

He had beautiful hair.

Yes, all Rix had beautiful hair, but a silly resentment rose inside Rosamma. Why him, too? Why did he have to have the features she admired in Rix, in Phex? His warrior size and build. And now his shiny mink mane.

That hair shifted like silk when he raised his hand, pointing a nasty-looking tool at her throat, a pair of heavy-duty wire cutters she’d just been wishing to find.

“Speak. Or I’ll cut your throat.”

He was fully capable of doing it. Would it hurt terribly? The wire cutters’ blades looked lethally sharp.

“It’s very hot, Striker Fincros,”

she said in a voice that barely registered above the din of the Service Block’s oar.

“I am looking for a climate control regulator.”

His brows arched slightly above his black eyes. He’d heard what she said, but he didn’t believe her.

Still, to Rosamma's knee-weakening relief, he lowered the wire cutters.

“The climate system is broken,”

he informed her, and he sounded tired.

“Come with me.”

He prodded her toward the door with the blunt side of the cutters.

She went ahead of him down the passageway until they came to another door. She’d never been to this part of the station. Climbing over the high metal threshold, not dissimilar to that at the Cargo Hold, she stepped inside.

The air reeked of hot metal, and melting plastic, and chemicals, and industrial dirt. The ever-present background hum of the station’s equipment was not a hum but a loud whirring and clanking.

Above the cacophony, another oar groaned as it spun, working against pressure.

She was in the Engine Room, the belly of the beast.

The heat here was much worse, rivaling that of a sauna. The gravity, too, was extreme, as if someone dropped a load of bricks on her shoulders.

Fincros went around her, disappearing behind a metal rack. His steps were heavy, and he struggled as he walked. With his much heftier frame, this gravity must be hitting him a lot harder.

She followed his wide back.

He favored his left side as he walked, and she realized he had a nasty rip in his side. A knife wound. It wasn’t bleeding now, but his pants were all dark on that side. Soaked.

She forced her lead feet to carry her after Fincros, careful not to step on patches of grease coating the mesh floor.

After passing a small labyrinth of containment units and caged rotating devices, they came to a stop in front of a small hinged door. Tools were spread on the floor beside it.

Fincros lowered to one knee and propped the hatch open.

“Give me that.”

He pointed at some kind of small ratchet.

She picked it up and placed it into his large, dirty palm.

He went to work.

This heat must be unbearable for him, yet he was working methodically. His heavy arms flexed with purpose. His upper body was a super-charged weapon without a hint of weakness. It radiated power. She’d seen what damage it could do.

He threw a length of tangled wire to her, making her jolt.

“Wind it tight.”

She picked up the spool he pointed to and began to wind. The prickly wire bit into her fingers, but she didn’t dare wince.

Fincros swayed, then shook his head, flinging sweat from his hair.

“Talk to me,”

he ordered hoarsely.

She paused her winding.

“What would you like me to say?”

“Tell me about yourself,”

he said.

“Did you live on Meeus all your life?”

“Most of it,”

she replied.

“I came to Meeus when I was three. I was born on Planet Earth.”

“You have a mother? A father?” he asked.

“My mother’s dead. I never knew my father.”

He hummed.

“You have other family?”

“I have a brother,”

she said softly.

“Is he younger than you?”

Rosamma’s chest grew tight. She could picture Ren so clearly, his tall, lanky form and sardonic half-smile. Oh, to live long enough to see him again…

“He’s older by seven minutes,”

she whispered.

Fincros paused.

“You’re a twin?”

She nodded.

“Strange, I know,”

she said.

“Tana-Tana twin babies never survive. Because they wouldn’t be separate babies. They would be halves of one.”

He arched a fine, curved eyebrow at her.

“Yet here you are.”

“Only because we’re half-human,”

she explained.

“Tell me why you had no male on Meeus?”

he asked suddenly.

He couldn’t have known whether she’d left someone behind on Meeus. He’d only guessed.

And he was correct.

She looked up… and found him staring at her. It gave her a mild jolt to be scrutinized so closely. By him.

Rosamma flushed.

“Do you have to ask, Striker Fincros?”

she said quietly.

“You lived around men, didn’t you?”

he probed.

It was too disconcerting, being near him like this, answering his intrusive questions. The mix of emotions he stirred in Rosamma was dark and unsettling.

“I lived with my brother and stepfather,”

she said.

“My stepfather—I call him uncle—owns an entertainment club. I used to help out there when I was younger.”

His attention had switched back to his task, making it easier for her to carry on with her story.

“As I grew,”

she continued, “I stood out more and more among humans. The patrons at the club started noticing me and talking about me. It wasn’t good for my uncle’s business. And it wasn’t safe for me.”

“How so?”

She shrugged and frowned.

“Most people found me too strange.”

She’d told herself countless times that she didn’t care. Yet it had stung then, and it stung now.

“They thought I didn’t belong. But,”

her voice dipped, “there were some who thought I was exotic. One night, a man caught me on my way home. He was drunk.”

The Striker swiped sweat from his eyes.

“What’d he do?”

“Nothing.”

Rosamma pulled hard at the wire, prickling her finger.

“I was lucky. My brother Ren happened to follow me. He zapped the man… in his man parts.”

Fincros didn’t pause his work, but Rosamma saw one of his eyebrows arch slightly.

“Ren got in trouble for that. It’s against the law,”

she added quickly, and then thought she must’ve sounded rather silly to someone like him.

Zapping a man with an electric stunner was probably the mildest offense he’d ever committed.

She finished threading the wire and handed him the spool.

“Your brother and uncle sheltered you after that,”

he stated, taking the spool from her.

“I did lead a more isolated life from that point on,”

Rosamma admitted.

The incident had happened when she was seventeen. She was twenty-seven now. A lifetime had passed, spent in the cozy apartment she’d shared with Ren, reading books and daydreaming.

Fincros motioned for her to come closer.

Wary, Rosamma took two halting steps toward him, her feet so heavy it felt like wading through mud. The heat swathed her like a cocoon, inescapable. The air was dense and smelled of machine oil and his sweat and blood.

His breathing was heavy and strained, a sign of unmistakable distress.

He gave her the end of the wire.

“I need you to attach this wire to a spring inside the casing. There’s a small clip.”

Leaning in, Rosamma peered inside.

The move brought her so close to Fincros that she inhaled the air he exhaled. And he inhaled hers.

“Yes.”

Her voice was scratchy.

“It’ll click when it’s inserted right.”

She pulled at the wire, and it slipped from her nervous fingers.

Her eyes flew to his face as her heart skipped a beat.

“I’m sorry.”

Calmly, he picked up the end and handed it to her again.

Their fingers touched. His six, large and scarred, with blue nails thick and sharp as claws. Her five, slim and white, a little bony, with pale pink nail beds. Her hand was pathetically fragile compared to his Rix brawn.

It was also narrow enough to slide easily into the opening, something he’d clearly noticed and counted on.

Suddenly, he hooked his sixth and smallest finger under one of Rosamma’s bracelets.

“It’s plymburne ore,”

he said, naming one of the metals in the alloy.

“Yes. How did you know?”

He held onto the bracelet.

“And this,”

he added, identifying another rare metal.

“Both are conduit enhancers.”

She nodded once.

He removed his finger.

“What are you shorting?”

She took a shaky breath.

Talking to him about her life was disconcerting enough. Sharing details of her energy cycle would give him knowledge she’d rather he didn’t have. Besides, it was too intimate.

“I have an energy deficiency because of my half-Tana-Tana nature,”

she admitted, against her better judgment.

“The alloy in my bracelets helps my energy spin around instead of escaping. But only for a short time.”

He grunted and turned back to the spool.

“Go on. Put the wire in.”

Holding her breath from strain and concentration, Rosamma slid her hand inside, careful not to let her bracelets get in the way. It took her a few tries, but finally, the clip clicked into place.

With a quiet breath of relief, she withdrew her hand and sat back on her heels, looking at Fincros expectantly.

He gave her no Good job! She got no thanks either. Surprise, pirates didn’t believe in positive reinforcement.

Instead, he attached the spool to a piece of the machinery on the floor that looked like it was made of cast iron.

Then, without warning, he hefted the entire thing.

Rosamma couldn’t imagine the appliance’s weight under normal gravity. In this increased pull, it must’ve been like lifting a small vehicle.

And Fincros was not at his strongest.

His body flexed, ropey veins popping along his arms and back, streaking across the puffy, bluish-red splotches of his recent bruises, a gift from his comrades.

He grunted, trying to shove the part into place.

Then he swayed.

Slowly, his arms slackened, his grip gave out, and the part crashed back down, hitting the mesh floor like a boulder near Rosamma’s toes.

Belatedly, she scrambled away.

The Striker braced one arm against the wall. His eyes closed, but he opened them again as if by sheer force of will.

The wound at his side started bleeding.

He might not survive this, she thought, perturbed.

“Fincros,”

she called him softly by his name.

He blinked slowly, as if surprised to find her sitting on the backs of her heels at his feet. He seemed puzzled about where he was, period.

In the next breath, he slid down to his knees beside Rosamma.

His head hung low, hair and skin saturated where Rix didn’t normally sweat.

She watched him lose the fight with the heat and his own body, her emotions a knot of contradictions.

Inevitability and hope.

Awe and fear.

Pity.

Sadness.

A savage, untamed male, he lived in a world without light. He gave pain, but he expected nothing more in return. He wouldn’t regret anything. He wouldn’t ask for mercy.

Rosamma told herself she wasn’t going to do it.

I hate him. He’s my jailer.

She eyed the thick arm he kept braced against the wall.

A strong wrist. A hand with six fingers.

Like Phex.

She extended her hand, then retracted it.

Even at his weakest, he intimidated her. Even dying, he was powerful.

She reached out again and laid her fingers on his wrist. Her touch was light as a feather, barely a touch at all.

His Rix skin was cool, and he was not Phex.

She studied this scarred animal.

He didn’t respond to her touch. His slitted nostrils fluttered, sucking in hot, dry oxygen that did nothing to cool him.

Rosamma licked her lips and concentrated on releasing some of her energy into the place where they touched.

Nothing happened.

His nearness crushed her senses. Her mind screamed at her to let him be. One less pirate would be good for the world.

She repositioned her hand, trying to calm herself.

Think about Phex. He’s just like Phex.

But he wasn’t.

A uniquely his essence swirled around him like a dark, super-fine mist. It thrilled her more than Phex’s golden glow.

That realization horrified Rosamma. Her block worsened.

She gripped his wrist, but it didn’t help. She couldn’t summon a whisper of her healing energy.

“I can’t do it,”

she said out loud.

It had never happened before.

Slowly, he pulled his wrist away. His lips moved, and she read the word he said: Go.

She dropped her hand.

It was for the best. He was, after all, a bad man.

The oar groaned and screeched, briefly drowning out every other sound in the room. In this suspended moment, Rosamma could no longer hear Fincros breathe.

She lunged at him, wrapping both hands around his thick neck. Her palms picked up the erratic thrum of his multiple hearts. She felt the roughness of the burn scar that descended from his face down his throat. His soft, sweaty hair caressed the backs of her hands.

A trickle of her energy slipped from her hands into him. Too little, too late?

His eyes were closed.

Then his faint breath touched her face.

The floodgates opened, and her energy poured out, unchecked. There was nothing she could do to stop it.

She floundered in the current, swept by the tide, tumbling as if caught in a flash flood. Her will was not her own, and removing her hands from his throat became as impossible as escaping this space station.

She had pitiful little to give, but she gave and gave from depths she hadn’t known she possessed. She was gasping, drowning, and weakening with each passing second.

How long it lasted, she didn’t know.

Only when it became impossible to hold herself upright did Rosamma’s hands slide off his skin, and she slumped against the wall.

Her mind went blank as numbness crept up her limbs.

Fincros turned his head, and his enormous, coal-black eyes sucked her in. She saw, as if from afar, her limp hair and waxy face reflected back.

“Please, Finn…”

she began, but had nothing else to add.

Without a word, he struggled to his feet and lifted the part, sliding it into the opening. Then he slipped a switch.

Immediately, the groaning and straining sounds quieted, replaced by the familiar mechanical din. The gravity began to return to normal.

It would take longer for the temperature to drop.

Sticky sleep crept up on Rosamma, making her yawn.

Fincros stood over her, legs spread. His wound had stopped bleeding.

She craned her neck and said inanely, “Let’s leave.”

He stared at her.

“There are pods,”

she whispered.

“Enough to take everybody. Let’s go away from here.”

“Where would I go?” he asked.

“Home.”

“I have no home.”

Rosamma pulled up her knees and wrapped her arms around them.

“You can come with us.”

He smiled.

Despite the rugged, dark teeth, he had an open, boyish smile. It lit up his face, softening his scars and smoothing out his scowl.

He looked almost carefree.

But it lasted only a moment.

“I’m wanted across the Universe,”

he said.

“Where I go, bounty hunters follow.”

He bent to pick up the tools.

“Keerym left,”

he added, without turning.

Rosamma started. “He did?”

“He took your cruiser. And he took that cunt Alyesha with him.”

Alyesha left?

She hadn’t said a word to any of them. Just slipped away, abandoning them in this hellhole to fend for themselves.

“What about Ucai?”

Rosamma asked quietly.

“They slit his throat. His body’s in his sleeping node, waiting to be pitched.”

Rosamma hugged her knees tighter as if to stop herself from falling to pieces.

Even in this heat, she was cold. She’d lost too much energy. There was no replacing it.

“I’m sorry,”

Rosamma whispered, and her words were meant for the other women more than Fincros.

He turned in her direction.

“That’s not all.”

Her eyes flew to his face, searching his once more implacable features.

“Before he went, Keerym changed all the pod release codes. No one can leave the station.”

He walked out, and she stayed behind, shivering in the heat.