Page 20 of Seven Oars (Rix Universe #3)

The following day, a hush fell over the station.

No music, no voices, no slamming of fists. Just the oars—a coughing one in the Cargo Hold; a gently grinding one in the Habitat; a rattling one under the Bridge.

The reason for the hush became clear when Anske returned to the Cargo Hold: Thilza had temporarily shaken off his stupor and dragged everyone not on duty to the Engine Room with him.

Phex too. There were lots of dirty, difficult tasks to complete, and every pirate envisioned him doing their task.

They were like feral children, Rosamma mused. They actively shied away from proving themselves in anything useful. All they wanted to do was fight, make merry, and never take a bath.

Anske complained about Thilza taking Galan away from their lessons.

“We’ve just started on hymns.”

She looked crestfallen.

“But he needs constant reinforcement. It’s hard for an alien to remember the words. By the time he comes back, we might as well start over.”

Gro gave her a bored look.

“Is this another way of saying he’s not very bright?”

“Bright is a relative term,”

Anske countered primly.

“He absorbs my wisdom.”

Eze snickered.

“You know what?”

Anske put her hand in the air.

“I’m glad I don’t have to stay in Cargo Hold anymore. You two are no fun to be around for five minutes, let alone weeks. Your sarcasm has tainted your soul.”

Gro rolled her eyes.

“That’s what I told my toilet. Only got a shit response.”

“How juvenile.”

Anske shook her head and focused on Eze.

“And you? You’re a damaged person, Eze. Unfulfilled.”

“Huh?”

Eze perked up.

“You have low self-worth.”

“Oh, for fuck’s sake. How so?”

“Having a clouded, closed mind is unloving to yourself.”

“Go away with your religion, Comrade Anske,”

Eze said.

“Leave us alone.”

“My mission is to drain pus from ailing spirits like yours, not leave people alone. The Commandments are designed to open up your mind…”

Rosamma didn’t hear the rest, slipping out of the Cargo Hold and heading for the Dome.

She sympathized with Anske’s convictions, but the woman was a zealot. She adhered to abstract principles she couldn’t even articulate. And her hymns were uninspiring.

Feeling like a heretic, Rosamma reached for the folding door.

“Wisp.”

The sibilant word froze all blood in her veins.

She stared into Massar’s feverish, brilliant black orbs. A vivid image of Daphne as she had seen her last rose in her mind in every gruesome detail. Slick intestines had glistened in the uneven light with a delicate, rainbow-like sheen.

He crushed her to him and began dragging her away.

Rosamma thrashed in his iron grip. Her heartbeat shot up until it hurt. She broke out in a cold sweat as wild, animal terror seized her.

“Feisty! I like it.”

He readjusted his grip on her waist, circling it tighter. His hot breath hit her face.

In no time, they made it to the Crew Quarters. It was empty now, as he had known it would be. Had probably counted on it.

No interruptions.

He dragged her inside a sleeping node where a messy cot with dirty, tangled covers waited like a morgue gurney.

No, worse. A sacrificial pedestal waiting to receive her, a victim to his sick mind.

Massar’s teeth scraped her neck as he nuzzled there. His long, thin blade emerged, the tip pressing against her rib cage, under the lowest rib.

Spatchcock chicken.

She screamed.

He hit her.

Then stuffed a rag into her mouth.

But he’d had to use one hand to do it.

Rosamma twisted hard, contorted like an eel, and burst out of the sleeping node.

Her vision and hearing went offline. She operated purely on autopilot, guided not by her brain but by the relentless instinct to live.

She dodged his grasping hand, flew across the Crew Quarters’ open area, blindly groped for something underfoot—a broken wall mount?—and slammed it against the weapons rack. She hit it with all her might, praying, willing the locks to break.

So what if she’d never fired a weapon? She had read about it.

She banged mindlessly on the rack.

Massar caught her from behind.

She hit him with the mount.

He bore her down to the floor, laughing as he wrangled it from her without any effort whatsoever.

She fought him, weak, doomed, but rebellious.

Massar was evil, a madman. He looked like an alien caricature of one, a sign that nature gave you warnings aplenty.

If only she’d heard his silent approach.

If only she’d stayed in the Cargo Hold and listened patiently to Anske.

A metal rod stuck out from both sides of Massar’s head.

Rosamma frowned above her gag, her movements slowing.

The rod hadn’t been there a moment ago. And now it was.

If he were a bicycle, it would make a nice handlebar.

Massar was no longer mauling her. He wasn’t moving at all.

Then he was moving, shoved aside by a sturdy, scuffed boot.

“Why can’t you stay the fuck in the Cargo Hold?”

The Striker shook her, rattling her fuzzy brain. His furious face with wild, brilliant eyes—different from Massar’s feverish, brilliant eyes—loomed over her.

Her relief was so great that her blood pressure dropped abruptly, and she felt herself fading.

He pulled the rag out of her mouth with no regard for her comfort and hauled her to her feet.

“Please, don’t be mad,”

she mumbled.

Swaying, she clung to him tightly.

His Rix hearts vibrated beneath the resilient fabric of Phex’s shirt, and her puny human one strained to echo their frantic beat.

“The gun I gave you. Where is it?”

He was still mad, and Rosamma was afraid her answer would do nothing to cool him off.

“I left it at the Cargo Hold.”

“I told you to carry it!”

he roared.

“I know.”

Now he was even madder.

“You know, and you still don’t do it?”

“Not on purpose. I just…”

She wasn’t going to cry.

She fixed her gaze on his scars.

“You have no idea what life I led,”

she whispered.

“I hardly went out. Everything was safe. I cooked, I read, I cared for my brother… There were no guns. I had no idea places like this existed! This life… I can’t survive here.”

His jaw flexed.

Then he scooped her up and started walking.

If there was a safe haven for her, it was right here, against his chest. She wished he would never put her down, despite an easily detectable hot violence simmering just beneath the surface of his skin.

He took her to the Cargo Hold and dumped her on her pad.

“Stay here,”

he barked before heading out.

Silence fell.

Gro and Eze, scared stiff by Fincros’ sudden appearance, moved.

“What’d you do?”

Rosamma rubbed her sore elbow. “Existed.”

“There’s blood on your shirt,”

Eze pointed out.

Indeed, there was. A lot of it, but none of it was hers.

Rosamma gave a single sob and started tearing the shirt off. Everything caught up to her. It had happened so fast. There’d been no warning. If Fincros hadn’t happened to hear her scream—had he heard her scream?—someone would be loading her body into the trash chute by the day’s end.

“Gosh, Rosamma. What happened?”

“Massar happened.”

Rosamma told them about the attack.

Eze and Gro were incredulous.

“And he killed him? The Striker?”

“Yes. Unless Rix can survive a rod through the head. Which I don’t think they can…”

It was awful. Massar had been a menace, but still. What a terrible end to a wasted life.

Gro and Eze exchanged a grim glance while she finally managed to take the shirt off.

“I have to wash it.”

“Rosamma.”

“What?”

“About the Striker. He killed one of his men for you.”

Rosamma stopped her progress to the bath stall.

“I know, Eze.”

“He must value something you have. Like your energy. Does he know about it?”

Was that why he did it?

She clutched her shirt in her hands, standing in only a ribbed tank top. Cold air feathered unpleasantly over her clammy skin.

She wouldn’t look at Eze.

“He knows,”

she said softly.

“You’ve given it to him, have you?”

Rosamma frowned.

“Once. When he had the heat wave.”

“I knew it! At the Engine Room. It nearly killed you!”

Gro was outraged.

“It was an accident,”

Rosamma said and finally looked at Gro and Eze.

“He didn’t force me, if that’s what you’re wondering. I hadn’t planned on doing it at all, but… I just couldn’t let him die.”

“Why do I feel like it was a mistake?”

Eze muttered.

“I don’t know, Eze,”

Rosamma admitted, but in her heart, she knew.

If she had to do it all over again, she’d heal him again.

“Now that he knows, he’ll suck you dry, like a vampire,”

Gro said darkly.

Rosamma shook her head and proceeded to the bathroom stall.

“You’re confusing him with Phex.”

*****

Some time later, Fawn came back. She grabbed some food from the shelf and collapsed onto the pad she rarely used anymore.

She didn’t look well, and she smelled gross of Xorris’ BO.

“Have you heard? Massar is kaput,”

she informed them.

“We’ve heard.”

Fawn peered at Eze.

“How? Do you have a secret radio in here or something?”

“Rosamma went out and saw it happen,”

Eze informed Fawn.

“I thought you didn’t like to go out, Rosamma. Maybe you shouldn’t,”

Fawn said indifferently and chewed.

“I saw his body. Terrible. The Striker ended him. He didn’t mess around.”

She poked her temple with her index finger to mimic the rod.

It was clear that Fawn didn’t know why Massar had died; just that he had.

Rosamma cleared her throat.

“Are you going to stay for a while, Fawn?”

she asked more sharply than she intended.

“What’s in it to you?”

“Nothing,”

Rosamma quickly said.

“Just asking.”

“I’m hungry and thirsty, and I think I’m gonna wash. Haven’t done that in a while.”

Fawn giggled.

“Did you sleep with Massar?”

Eze asked, distaste written all over her face.

Fawn didn’t seem bothered.

“No. He never tried. Too fucked up in the head with blood and bodies. I think he had an ED from it, if you know what I mean.”

“You used to think they were all eunuchs,”

Gro pointed out.

“But the truth is, not every male here wants you, Fawn.”

“Yes, they do,”

Fawn said with confidence.

“Even the Striker?”

Fawn waved her hand.

“The Striker is also fucked up in the head, but differently. He doesn’t count.”

“And Esseh?”

Fawn sighed.

“Esseh wanted Sassa. So he doesn’t count either.”

“And Galan?”

“He counts! Except Anske doesn’t allow him to fuck anymore. She says it ruins his concentration.”

Fawn finished the jerky and threw the wrapper on the floor.

“I’m going to wash now. My head’s killing me. Damn him, Thilza capped my smoke allowance.”

“Oh, she has a smoke allowance now,”

Gro grumbled, picking up trash after Fawn. Arguing with her over tidiness was futile.

Fawn sang as she washed, loud and off-key.

Rosamma sat on her pad and contemplated her existence. Her head had started to ring in that hollow way again that told her she needed energy. She felt weaker and more lethargic.

Ren, she called to him silently, bitterly. Are you alive, brother? I love you. What am I supposed to do?

“Now I feel truly lost,”

she confided in Gro and Eze.

“Up until today, despite everything, I hoped we’d find a way out.”

Gro sat next to her and put her arm around Rosamma’s shoulders.

“You’re maudlin now, after Massar.”

Rosamma chuckled.

“I wish I were more traumatized by what happened, but the truth is, I’m barely traumatized at all. And I hate it.”

“You’ve gotten tough, Rosamma. You’ve survived. I’m proud of you.”

Gro tucked a strand of Rosamma’s loose hair behind her ear.

“I don’t like the person I’ve become. Too unfeeling.”

Gro smiled.

“It’s not a bad thing in a place like this.”

Fawn stopped singing and poked her head out of the stall.

“Yo! The water’s all gone.”

“Did you check the filter levels before you went in?”

Eze didn’t sound sympathetic.

“No, I thought you were in charge of this washing station.”

“What am I, a water treatment plant operator?”

Fawn’s head disappeared, and she cursed, and the metal stall walls amplified each word. When she came out, she paraded around semi-naked, rustling in what was left of Alyesha’s cosmetics and peering into Alyesha’s little mirror.

“I look horrid.”

She touched the bag under her eye.

Eze rolled her eyes at Fawn.

“It’s from the drugs, Fawn. They also make you dumb.”

“I need vitamin D.”

“Fawn, don’t you want to go home?”

Rosamma asked her.

“Yeah, sure. I mean, not home home. To Priss, the asteroid.”

Her tone projected zero enthusiasm.

“Okay, well, we have to find a way. Will you help us? You used to want to.”

“Of course.”

Fawn set aside the mirror.

“What do you want me to do?”

“Do you know if the pirates are running low on food? Where do they store it?”

“They keep their food in their sleeping nodes. Everyone has their own stash. I don’t know how much’s left. Ask Phex, he’s one of them.”

Fawn finally pulled a shirt over her breasts.

It bothered Rosamma to hear Phex being lumped in with the pirates.

“Is he in the Habitat now?”

she asked.

She hadn’t seen Phex in days. He’d stopped coming to the Cargo Hold, and she had stopped seeking him out.

Fawn yawned.

“Nope. He’s taken a shift.”

The three of them gawked at Fawn.

“What shift?”

“The Striker put him on duty.”

“What duty?”

“What other duty is there? The piloting stuff. And you say I’m dumb.”

Fawn shook her head at them.

“Is he… in the Command Center?”

Fawn was growing exasperated with Rosamma.

“Yes! He’s taken Massar’s place.”

Phex was in the Command Center, exactly where the distress signal panel was located.

A new hope sprang up in the Cargo Hold.

This could be their chance!

Eze and Gro started talking and laughing.

Fawn lay down for a nap.

But Rosamma remained perturbed.

The Striker’s scarred, cruel face was clear in her mind.

He wouldn’t let Phex anywhere near the Command Center if he wasn’t certain that Phex was finally broken.

*****

When Anske came back to the Cargo Hold next, she brought Galan with her.

Gro hated it when aliens came to the Cargo Hold, even Phex, so she bristled and argued with Anske, but couldn’t make them leave.

“It’s rough out there,”

Anske complained.

“Phex fought with Esseh again. And Thilza’s still angry at the Striker for killing Massar. Thilza gets really mean when he’s angry. And the Striker is restless, prowling like a tiger. He sent everybody out of the Habitat.”

“So? It’s a big-ass station. Find another room,”

Gro muttered.

“You find another room. I am hungry.”

Galan and Anske made themselves comfortable near the food shelf and talked in low voices. Rather, Anske talked and Galan listened. How well he understood the jumbled concepts of Anske’s religion, given her inability to express them clearly and her limited grasp of Universal, remained an open question.

But he had stopped smoking Thilza’s weed, cursing, and fornicating with Fawn. He even curbed his fighting to the extent it was possible with these men, so there was no denying the positive effects of Anske’s influence.

Rosamma, having watched the exchange from a corner, used it as a distraction and slipped out.

She crept to the Command Center, breathless from lingering fear of being accosted. Massar was dead, but it didn’t make her feel much safer.

And she was apprehensive about seeing Phex. She simply didn’t know his state of mind any longer.

She found him alone at the controls. Well, alone with Tutti, which could explain the Striker’s relaxed attitude toward this new development.

“Phex!”

Rosamma called to him from the entrance.

When he saw her, he stood up and went to the door.

Tutti rolled after him.

He looked normal, with only a minor bruising alongside his jaw. He stared at her intently. His gaze couldn’t match Fincros’ in pounds per square inch of pressure, but it was heavy enough.

“Anske said you were here.”

Rosamma motioned to the controls behind him. “How?”

“They know I’m a pilot,”

he said, as if it explained everything.

“Have you heard about Massar?”

Had she?

“Yes.”

Phex nodded.

“I took his place.”

“They allowed you?”

“I wasn’t asked.”

Rosamma’s eyes went to the golden panel.

“Does it mean… the signal?”

“The robot is watching me.”

She dropped her voice.

“But can you try? I can give you a boost!”

He adjusted his rigid posture.

“You told me you’re too weak to share your energy.”

“For this, I will share.”

His face was unreadable, but Rosamma sensed he wasn’t happy with this conversation. It was like a part of him had shut down, an integral, important part.

“I’ll see what I can do,”

he said with a barely concealed reluctance.

Rosamma nodded earnestly.

“Phex, we have to try. Our food will run out sooner or later. We’ve already used one-half.”

His mouth thinned.

“You eat too much.”

“Agreed. We can reduce our rations, but in the end, the food will still run out. There’s no other source.”

He sighed and turned sideways from her. His tone softened. “I know.”

“And if the signal thing works out, we all get to go home,”

she gently reminded him.

How come he needed a reminder?

Phex frowned.

“Except, I can’t go back to Enzomora and be a defender, Rosamma.”

“Why not?”

she asked.

“I’ve lost my defender honor.”

Rosamma was aghast.

“Oh, this is such… bullshit! You’ve been captured, and you’ve done things under duress. Surely this counts?”

“No.”

“But Simon—Commander Aeshac—was captured, and he probably did things.”

She scrambled for a good justification.

“He’s still a defender!”

“Different captures and different things. Don’t argue about something you don’t understand.”

“You can still go home, Phex,”

she beseeched.

“Yeah…”

Tutti made unhappy noises, and Phex used it as an excuse to make Rosamma leave.

She walked down the passageway slowly.

Her conversation with Phex went as poorly as she had secretly expected, only worse.

She lingered on the Bridge, weighing the wisdom of going to the Dome. The Dome won, and Rosamma slipped inside the folding door, breathing in the familiar musty smell.

The shades were left open from the last time she’d been here. The pinpricks of stars peered at her in the myriad of tiny white pupils.

She made herself comfortable by the window, folding her legs under. If only the stars could tell her what she should do. If there was anything she could do.

Phex wouldn’t send the distress signal.

He no longer wanted to be found.