Page 22 of Seven Oars (Rix Universe #3)
Rosamma seriously considered yelling for Gro.
Exhausted, she had slept a little, then fussed with her bonds but couldn’t break them.
As time went by, she got worried about being forgotten in the Meat Locker. Only the thought it might not be Gro who hears curbed her impulse to yell.
If Phex heard her, would he come?
She wasn’t sure anymore.
She sat as far away from Father Zha-Ikkel as her leash allowed, twisting her bound hands and cursing Striker Fincros.
Every time she moved, a twitch between her legs reminded her of what he’d done to her in the Dome.
What she’d allowed him to do.
What she’d wanted him to do.
Bastard.
It wasn’t all that exciting. They didn’t mesh.
Or maybe he was bad at sex. Yeah, that was it—an alien bore.
She pressed her legs together as her gaze fell on the pile of clothes next to her. They were her clothes. Only one person could have brought them, and he must’ve done it while she slept.
Dick.
How was she supposed to put them on?
Stretching one leg out, Rosamma raked the clothes closer with her toes.
The Tana-Tana corpse swayed.
She used every foul word she knew and some new ones she’d learned from the pirates.
She had her pants on when the door finally—finally—opened.
“Untie me, you prick!”
she screeched.
“Who do you think you are?”
Gro’s eyes got huge.
“Who do you think I am, Rosamma?”
“Oh.”
She flushed so hotly her face warmed up the Meat Locker. “Hi, Gro.”
The fact that she was conspicuously missing the entire top of her attire didn’t help dispel Gro’s concerns.
“Rosamma, are you alright?”
“Yes and no,”
Rosamma grumbled.
“Can you please undo my hands?”
“What happened?”
Gro made short work of the ties. They had never been meant to hold her in here forever.
Rosamma threw aside the collar and hurriedly put on her layers of shirts. It felt much warmer and a whole lot more appropriate.
“I had an argument with the Striker,” she said.
Gro’s eyes got even bigger.
“You called him a prick, didn’t you?”
Rosamma sighed.
“I guess I was being difficult.”
“You?”
Gro asked in an incredulous voice.
“I didn’t mean to!”
She was on the verge of whining.
She tried again.
“I’m glad that you found me, Gro.”
“Not hard to do. I wish y’all had picked a different place to hide.”
They left the Meat Locker together.
“I went to the Command Center and spoke with Phex,”
Rosamma told Gro and Eze when they were back at the Cargo Hold.
She described the interaction with Phex in more detail.
“Tutti’s there. But anyway, he isn’t concerned about our food supply—yet.”
Which was a code way to convey that Phex wasn’t in a hurry to start sending out signals.
“Since you’ve seen the Striker,”
Eze slanted a loaded glance at Rosamma, “tell us what he thinks.”
Rosamma had difficulties looking her friends in the eye. Her face was warming up again as she fought to block out the memories from the Dome.
The sensations were more difficult to vanquish, and they heated her blood. His hands on her skin. Those teeth under her tongue as he let her explore his mouth. That painful give inside her body at his first full thrust…
“About our food running out?”
Her voice came out slightly hoarse.
“He didn’t answer.”
“What else did he say?”
Rosamma fidgeted.
“Nothing. He doesn’t talk much.”
They had been too busy to talk…
“But he knows we have a problem,”
Eze pressed.
“Of course.”
“He’ll have to make contact with the outside world,”
Eze rationalized.
“It’s the only way to survive.”
Gro was pensive.
“It seems we can now afford to wait and see how it pans out.”
Rosamma nodded.
She could wait. Like it or not, the Tana-Tana “treatment”
boosted her energy, and she once again felt stronger and more alert.
Her thoughts turned to her brother. How was he faring?
He would be alive, she had to believe it. She would know if it were no longer the case.
Have no fear.
Two men had told her the same thing at different times. Strong, dominant males with honed survival skills.
For her sanity, she would do well to listen.
*****
Anske showed up in the Cargo Hold with Galan in tow.
“Again?”
Gro said sourly.
“Again what?”
“Snack time followed by hymns?”
“Hymns uplift our spirit. We mean every word we sing,”
Anske replied drolly.
She didn’t mention snacks.
“Your fervor doesn’t cancel out the fact that you sound like a broken blender,”
Gro told her.
Anske sputtered.
Galan’s hand shot out and grabbed Gro by the neck.
“What did you say to her?”
The conversation had happened in their own language, but Galan picked up on the tension.
Now Gro sputtered and choked. Her face reddened—he held her fast.
“I asked you a question, female.”
He squeezed harder.
Rosamma jumped up.
“She can’t talk if you hold her like that! Please, let her go!”
“She makes Anske sad,”
he countered.
“Tough shit!”
Eze yelled, barreling into Galan.
“Anske makes us all sad with her holy howling. She’s annoying! She steals other people’s food, and she eats like a slob. Now, let Gro go!”
Gro was choking.
Galan swung at Eze with his free hand, sending her flying.
Rosamma saw red.
She snatched a stuffed old shirt she used for a pillow and pressed it into Galan’s face.
She didn’t want to suffocate him to death. She only wanted to suffocate him a little.
He thrashed.
Gro kicked up.
Eze recovered, and the three of them hung on him like barnacles.
“Call off your dog, you pious bitch!”
Eze screamed at Anske.
Anske looked smug.
“Gro’s mean. She deserves it.”
She was already munching on something.
“Mooch.”
Galan’s fist connected with Eze’s jaw, snapping her teeth.
“Disturbance at the Cargo Hold. Disturbance at the Cargo Hold.”
Galan dropped Gro.
“Crap. Tutti!”
Rosamma scrambled after Eze to the far side of the room.
Anske, too slow and in Tutti’s direct way, caught the zap.
She groaned as she fell in a manner of a toppled monument, and only her eyes reflected the intense loathing she felt toward the Cargo Hold inhabitants.
Attracted by the noise, Nud and Xorris poked their heads in from the passageway. They pointed fingers at Anske and guffawed at Galan, calling him a patch-faced dipstick in training.
Fawn trailed in, glassy-eyed, and laughed without tracking.
There was a minor scuffle where they trampled over Rosamma’s little mattress.
This went on until Galan cursed vividly, forgetting his newfound upright ways, and escaped the Cargo Hold, taking the circus away with him.
Once more, the women were alone.
“I hope you’re happy,”
Gro said, gingerly rubbing her throat.
“Me? How’s that my fault?”
Anske was almost crying.
“I always suffer because of you.”
“Fuck you, Anske.”
Fawn snored like a bear, fast asleep. It hadn’t taken her two minutes to pass out.
Exasperation rose inside Rosamma.
“Why are we like this? We’re supposed to be in it together!”
It genuinely angered Anske.
“We would be together if you opened your minds to the holy principles. You need liberation!”
“Fuck, yeah, we need liberation!”
Eze exclaimed, sounding as angry as Anske.
“From this godforsaken space station. Yet what do you do?”
“Yeah, what do I do?”
“Instead of working with us on escape plans,”
Eze continued, “you peddle your bullshit wisdom to the dumbest alien in the Universe.”
“Not so! Xorris is dumber than him.”
“We need to think about sending out a signal!”
Rosamma’s voice rose above the rest.
“Not vote for the dumbest-alien-of-all-time award.”
Anske frowned at her.
“Look who’s talking. You’re an alien too! It’s your brother’s fault that we’re here in the first place.”
Eze cursed quietly.
“Don’t curse!”
Anske snapped.
“And where’s your defender, Rosamma? Where’s Phex, huh? You were so chummy with him, practically begging to be his girlfriend. Hypocrites, all of you.”
Fawn slept through their argument, producing unladylike snores.
Anske used the bathroom and changed before leaving.
“We’re not together anymore. I’d rather stay here and work on Galan. It’s rewarding.”
“Snacks!”
Gro waved around Anske’s half-eaten fruit strip that she’d dropped when Tutti zapped her.
Eze slapped her wrist, but she was laughing.
Rosamma lay down and put her crinkly blanket over her head.
Five weeks, they’d said.
It would be fun, they’d said.