Page 26 of Seven Oars (Rix Universe #3)

Rosamma’s periodic energy infusions over the next several days had only a limited effect on Fincros. He remained unconscious, and his eyes were closed. Blood, pale and bluish, seeped from between his eyelids like tears he never shed. It welled up slowly and pooled in the corners before sliding down his temples.

The eye bleed wouldn’t stop, and Rosamma couldn’t stop crying.

If his eyes didn’t recover, he wouldn’t be able to function. Not in a space station. Not among these people.

“You’ve got to rest,”

Eze kept telling Rosamma.

“I will. In a little bit,”

she kept replying.

She knew she had to rest. She was depleted and growing cold, but Fawn and Anske were here, and Rosamma felt oddly protective of Fincros in their presence.

Fawn had crashed, sleeping on her side. Anske sat upright in the corner, alert. She had asked probing questions about Fincros’ condition, her words devoid of any real concern.

Rosamma found it impossible to fall asleep and leave Finn vulnerable to Anske’s cold, indifferent stare.

And if he was to breathe his last, she wanted to be there to catch it.

Ironic, since she had once wished him dead. Fate was a cruel jester.

She wiped his bloody tears with her towel, already soaked through. Then she reached for the food packet Eze had left for her, intent on cramming nutrients into her human body so it wouldn’t weaken further. She ate, crouched over Finn, casting mistrustful glances at Anske like a feral she-wolf.

She was about to force down another bite when he moved his head, sending fresh blood leaking from beneath his eyelids.

Rosamma dropped the food packet. “Fincros?”

But he didn’t reply, going still again.

Rosamma could taste her despair.

“His eyes should’ve stopped bleeding now. Why won’t they stop bleeding?”

Hysteria threatened to take control.

“Why is he still unconscious? He should be strong. He’s a Rix…”

She had to bite on her fist to ward off an encroaching meltdown. Her losing her mind wouldn’t help anyone, least of all Finn.

Someone put their arms around her from behind—Gro, her anchor. Rosamma leaned into the embrace, depleted from her reserves in more ways than one. The sorrow was eating her alive, and she couldn’t take it anymore.

Eze sidled closer and brushed aside hair from Rosamma’s cold, wet face. Her hand, with her Sakka’s puckered and scaly skin, was warm and soothing. Fincros’ touch was like that, only cool and soothing. His skin was always cool.

Of course. He’s a Rix.

“Eze.”

“What, Rosamma?”

“Help me take him down to the Meat Locker.”

Eze blanched. “Already?”

“Oh, I should’ve thought of it sooner. We’ll keep him there.”

Eze threw a helpless look at Gro.

“Hooked up next to the Father What’s-His-Name?”

Rosamma blinked at her friend.

“To keep him cool. To help him heal.”

“Oh, okay.”

“What did you think?”

“Never mind.”

The next hour was spent incrementally moving Fincros to the Meat Locker. He was unbelievably heavy, and moving his lax body was hard even for the three of them.

Gro and Eze, true to form, traded dark jokes about dead weight, and Rosamma let it pass—anything to fracture the oppressive dread that had filled all of them.

He still lived. It was enough to maintain a thin, trembling thread of hope inside her.

She welcomed this new sense of purpose, of doing something for him. The cold air of the Meat Locker might not save him, but it was better than sitting and watching him waste away.

Anske slunk off at some point, surely to inform the pirates.

Out of the corner of her eye, Rosamma spotted Thilza lurking in the passageway, but he didn’t approach. If he had, if he’d tried to block them from moving Fincros, she would have attacked him and kept attacking until one of them lay dead.

They settled Fincros in the corner where she used to cower, not far from the frozen leftovers of the station’s previous owner. The metal cord was still looped around the dead alien’s girth, the collar lying on the floor, open.

Gro brought Rosamma her crinkly blanket, and she bundled up next to Finn to wait.

He lay motionless, untouched by the ordeal of being dragged across the Bridge. His eyes kept bleeding.

After her sense of purpose drained away, the same stale waiting hollowed her out. She’d hoped the Meat Locker would make a difference.

She sent a thin pulse of energy into Fincros’ wrist, but there was barely anything left in her. The effort made her ears ring and the room go dark at the corners.

Her bleary gaze fell on the open collar that gaped at her as if calling, promising strength.

Her body rebelled, shuddering. She was physically incapable of tying herself to that… thing.

“Rosamma.”

The world fell away.

“Fincros!”

Her breath came out in shaky white puffs as she leaned over him.

His eyes slowly opened. The formerly black orbs were now the color of vintage red wine, a rich mahogany with vivid crimson slashes where Phex’s claws had torn into them.

With instinctive certainty, Rosamma knew then that his vision was gone forever.

“I’m here.”

She caught his hand and held on tight, sensing his confusion.

“My head. My eyes.”

He lifted a hand to his face.

“I can’t see. It’s dark.”

“Fincros…”

She nearly sobbed.

“Tell me.”

His voice was hoarse but firm, leaving no room for argument.

She swallowed hard, forcing the words out.

“Your eyes… They’re bleeding, and I don’t know how to stop it. You have gashes across them, five on the left and three on the right. They look… different.”

She brushed the soaked cloth over his eyelids, wiping away fresh blood.

Silence.

“We’re in the Meat Locker, aren’t we?”

“Yes. Just you and me.”

“How long has it been since the fight?”

Rosamma couldn’t say for sure. Probably two or three days, and that was what she told him.

He shifted, wincing.

“What about your body?”

Rosamma asked.

“Anything broken? Can you move your legs?”

He pulled them up, then straightened them out.

“Yeah. Just sore.”

Relief flickered, but it drained her too. The moment Fincros gained consciousness, Rosamma’s strength began slipping away.

She stretched on the floor next to him and closed her puffy eyelids, pulling the covers over her shivering body. Her thoughts drifted to Ren, a memory she’d neglected lately. She wondered if Ren had found a Tana-Tana alien willing to share energy with him. Hopefully so. And hopefully, his alien benefactor was alive and possessing a head.

We will meet again in another life, Ren. Don’t die on my account.

Half-aware of what she was doing, Rosamma sent a pitiful trickle of energy into Fincros’ hand.

His body stiffened against hers.

“That’s all you have?”

“Uh-huh.”

She burrowed deeper into the covers that offered little warmth.

Sleep was coming.

“Go get the collar, Rosamma.”

“Why?”

“I need you to be strong.”

“I’ve never been that, Finn.”

“My eyes are gone,”

he stated flatly.

“You’re all I have to guide me.”

“We’re not going anywhere,”

she whispered, her voice heavy.

“Yes, we are.”

His words cut through her fog, and her heart ached under the weight of his loss. It would take time for him to fully grasp the depth of his limitation. Longer still to adjust. If he even had that long…

“We should wait. Let your eyes heal.”

He squeezed her hand, calm and steady.

“My eyes will heal,”

he promised.

“But my vision’s gone. It’s over with, Rosamma.”

With effort, she pushed herself up on one elbow. Her voice was thick when she said, “Rest now. We’ll talk later.”

A ghost of a smile flickered around his mouth.

“My stardust. Your face is so clear in my mind. I can see you any time I want.”

She broke down then, sobbing like a child.

“Finn, what do we do now?”

“The same thing as before.”

He sounded surprised.

“Is there water in your eyes?”

“Yes, water… You can’t see!”

“It’s a setback,”

he admitted and closed his eyes, his third eyelid sliding out to cover up the ghoulish sight his retinas had become. More pale blood squeezed out.

“I know this place better than my own body. I’ve spent years here, angry, hating it, locked inside these walls. I don’t need to see it. I don’t want to see it. I can still take you away, Rosamma. And when I need sight, you will be my eyes.”

Rosamma’s sobs died down. She stared at Fincros’ pure, uncompromising profile, made rugged by his scars. She felt his unwavering strength, even now. And his unshakable trust in her.

He frowned, as if sensing her intense regard.

“Don’t be afraid. There’s no fear, only faith.”

Phex’s words.

And just like that, it came to her: it was a defender motto.

He’d never let it go. Beneath the layers of pirate filth, his defender hearts still beat with the pure thrum of his upbringing.

We’re bred before we’re trained.

Unbreakable.

She clutched her thin covers in a feeble hold and crawled toward Father Zha-Ikkel. Clamping the metal collar around her throat, she let herself drift into darkness.

*****

Gro brought Rosamma food and more clothes to wear.

“I know, you don’t wear dead people’s cast-offs, but getting pneumonia isn’t going to help anyone.”

Reluctant but grateful, Rosamma pulled Sassa’s soft hoodie over her head before she checked again on Fincros.

He was in stasis, and his eyes were closed, still leaking, still in terrible shape. She placed her hands gently over them and sent pulses of energy into the ruined tissues. She prayed it had an effect, knowing that it probably wouldn’t.

She couldn’t magically repair what was broken.

He stirred a while later.

“Go to the Cargo Hold.”

He nudged her.

“This place’s too cold for you.”

“I can’t.”

She pointed at the collar she wore, shorting Father Zha-Ikkel.

Then she realized he couldn’t see.

Tears spilled despite her resolve not to cry over what was already done.

“I’m tied to the body,”

she explained.

He pushed off the floor and sat up slowly.

“You must’ve given me a lot. I feel better.”

“Better”

was a relative term. He could barely sit unassisted. His eyes looked like raw red meat and leaked bloody tears. He groaned when he heaved himself upright, and it wasn’t very upright at that.

Seeing him like this broke Rosamma’s heart.

“Here. Lay down.”

He caught her hand.

“Stop. No more energy.”

“Are you daft?”

“You’re fading.”

“You can’t know that.”

“I don’t need to see you to know.”

She wouldn’t admit it to him, but he was right. Father Zha-Ikkel was losing potency. She guessed a dead body could only go so far… so to speak.

She waited until Fincros fell into stasis again before she snuck more energy into his eyes.

By then, the cold had gotten to her. She couldn’t stop her teeth from chattering and her fingers were losing feeling. She had to leave the Meat Locker or risk hypothermia.

She opened the door and drew up short. Thilza was waiting on the other side.

“He’s still alive?”

For the first time since she’d known him, Thilza’s attention felt sharp. She guessed he was as sober as he could ever stay.

She nodded.

“Does he need anything?”

“New eyes?”

Rosamma said sharply.

Though Thilza’s features remained flat, the wave of pain flaring from him was like lightning at midnight, there and gone.

It stunned her, this sudden raw emotion. She felt a flicker of regret for snapping at him.

“I think he’ll recover,”

she said slowly.

“I don’t know if he can get his vision back. Do you want to see him?”

Thilza took a step back. “No.”

A strange guy, this Thilza.

“Will you tell him something from me?” he asked.

“What is it?”

“Tell him… I harbor no ill will toward him for what he did. I never have. The shadows I fight are my own, never his.”

It gave Rosamma pause.

“What does it mean?”

“He’ll know.”

“Is it about that Metalworks man he blew up on Sir-Sar?”

Thilza looked surprised.

“He told you about that?”

“Yes. The two of you had a fallout because of it. I think he regrets… that it ended like this.”

“Did he also tell you Aercer was my father?”

Rosamma covered her face with both hands. Their tangled, violent histories would never stop crushing her.

“I’m sorry. Can you ever forgive him?”

she whispered.

Thilza smiled faintly, only the corners of his mouth lifting.

“Nothing to forgive. He did what I never could. ’s all.”

*****

They gave him two more days to recover.

Then the lever to the Meat Locker clanged ominously, and Esseh stepped inside.

“Resting, motherfucker? Time to be alive.”

He hauled the unresisting Fincros to his feet and dragged him out, with Nud on hand to assist.

Rosamma scuttled after them like a mouse.

The Habitat was primed, long overdue for entertainment. The drug smoke was sharp and the music grating, if not particularly loud.

Esseh let go of Fincros.

He swayed on his feet but managed to stay upright. His loose hair covered the burn scars, but his indigo tattoos were on full display without a shirt to hide them.

The few pirates surrounding him—weak, semi-naked, and blind—rebelled against their former chief, yet were still in awe of him. It was there in their tense bodies and alert, hostile faces.

Phex was perched on the edge of the Striker’s chair. He got his defender shirt back, but it didn’t elevate him to his former role. Rosamma wondered if he would ever regain his self-worth.

Phex’s strength, his formerly steady golden glow, flared in hot, uneven bursts of restless energy.

He is a broken man, Rosamma thought with some sadness.

She would never forgive him for Finn’s eyes, but deep down, she still wished it had ended differently for Phex. He didn’t deserve the humiliation and losses he’d suffered.

He sneered at Fincros, a predator on the loose.

“You know why you’re here?”

Finn moved his head to adjust for the direction of his voice. The indigo tattoos marking his full defender lineage stood out sharply.

Without trying, he was reminding Phex who he was.

“Yes, Striker,”

Finn said quietly.

“For you to take revenge on me.”

There was an awkward hush in the room, caused by him addressing Phex as Striker and by the absolute sincerity behind his words.

“Well,”

Phex said, visibly uncomfortable.

“You’re wrong. I already took my revenge on you. You’re here for our entertainment.”

Fincros stood still. Blindness stripped away those thick, protective layers of emotional armor he’d built over the years, leaving behind the bare essence of the man.

He glowed—not with Phex’s golden light, but his own. Lacking the burning intensity of a sun, his was pale and pure, a reliable moonlight in the darkest of nights. Simple but constant, a guide in the storm.

He had spent a lifetime smothering that glow, but in the end hadn’t been able to change himself; only hide it better.

Esseh came and stomped on Fincros’ foot as hard as he could.

“Those eyes of yours are a freak show, Striker.”

Realizing his blunder, he filled with angry embarrassment.

“A have-been Striker. You were a shitty pilot anyway.”

He aimed a punch at Fincros’ stomach.

Fincros, having tracked Esseh’s rough position, blocked the blow, but it was clumsy.

Still, his resistance enraged Esseh. He darted to the side and slammed his fist into Finn’s face.

He stumbled and backed into Xorris. Xorris took him in a vicious chokehold and head-butted him. The crack from two Rix skulls colliding reverberated through the Habitat.

Fawn laughed drunkenly—Rosamma had almost forgotten the other women were here.

Phex stayed seated.

“I wasn’t blinded, but you used to tie me up while you beat me, so we’ll call it even.”

“Deal,”

Fincros ground out.

“You didn’t make that chair either, but I’m gifting it to you. Enjoy.”

Esseh and Xorris slammed him to the floor. They made it a game, hitting him from angles he couldn’t anticipate. Nud jumped in. Then Galan, ignoring Anske’s scowl. Holy Guide or not, the fun was too tempting for him.

In the haze behind them, Thilza lit up another pipe, freshly stoned and indifferent.

To say the scene was an unwelcome deja vu wasn’t going to cover what Rosamma felt, watching the beating unfold.

When Fincros was reduced to a pulp and stopped struggling, the pirates let up. They wiped the blood from their faces, spat saliva and mucus, farted, and high-fived.

Then they turned their attention to Thilza and heckled him about his pipe and not joining them in the beating.

“You’re despicable,”

Rosamma hissed at Phex. The rest weren’t worth arguing with.

“Oh, I’m just getting started.”

Phex rose and came to stand looming over her.

“Let’s see what’s in store for him,”

he said in his accented Universal.

“I was smashed in the face with a bucket three times. Pulled by arms and legs to dislocate them. Used as a trampoline. Ridden like a pack animal around the station with a rusty D-bit in my mouth and a fake tail up my ass. Had my teeth pulled, ribs broken, and skull cracked more than once.”

His eyes took on a frightening depth.

“Pity we don’t have any more spice charm. I would have loved to see him that debased. Then again… he’s been fucking you. That sort of counts.”

“Shame on you!”

Rosamma spat.

“You’re a Rix defender.”

Phex jabbed a finger at Fincros’ motionless form.

“So is he. A perfect example of how you can transcend the confines of your defender mindset if you apply yourself.”

He smiled an evil smile.

“Isn’t it what Anske’s Holy Guide teaches us? Free. Total mind liberation. I listened.”

“Um, does it, Anske?”

Galan inquired with uncertainty.

Anske’s wide eyes darted from Fincros’ mangled body to Phex and back.

“Sure, Striker.”

“See?”

Phex put his face close to Rosamma’s and whispered, “The Striker is always right.”

Then he straightened.

“Take that trash to the Cargo Hold.”

It was a damning echo of their arrival at Seven Oars. Only back then, it had been Phex who was the trash. It had been Fincros giving the order.

“Work your magic so he’s up and moving soon.”

Phex upchucked her on the chin before turning away.

“We need all the fun we can get out of him, Rosamma.”

His nail broke her skin. And he’d said her name wrong again.

She wasn’t Risana.