Page 29 of Seven Oars (Rix Universe #3)

Two years later

In the morning, Rosamma met with her doctor to pick up a fresh supply of medication. The doctor was pleased with how well the injections worked for her.

“It’s a simple immunotherapy,”

he said, “but we wouldn’t want to experiment with overdosing.”

“No, of course not. I only use the dose you recommended.”

“You are my model patient,”

he praised her strict adherence to the prescription.

“And Ren?”

she asked, teasing.

“He is my second best.”

They laughed.

“Are you doing okay with giving yourself shots?” he asked.

“Yes, doing well. Every first of the month. It’s only a small bother.”

It was amazing how well the shots worked for her. On Meeus, she and Ren had been all but doomed, unaware of the advances in intra-species medicine. Still nascent, the treatment had proven to be groundbreaking for Rosamma.

Ren had been the first to get the life-saving shots, but then, Ren had always fared better. His improvements weren’t as dramatic.

Aside from a small weight gain, Rosamma’s appearance remained the same, but her energy levels had improved tenfold. The headaches, the vertigo, the gnawing in her stomach—all gone. And with them, gone was the constant, nagging fear of dying and leaving Ren without an energy source.

She felt like a new person. For the first time, she felt free.

On her way from the clinic, she stopped by the post office to retrieve the translation materials she’d been expecting.

The place was empty except for a blob of an undistinguishable alien that talked to itself in a language unknown to Rosamma. The locals called it Bro, since no one knew its real name. It didn’t speak or understand any known languages, displayed no gender characteristics, and never left the post office.

Upon seeing her, Bro glided behind the partition and returned with a neatly wrapped package. How it knew who she was, or what had arrived for her, was a perpetual enigma.

Bro knew that about every Priss resident. It was their mailman.

Priss was full of little idiosyncrasies like that, and Rosamma rather liked it.

“Thank you, Bro,”

she said. She wasn’t sure it understood, but not thanking it seemed impolite.

And every time she said Bro, it reminded her of Fawn and of Seven Oars.

Outside, Rosamma stopped and raised her head to the sky. It was only a synthetic barrier without dimension, a flat ceiling lit by several orbiting asteroids set aglow with sophisticated technology to mimic sunlight. But she knew how deep the vastness of space behind it was. She’d heard its silence and touched its mysteries. Boundless and untamed, it beckoned and enticed.

Where are you now?

Her heart ached with a familiar dull throb of yearning. She blinked quickly, as if that might sharpen her vision and pierce the “sky”

bubble to the vacuum. As if she might look deep enough to know the answer.

Finn.

Dots danced on the backs of her eyelids.

Holding her parcel, Rosamma walked to a small, spartan room she called home. It was hers alone, a generous living accommodation on Priss, where most people shared their homes.

The arrangement had been Paloma’s doing. That woman was a whirlwind. She was feared around here for things she could—and had—unleashed to establish dominance.

Rosamma didn’t know what she would have done without Paloma and Ren. They had picked her up and carried her forward. Her family.

But she was working on her independence. Her translation work brought in a little bit of money, and she volunteered at the People’s Center twice a week in exchange for food rations.

Ren and Paloma bristled at that, finding it demeaning and a slight on their ability to provide, but Rosamma didn’t care. It was long past time she cut the cord.

Most of all, she wished to shed the perception Ren continued to hold of her: his beloved, invalid sister.

*****

Gro came by after dinner.

“So, the first attempt was a wash,”

she announced, disappointed but not dejected.

“Oh, no. What happened?”

“Could be one of two things. Either we didn’t sterilize the substrate well enough, or the humidity was too iffy for a proper incubation. Lars thinks the latter, and he’s probably right. We did sterilize the bejesus out of the substrate.”

“I’m sorry, Gro. Is there anything I can do to help?”

Gro gave her a look.

“I thought you didn’t like gardening. You said it wasn’t your thing.”

Rosamma laughed.

“I wouldn’t mind a small garden. It’s propagating mushrooms for commercial application that’s a little out there for me.”

“A real garden is tough here.”

Gro shook her head.

“That woman at the water plant? She crows about growing tomatoes. Tomatoes! You should see them. More like raisins, and about as juicy.”

Rosamma made them both herbal tea while Gro plied her with niche facts about growing mushrooms in a rarified atmosphere with zero-percent humidity.

There was no cake to go with their tea, and Rosamma fretted over that. The cooking skills she had loved to hone on Meeus were wasted on Priss. Everything came pre-packaged and pre-prepared. The closest she’d come to fresh ingredients in two years was a pack of dried apples Paloma had stolen from some uppity client and brought to Rosamma. They had shared the pack without remorse.

“I’m impressed with you, Gro,”

Rosamma said, stirring sweetener into her tea.

“You’ve learned all of this complex mushroom stuff in such a short time. You deserve a degree.”

“What’s me! You should talk to Lars. That boy’s a walking encyclopedia on mushroom science. No, don’t laugh. He put diagrams on the walls. Full biologist mode. It’s wild.”

“I’m so glad he’s found something he likes.”

Rosamma took a drink.

“Is he happy here?”

Gro shrugged.

“It’s taking him a while. Priss is gray and rocky. Everything is rationed and regulated—not a good combo for someone who’s done time. Walk here, eat there, don’t touch that. He isn’t comfortable around aliens, and almost everyone here is one. Plus, the space travel did a number on him.”

Gro took a deep breath.

“But he’ll get there. He just needs more time.”

Rosamma nodded.

“You should bring him over again. I’ll ask around if there’s flour to be had. A cake would be nice…”

Rosamma and Gro sipped their tea in companionable silence. It was an established routine. Sometimes they talked non-stop, and other times they just sat quietly, with no words needed.

“Gro, do you think they’re still there? Fawn and Anske? Phex?”

Rosamma asked. It was the first time she’d mentioned them in a long while.

Gro frowned, staring into her teacup as if it were a crystal ball.

“I don’t know. I think about them sometimes too. Seven Oars was such a strange place. Bad, but also strange. A reverse Wonderland. We were lucky to get out, but we’ll never be the same. It left a piece of itself in us, I suppose.”

“It’s hard to pretend it didn’t leave its mark,”

Rosamma agreed.

“Did a number on Phex, for sure. Lost his marbles.”

Rosamma wondered if Phex would ever recover what he’d lost. He used to be so shiny, like a sun. But she supposed they had all been a whole lot shinier before they entered that space station.

Gro fiddled with the delicate teaspoon Rosamma got as a hand-me-down from a woman who had lived in this room before her.

“What I’m trying to say, Rosamma, is you should keep up hope. The best is yet to come.”

Rosamma looked up and met Gro’s eyes. They were clear gray, like the sky on Priss, only deeper. Gro had become such a meaningful part of Rosamma’s life.

“I’m not unhappy on Priss,”

she allowed.

“My brother’s here. I am healthy and I keep busy. It’s a good life.”

Gro shook her head, gray hair swishing at her temples. She had nice, thick hair, Gro. The gray added character, not age, to her lined face.

“It’s not the life you want.”

Rosamma smiled faintly.

“Paloma says I don’t know what life I want. She says that here and now is as good as it gets. We’re free and accepted.”

“Of course she’d say that! She chose this place for herself.”

Gro put down the spoon.

“Methinks Paloma has beer goggles on when it comes to Priss. It’s such a trash place. We got robbed again at the orangery.”

“Oh, no. Why didn’t you tell me sooner?”

Gro waved her off.

“They stole a half-bottle of cleaning solution.”

Rosamma huffed a laugh. “Why?”

“Probably to get drunk on. And the cookie tin where Lars kept leftover fertilizer. Bon appétit. But they broke the glass, and that’s annoying.”

Rosamma offered help in whatever way Gro needed, but her son seemed to have things under control.

“I’m so happy he came, Gro. Happy for both of you.”

“Me too.”

“And Gro? Thank you.”

“For what? I didn’t do anything, silly girl.”

Gro laughed, and Rosamma laughed with her.

But when Gro left, she cried.

It was hard to keep up hope.

*****

A tentative knock on the door broke Rosamma’s concentration on the research materials she’d picked up from the post office.

Pulling her slipping shawl back in place, she unlocked the door to let Paloma in.

“Hey.”

Paloma blew curly hair from her eyes, which were full of shadows.

“How are you?”

“I’m well, thank you. Everything’s fine. And you?”

“Fine, fine. I was afraid I’d wake you up.”

“No, no, I’m not going to bed yet. How was the concert?”

“It rocked. It’s a bummer you didn’t go.”

They sat down, with Paloma perched on the edge of the chair.

“I told Ren I couldn’t come,”

Rosamma said.

“My translation materials are finally here, and I have to work.”

She lifted the sheaf of pages as if to prove her point.

Paloma frowned.

“And last week, you didn’t go with us to the game night.”

“I’m not much of a bingo person.”

Rosamma wrinkled her nose.

“I’m sorry.”

“And the weekend before, you missed the trip to the mountains because you had to help Gro with a mushroom spore delivery.”

“Yes,”

Rosamma said, smiling

Paloma didn’t smile back.

“Is it us? You don’t like our company? Me?”

“No! It isn’t you at all. I like you very much.”

Rosamma set the papers down and reached for Paloma’s hand, holding it firmly.

“Whatever gave you that idea?”

Paloma scooted closer, nearly sliding off her chair.

“Remember back home? You spoke constantly about how you wanted to go out and do stuff. How you wished to be better and stronger so you could hang out with Ren and me, swim in the lake, walk in the streets, and meet people where your appearance didn’t draw attention. Rosamma, that time is now. You don’t have to stay in your room all day.”

Rosamma thought for a moment.

“I don’t stay in all day. I go out, you know. I walk daily, it’s good exercise.”

“You walk by yourself.”

Rosamma studied Paloma, searching for the right way to explain herself to the friend who tried so hard to draw her out. To convey that she was no longer the despondent and dependent young woman she had been on Meeus, who got her insights into life, love, and men from books.

“You may think I’m hiding, Paloma, but I’m not. I’m not lonely. I have you and Ren, and Gro, and a couple of others at the greenhouse whose company I enjoy. I am content with my solitary walks.”

“You’re waiting for him,”

Paloma said, voice low with reproach.

“Well, yes.”

She raised a hand before Paloma could interrupt.

“But it has nothing to do with how I chose to spend my time.”

“Oh, doesn’t it? Are you saying that if that pirate, Fincros, magically teleported to Priss from whatever black hole that swallowed him, you’d do absolutely nothing different?”

“Of course it would be different.”

She said it calmly, though her heart lurched at the thought.

Paloma leaned forward too far and pitched from the chair.

Rosamma caught her, breaking the fall.

“Jeez, I’m such a fucking klutz,”

Paloma muttered, then winced.

“Sorry for the language.”

Rosamma just smiled.

Paloma moved her chair aside and stood, facing Rosamma.

“I know you’re no longer weak and whatever, but I hate how it turned out for you, Rosamma. That alien.”

“You’ve never met him,”

Rosamma pointed out gently.

“True. But I feel like your relationship was never equal. He used you, and he left you. Which, I swear to God, is pure luck, but not if you keep pining after him. It’s been two years, sister. How many more?”

Rosamma tilted her head.

“Suppose Ren disappeared,”

she said.

“Suppose he promised to come back for you, but two years went by without a word from him. What would you do?”

The hypothetical scenario caught Paloma off guard.

“It’s not the same with us. Ren and I have been together a long time. We’re, like, two parts of a whole.”

So, Paloma did understand the concept.

A faint tension around her mouth betrayed her unease.

“If I had to wait for Ren that long without a word, I’d assume he died.”

“Finn’s not dead,”

Rosamma said flatly. She would know if he were. Across the emptiness of the Universe, she would feel it.

Paloma threw up her hands.

“Fine, he’s not dead. Two fucking years! He isn’t coming back. You’re wasting your life in this room.”

“I’m living my life the way I like it,”

Rosamma countered.

“I would still translate ancient texts, with or without Fincros. I’d still help Gro with her mushrooms. Go on walks.”

She gestured around her.

“I’m just me.”

A new knock on the door broke the tension in the room.

It was Ren.

“Did I interrupt?”

he asked with a bright smile.

Paloma’s expression turned sullen.

“Did you follow me?”

“A little.”

Rosamma laughed and gave Ren a warm hug.

“How can you follow someone a little? You either did or you didn’t.”

“Let’s just say I came to lend my weight to whatever argument you’re having.”

“We’re not arguing,”

Rosamma said quickly.

“Whose side are you on?”

Paloma asked at the same time.

Ren sighed, his good humor fading.

“Let’s go home, Paloma. It’s late. Rose must be tired.”

His brotherly concern was touching and familiar. He slipped so easily into their old pattern: she, sickly and weak, in need of protection. He, always the protector, deciding what she needed and when she needed it.

Paloma followed his lead.

“Yeah, it’s late. Think about what I said. Please, Rosamma.”

She pressed her hands under her chin like a prayer.

“You’re so pretty and gentle. You have so much to give. You can meet someone decent if only you leave your self-imposed isolation.”

Rosamma smiled.

“The men here are nice, but they aren’t Fincros.”

“That is rather the point.”

Rosamma gazed at Ren’s girlfriend, filled with equal parts love and exasperation.

“I will wait for him forever.”

Paloma stomped her foot.

“He groomed you! That… bipedal ogre!”

She ran out, slamming the door behind her.

Silence fell over Rosamma’s small room.

“I’m sorry, Rose,” Ren said.

“That’s alright.”

“No, it isn’t. She’s having a difficult time with your choice of a man.”

Rosamma’s lips curled in irony.

“I’ve gathered that much.”

“She feels responsible for what happened to you.”

“I thought we agreed it wasn’t your fault you ended up in a different cruiser. I don’t blame Paloma. I don’t blame you. I never have.”

He gave her one of his long looks that penetrated down to her very soul.

“You’ve become a stronger person than I am, sister,”

he said with a measure of surprise.

“I… haven’t changed, Ren.”

He shook his head.

“I hate thinking about what happened to you on that space station, what put the steel in your eyes. The horrors you lived through you never shared with us… It pains me, Rose. Paloma and I wish we could turn back time and play it all out differently. She can’t forgive herself. I don’t know if I can too.”

Rosamma closed her eyes.

“I saw the vastness of space and the depravity of men. I was surrounded by both. I touched them. I saw the breaking of a good man and the remaking of a bad one. It was powerful beyond words.”

She opened her eyes.

“There’s nothing to forgive, brother.”

*****

Rosamma’s late nights paid off, and she had something of value to offer to the Universal Translators Association.

Of course, the Association members would gnaw at her translation before offering their verdict, but she had a good feeling about it.

She had first discovered the world of written artifact research while rummaging through the dusty, disorganized Priss archives in search of something—anything—to read.

That discovery had opened up a new world for Rosamma. She had dived in headfirst.

Two years later, she was making a name for herself in historical text translation.

Her multi-language skills helped, but it was the breadth of her knowledge of historical cultures that made her stand out. All those years spent on Meeus in the company of books had not been wasted.

She took the path through the Botanical Garden on her way to the post office. The Botanical Garden was too grand a name for the total of seven struggling trees and a patchwork of pitiful shrubs that clung to life along the winding path.

Survivors, all of them. Rosamma silently cheered each one on as she passed.

At the post office, Rosamma had to wait in line behind a flustered Sakka alien who tried to explain to nonverbal Bro that the urn must be insured. It contained the ashes of not one, but two expired relatives. She even popped the lid open for Bro’s inspection, like he might suddenly recognize them.

The mail-alien was unimpressed. It simply took the urn from the Sakka, taped the lid on, and pushed it onto the conveyor belt. There. Shipped.

Rosamma’s papers were subjected to the same treatment, but she’d dealt with Bro before. Her research was carefully packaged, with clear labels affixed on the sides.

Shuttling hard copies was an expensive nuisance, but the only way to prove the translator’s authenticity in this day and age of electronic fakes. So the Association insisted on handwritten work.

As usual, Rosamma thanked Bro. It gurgled some sounds and disappeared behind the counter. When it reappeared, it held a folded slip of paper in its claw.

“For me?”

Gurgle, gurgle.

Unfolding it, Rosamma saw a string of numbers and a stamp.

No name. No address.

A treasure map.

A ticket.

Clutching the paper in suddenly stiff fingers, she stepped outside and looked up at the gray “sky.”

It held all the answers.

Her legs twitched. She wanted to run. To fly.

She glanced at the post office, then at the narrow roadway that split in two directions.

She chose the one leading home—but only because her medicine stash was there.

Her heart pounded with each step. Out of habit, she braced for shortness of breath and vertigo, but her body held strong.

Yes, she still needed her medicine.

At home, time sped up. Constricted. She suffocated from the urgency.

Doubts swarmed her. What if this was a cruel trick? What if she had misread the numbers, her judgment clouded by her desire to be with Fincros?

No fear, only faith.

She paused and took a deep breath.

Ren, Paloma, Gro. Uncle Zaron’s infrequent visits. She was poised to lose a huge part of her life. It made her incredibly sad, but she knew that leaving Priss behind wouldn’t kill her; staying here would.

She opened the door—and ran smack into Ren.

They stared at each other.

“I thought I’d come check on you,”

he said quietly. His gaze slid to the bag she was holding.

“How did you know?”

“We were once one, remember?”

“Always.”

He nodded at the bag.

“Where are you going?”

“I don’t know.”

The ticket didn’t say.

Ren took her hand in his. As always, energy flowed between them. They were one again, surrounded by a warm bubble of invisible light. Whole. This experience was as much a part of Rosamma’s existence as breathing, a connection formed before they were born.

“I will miss you, Rose.”

“Am I making a terrible mistake, Ren?”

He held on tighter.

“We were never meant to be inseparable. That was a lie. We just didn’t know better. As for him? Time will tell.”

He let her go and watched her leave.

*****

Rosamma had only been to the port once, when she landed on the trampoline, pushed out of the capsule by Fincros. She couldn’t say she remembered much detail about the area.

It was a busy port, full of the noise and bustle of workers and cranes. They loaded and unloaded cargo, moving containers back and forth. Aliens of all shapes and sizes dragged heavy sacks and rolled barrels down lowered planks. A cart piled high with loose metal parts clattered by.

Amid the chaos, the docked freighters loomed like towers—white, black, or silver. Some were new, others weathered and tired.

It was easy to get lost in this chaos, but Rosamma had the numbers to guide her. And there it was: Berth number three hundred and fifty-two.

The freighter docked there was medium-sized, with a dusty gray hull showing signs of wear. The gangplank was down and creaking ominously under the weight of a forklift crawling up with a pallet of goods.

Rosamma followed the forklift and presented her ticket to a Tana-Tana crew member in heavy uniform.

“Where’d you get this?”

he asked her in a rough Universal.

“It’s for a commissioned transfer.”

At least, that was how Rosamma thought of it.

To her surprise, it worked. The alien grunted and pointed left.

“That way. Move. Move!”

A robot stacked sky-high with small boxes was chugging up behind her.

Rosamma hurried in and looked around.

It was as busy inside the freighter as it was outside. More crew members wearing identical uniforms moved busily about. The walkway was cluttered with gear, and steam hissed from a pipe under the ceiling.

Rosamma’s eyes landed on a still uniformed figure leaning casually against a stack of crates. The person was watching Rosamma without hiding it. The person with a familiar blunt nose of a Sakka, permanently crooked by a pirate’s careless hand.

“Eze. Eze!”

They hugged, cried, and laughed, blocking the path and impeding the loading.

“Let me look at you, rosy cheeks. You look so good!”

“You too, Eze. And this?”

Rosamma gestured around.

“Got hired to navigate. That’s what I do, you know?”

“I know. I know!”

Rosamma laughed through her tears.

“Now, stop it. You’re making me all soppy. Hear me? Rosamma!”

Eze swiped the sleeve of her uniform across her face.

“I’m sorry!”

Rosamma carefully folded her ticket and tucked it in a pocket, knowing she’d treasure it forever.

“Where’s Fincros?”

she asked.

“He stayed behind on Megroyara.”

“On what?”

Eze sniffed.

“I can’t believe you don’t know about Megroyara, Ms. I-Read-About-Everything.”

“Well, I don’t. Tell me!”

“Later. We’re about to take off. Are you ready for your new adventure?”

“Ready and set. No pirates on the way, I hope,”

Rosamma said, laughing.

“Don’t jinx it! We can’t be that unlucky.”

Eze put Rosamma on a mattress near her bunkbed since the freighter had no passenger quarters.

They were surrounded by other crew members, but it didn’t faze Rosamma.

Her mattress was thick, the people were friendly, and food and water were plentiful.

All of it was more than tolerable, including the freighter’s weak gravity-enabling system, which meant they were prone to levitating without warning.

When Eze wasn’t busy with her duties, she and Rosamma talked about everything.

Of course, the conversation often returned to Megroyara, Rosamma’s destination and Fincros’ new home.

“I wish I could tell you different, but it ain’t no dream vacation destination. So there’s that.”

“That’s fine, Eze. I will adjust.”

“I don’t doubt that.”

Eze smiled warmly.

“I just wish Fincros had picked a different place to settle. It’s very cold, a complete winter year-round. Snow and ice.”

“Makes sense. Rix like the cold,”

Rosamma said.

“That’s not why he went there. The truth is, Megroyara is about the only place where he can settle. They don’t extradite.”

“Do you live there too?”

Rosamma asked Eze.

“Oh, no. And by the way, there’s a catch, and I want you to think about it very carefully before we land.”

Rosamma frowned.

“What is it?”

“Those who come to Megroyara can’t leave. That’s what makes it a haven. Lifetime commitment.”

Rosamma’s frown dissolved.

“Oh. Is that all?”

“It’s a helluva important detail, Rosamma.”

It was an important detail. But not important enough for her to say Turn around, I’m going back!

She’d already said her goodbye to Priss. Everything else would work itself out.

“Is that why you don’t live on Megroyara?”

she asked Eze.

“That and the weather. Too cold.”

Rosamma smiled.

“Gro complains about the same thing on Priss.”

“Priss is worse, in my opinion.”

“Wait, how do you know?”

“I’ve been to Priss before.”

“When?”

“Last year.”

“What? And you didn’t come to say hello to Gro and me?”

Eze shifted on her bunk.

“I did see Gro. We keep in touch. She has all those plans for me to ferry her mushrooms to the far-flung corners of the Universe. Total cringe.”

“Eze!”

Rosamma wailed, flabbergasted.

“I’m sorry! There were reasons. Fincros didn’t want you to know. He had to have his time on Megroyara first. Things needed to get done.”

“What things?”

“Something to do with the locals. There were frictions. He didn’t want you there before he got it under control.”

Knowing Fincros, “got it under control”

likely meant a small civil war.

Her heart ached.

His biggest desire had been to be left alone. He had been so tired. Even before getting blinded, he had wanted peace, and he had needed rest.

“Hey,”

Eze shook her out of her contemplation.

“It was good for him.”

“The frictions?”

“To finally fight for a purpose. You are his purpose.”

*****

The journey turned out to be arduously long.

The transport made many stops along the way—a sort of interspace delivery van.

At one stop, it had required maintenance, and they were forced to spend several weeks twiddling their thumbs in a fenced-off reception center because the planet had a quarantine for new arrivals.

Rosamma had been content to work on her translations, but Eze had nearly gone crazy from boredom.

“What happened after Finn and you dropped us off on Priss?”

Rosamma asked on one of those boring days.

Eze screwed up her alien face into a sour mask of bad memories.

“We hopped to an outpost I had charted for him back on Seven Oars.”

“Wait. Are you telling me you’d known all along that the two of you had no intention of landing on Priss?”

“We had no intention of landing on Priss,”

Eze confirmed, contrite.

“Blame Fincros. I’m innocent!”

“Sure you are.”

“Well, he was right, missy.”

A hinger pointed at Rosamma’s face.

“He knows you too well. You would’ve thrown a tantrum and refused to land.”

“That’s right.”

“And where would you be now?”

“With Finn!”

“Uh-huh. You were dying, Rosamma. How soon you forget.”

She had nothing to say to that.

“Anyway, Finn and I barely made it to that outpost. It was really scary. That capsule was a joke. I don’t know how none of us died flying to Priss. And with him blind, not much he could do. It almost turned me off flying. Almost…”

“But you did it.”

Eze perked up.

“Yes. We lied to the outpost people and told them we were support crew members who got lost during a routine technical spacewalk.”

Rosamma smothered a laugh.

“Eze, he’s blind. Who’d believe he was on any kind of spacewalk?”

“But he did do a space walk while blind.”

Eze winked.

“We said he was my mentor who was a little visually impaired.”

“A little?”

“You know he can see heat waves, right? That helped.”

Eze shook her head.

“Regardless, the outpost people hadn’t wanted us at first. They threatened to send us back off in that capsule, so we were motivated.”

“I am so grateful they didn’t.”

“Not out of the goodness of their hearts. Fincros paid them with the two jet nozzles. They were made from some rare metals and all the rage. Lifesaving.”