Page 7 of Seven Oars (Rix Universe #3)

They found a way to devise a bathroom.

Its establishment in the enclosed corner under the hulking tank did more for everyone’s state of mind than any hymn could. No, it wasn’t inviting or even adequate, but having a bucket set up behind an enclosure went a long way toward reminding everyone that they weren’t some crawling pests with no self-awareness. They were people. And no one, not even the Rix pirates, could take dignity and self-awareness away from them.

“Now that I’m looking at it, it’s a water closet.”

Eze poked her head into the corner enclosure.

A puzzled line formed between Gro’s graying eyebrows.

“Why would there be one in a cargo hold?”

“Could have been a sanitation area or a laundry site. This,”

Eze pointed at the hulking tank that hung so low it gave the impression of falling down, “has water in it. It’s connected to a filtration system back there. But I don’t think it works.”

“Not surprising,”

Gro said.

“No one around here has ever heard of sanitation.”

Eze and Gro shared a weak smile, a glimmer of their usual fire-cracking banter.

Alyesha took control.

“Spa time has to wait. While we can, let’s go find out the layout of this place. Where they sleep, where the controls are. We won’t escape by sitting here peeing in a bucket.”

“I pooped!”

Daphne announced, oblivious to Alyesha’s scowl.

In the end, Fawn and Anske stayed behind to keep an eye on Daphne, both still unwell from their ordeal in the Habitat.

Sassa flatly refused to leave her corner.

So it was Rosamma and Alyesha who tiptoed out of the Cargo Hold and veered left, while Eze and Gro, the other branch of their recon party, headed right.

Venturing out of the Cargo Hold, itself far from a sanctuary, made sweat break out along Rosamma’s back, despite the refrigerator-like temperatures of the station.

“That’s the Habitat,”

Rosamma whispered as they approached its entrance.

“I know,”

Alyesha whispered back.

“We should’ve explored it when we picked up the food. Let’s go in and take another look.”

“Okay,”

Rosamma said.

It wasn’t okay. It was agonizing.

Still, she doggedly followed Alyesha, gripping her braid in both hands.

A quick peek through the open hatch revealed the Habitat was empty.

The Striker’s chair sat on its dais.

Rosamma couldn’t suppress a deep shudder.

“How can anyone sit in this? It’s made from a person’s skin. There are tattoos.”

Alyesha did a double-take.

“Probably just some alien’s skin.”

The Habitat yielded nothing useful. It contained signs of equipment having been mounted along the walls, now long gone.

All was quiet, as much as a space station can be quiet. It hummed and purred deep inside, a living beast. The machinery working beneath the surface of the Habitat sounded similar to that of the Cargo Hold, but not quite the same. Its great millstones ground and grated with a slightly different, unique tone.

They left the Habitat and continued down the passageway until they reached another opening, a large area, dirty, with trash scattered around. The same padded, brown-gray walls and mesh floor surrounded them.

The back wall featured a neat row of openings, each covered with a soft, padded flap.

Alyesha reared back, bumping into Rosamma.

“They sleep here!”

she whispered.

“It’s their private quarters. Good to know, but I’m not going in.”

Heart in her throat, Rosamma hurried after her quick-moving partner. Her feet tangled, and she nearly went down, saved only by bumping into Alyesha’s back. Alyesha turned to glare at her mouthed Sorry.

They approached the last door in the passageway and stopped, listening.

There were voices. Men speaking. The pirates.

Alyesha shook her head silently, her face mirroring Rosamma’s unease. Too high a risk. They should return to the Cargo Hold while the coast was clear.

We’ve got to know what this room is! Rosamma wanted to say.

Ignoring Alyesha’s pointed glare, she hugged the wall and eased one eye around the hatch.

A glimpse of an ear tuft confirmed the Tarai Keerym was inside… the deck! It had to be it. With its array of screens and instruments, what else could it be?

Elated, she turned to tell Alyesha, but words died in her mouth.

A pirate stood in the passageway. They hadn’t heard a sound of his approach.

He uttered a word she thought might mean “wisp.”

An appropriate description for her, a kind one, even, but not when it came from tall, gaunt Massar.

His stooped shoulders blocked the passageway. His black eyes held a glint of madness.

“Were you snooping?”

he asked them menacingly.

“No, we weren’t.”

Rosamma had no idea lying would be so easy.

Massar turned to Alyesha.

“What were you looking for in the Command Center?”

“Nothing.”

Alyesha swallowed audibly.

“I was telling her not to look.”

It wasn’t a total lie, but Rosamma would much rather Alyesha had come up with something else to say.

Massar grabbed Rosamma by the arm and yanked her close.

“I know you were snooping. Weak, puny creature.”

He leaned in and sniffed her neck.

She hoped she smelled sufficiently stale after so many days without a shower. Cringing, she tried to pull back, but he held her fast.

With his other hand, he grabbed Alyesha.

The Tarai Keerym appeared at the door to the Command Center. Behind him stood Ucai.

“Warm bodies with hot blood. Funny aliens,”

Massar said. The gill-like nostrils on his hawkish nose flared as his breath landed on Rosamma’s face.

“I will punish you for your snooping.”

Unexpectedly, Ucai put a damper on his plan.

“No. I’ll take them back.”

Massar tensed.

“You aren’t the Striker. You can’t tell me what to do.”

Please, Rosamma thought, let them start a fight.

But Ucai was too crafty.

“We’re at the Command Center. I’m on duty, which means you answer to me. You know the rules.”

Massar’s eyes narrowed.

“Maybe. But you are on duty. You can’t leave the Command Center.”

“Right. I command you to stay here with Keerym while I deal with the aliens.”

Massar hissed. He shoved Alyesha away, but it was a moment more before he released Rosamma.

Ucai led them back down the same passageway toward the Cargo Hold. Before reaching it, they stopped at that area where the passageway widened and turned. There were different points of entry, all sealed, and a couple of other interior doors.

This, Rosamma now recognized, was where they’d landed, caught in the net, dragged through one of the three airlocks. Their cruiser must still be attached to it on the other side.

Her eyes skipped over the sealed ports. Which one?

Ucai herded them past the airlocks to a closed door.

He twisted the latch and swung it open, releasing cold mist and a blast of freezing air. The entrance gaped wide, waiting for them.

Instinctively, Rosamma backed into Alyesha, and for once, the other woman didn’t push her away. Neither of them wanted to know what lay inside.

Ucai smiled widely, showing long blue fangs and brown gums. His grin was as welcoming as the gaping door.

Rosamma’s teeth began to chatter.

“What… what is this place?”

“The Meat Locker.”

He shoved them inside, mindless of a high threshold that bruised their shins.

All other questions fled her head. She didn’t want to know what Ucai had intended, but feared she’d find out anyway.

Dim lights flicked on, revealing a box-like room. The setup was rather standard for a meat locker: metal shelves and a rusted metal sink along one wall, a rack with hooks lining the other.

The shelves and sink were dirty but empty.

The rack, however…

Rosamma gagged and backed out, but Ucai fisted her hair and pulled until her eyes watered.

“If you barf, I’ll kill you myself,”

Alyesha muttered under her breath.

Rosamma didn’t barf, but using their human language didn’t go over well with Ucai.

He turned on Alyesha.

“If you speak that garble again, I’ll string you up next to that body. Understand?”

“Yes, Ucai,”

Alyesha demurred. She trained her liquid eyes on his face, seemingly calm and composed. She even smiled.

Not that Rosamma had ever wanted to be like Alyesha, but just then, she wished like hell she’d been blessed with the nerves of steel that woman had. One had to wonder what kind of life Alyesha had lived to develop that level of toughness.

There was no draft, no telltale hum of refrigerators kicking in, but suddenly, the temperature inside the Meat Locker dropped even lower.

Ucai tensed.

“Taking our guests on a tour?”

said the low, gravelly voice that was all too easy to recognize.

Ucai turned ever so slightly. Striker Fincros—coincidentally or not—was blocking their exit. If he wanted, he could shut them all in, turn the lever, and never open it again.

He could, and he knew it. So did Ucai.

“I was showing them where their path would end if they snoop again,”

he explained.

“Snoop?”

The Striker’s face was in shadow, but he was tracking their every move. Ucai’s, too. No one was guaranteed safety in this place. Nothing was a given.

“Caught them near the Command Center,”

Ucai said.

The Striker’s attention became a tangible thing.

“Were you snooping?”

Alyesha, already behind Ucai, slipped deeper into the Meat Locker, leaving Rosamma exposed to the Striker’s gaze. It was slowly turning her into stone.

She had to answer, to say something. Form a sentence in Universal, a suddenly unachievable task.

“The dark-haired one, come forward and speak to me,”

Fincros said, leaving Rosamma weak in the knees. Weak, and ashamed of the relief she’d gained at Alysha’s expense.

Ucai nudged Alyesha forward.

Striker Fincros studied her. “Name?”

“Alyesha.”

He screwed up his face.

“What a name. I don’t like it.”

Alyesha showed no reaction except for a small, agreeable smile.

“What were you doing at the Command Center?” he asked.

“We were hiking.”

He cocked his head.

She faltered.

“No, we were… going.”

He cocked his head the other way.

Alyesha’s face paled, and she moistened her lips.

“We were… we were…”

Panic overtook her. Her face lost all color as she frantically struggled to find the right Universal words.

“We were exploring the station, Striker,”

Rosamma came to her rescue.

Predictably, his focus shifted to her. She could taste his displeasure.

“I wasn’t talking to you.”

She tensed, anticipating pain and death, in this exact order.

“My apologies, Striker.”

Her voice was reed-thin, breaking.

“I only wish to help my friend Alyesha translate.”

She kept her eyes fixed on his angular, scarred face still cloaked in shadow.

In the Habitat, the “music”

started. Raised voices and laughter carried from the passageway.

“Shift change time,”

the Striker murmured.

“You should attend to your duties, Ucai.”

Ucai didn’t linger, but the way he brushed past the Striker spelled out things he left unsaid.

Ucai resented Fincros and was afraid of him.

Same here, brother, Rosamma thought with a touch of hysteria.

The Striker beckoned Alyesha to come closer.

“Why did you leave the Cargo Hold?”

“We were looking for… looking for…”

she stammered.

“We wanted to see where we were,”

Rosamma whispered. She could see her breath as she spoke; that’s how cold it was in here.

The Striker stepped deeper into the Meat Locker, crowding her.

She dropped her eyes as her chest grew tight from holding her breath.

“Stop shaking,”

he snapped.

“Yes, Striker.”

She wrapped her arms around herself, trying to hide her body’s reaction to the cold and to him.

“Can we?”

Alyesha cut in.

Just like that, the oppressive weight of his attention lifted.

“Can you what?”

“Leave the Cargo Hold?”

He gave a one-shouldered shrug as his dark, sharp teeth caught the flicker of lamplight. A monster’s grin.

“Yes.”

Rosamma and Alyesha sagged in relief.

“But.”

They tensed again.

He walked past them toward that thing hanging from the hook.

“Come here.”

They followed—what choice did they have?

The carcass was large and heavy. It was skinned and missing a head, but not gutted.

And it was definitely not a four-legged animal.

“This is my trophy,”

Fincros said with quiet pride.

Rosamma forced herself to take deeper breaths to stave off encroaching dizziness.

“You said you had some Tana-Tana in you?”

Fincros asked her.

“Y…yes.”

He nodded, like that settled it.

“He was a Tana-Tana.”

While he turned away, presumably to admire his “trophy,”

Rosamma allowed herself to close her eyes for a moment, hoping for a respite from the sight.

It was useless. The image was already etched on the backs of her eyelids, and it would remain there forever.

“His name was Father Zha-Ikkel,”

Fincros said.

“He used to own this space station.”

He circled them before stopping in front. His sheer size was intimidating, and he meant it that way. His scars were off-putting, and he knew it.

“When the defenders bombed Sir-Sar,”

he began, “a few of us escaped in a small cruiser. Smaller than yours. It wasn’t designed for long space flights. There were no provisions, no room to move around. The air was thin. But we had weapons and a will to fight for our lives. A good cause to fight for, don’t you think?”

he taunted them subtly, challenging them to fight for their lives and knowing they could do nothing.

Rosamma scrambled for a reply, but he didn’t need any.

“We came across this space station and started following it, plotting an attack. And we got ’em.”

He slapped the wall as he said that.

The women jumped.

“This place was swarming with Tana-Tanas, but we killed them all. Still took months to air out their stink.”

Rosamma said nothing. What could a half Tana-Tana say to that?

“At first, I’d left Father Zha-Ikkel alive for information,”

Fincros said.

“Can’t take over a space station without some knowledge transfer. Too many moving parts.”

He touched the body then, caressing the skinless, frozen flesh with his bare hand. The blue talons of his six fingers made shallow grooves in the frosty layer covering it.

Rosamma tasted bile and had an urge to pee from the onslaught of abject fear and revulsion.

At the same time, she could almost see herself swinging from the hook next to poor Father Zha-Ikkel. If she had no head, she wouldn’t be so afraid anymore. If she had no skin, she wouldn’t be so cold.

The Striker dropped his hand and lowered his voice, as if in confidence.

“I debated whether or not to kill him. He was old and wise, and he knew stuff.”

He sighed deeply. When he exhaled, steam whooshed out of his weird Rix nose.

“But I needed leather for my chair.”

This time, it was Alyesha who gagged.

“This is a very interesting story,”

Rosamma forced her lips to say, petrified that he’d hurt Alyesha for gagging in some unspeakable way, like pulling the skin off her body.

“Do you think so?”

he asked, his tone mildly curious.

“It does have a sad ending. For the Tana-Tana.”

She glanced again at the corpse.

She hoped the Striker had beheaded him before skinning him.

“Father Zha-Ikkel ran a busy trade from this station,”

he said evenly.

“Drugs, weapons, and slaves. He lived longer than most in his business, and he wasn’t surprised to meet a violent end.”

At that point, Fincros stepped back, a wily actor who knew when to push and when to cut slack.

“You can move around the station,”

he allowed, “but don’t mistake it for freedom. Outside of the Cargo Hold, you’re a nuisance. Expect my crew to treat you as such.”

Then he simply left, and the vacuum that formed in his place slowly filled with the grind of the station’s machines and the sounds of revelry emanating from the Habitat.

Sparing Rosamma no glance, Alyesha ran out of the Meat Locker.

Rosamma bolted after her like a sheep, pushing the heavy door closed to keep the contents within.

Her mind was so, so empty. She wavered as she ran on unsteady legs.

*****

At the Cargo Hold, they found Gro and Eze already back from their own exploratory mission.

Eze was lying down, with Gro and Anske bent over her, giving her water and making sure she was comfortable.

“What happened?”

Rosamma dropped to her knees next to Gro.

“That motherfucking robot! It appeared out of nowhere and told us to go back, but who listens to robots?”

“Did it zap Eze?”

“Yeah, well. Eze tried to touch it, and it didn’t go over well. Take note, everybody! That thing is really dangerous.”

“Dangerous. Dangerous!”

Daphne’s young voice rose over the conversation.

“Like me! Dangerous!”

In the ensuing silence, all eyes went to Daphne, who paid them no attention, busy stacking and re-stacking used food cans.

Anske’s eyes narrowed.

“What was Mara thinking, sneaking out of Meeus with such a child?”

“She probably did it because of Daphne,”

Gro said quietly.

“You know what they do to the likes of her on Meeus. If the authorities deemed her dangerous, even to herself, she’d be in an institution, and Mara would’ve never seen her again.”

All the women regarded Daphne with pity, except for Alyesha, whose cold eyes telegraphed mistrust.

Eze groaned and sat up.

“I’m better, thanks. No, I don’t want that.”

She batted away the water straw Gro was shoving into her face.

“So what did y’all find out there?”

Fawn asked, slouched against the dirty padded wall.

“Does anyone have anything to draw on?”

Eze asked.

Gro quickly improvised by peeling off a label from an empty can and folding the sharp lid to form a point.

“There are three separate big compartments on the right side. I figure the right side mirrors the left. Is that what you saw?”

Alyesha and Rosamma nodded.

“Okay, so this space station is shaped like a capital A,”

Eze continued.

“We are at the bottom of the left leg, right here.”

She traced the label with the sharp tip, making a crude map.

“The passageway runs on the inside of each leg with rooms facing the outside. From bottom to top: the Cargo Hold, the Habitat, the Crew Quarters. That’s on the left. On the right, we have the Mechanical Room, the Service Block, and more Crew Quarters. The Command Center is at the tip.”

Eze poked the top of the A for emphasis.

“What is that place with airlocks?”

Rosamma asked.

“That’s the Bridge. It connects the two legs of our A. There are airlocks and everything else that has to do with the station access, like that trash chute.”

Everyone shuddered at the mention of it.

“I can’t be sure, but I think you can spacewalk from there, too. Maybe the defender knows. Phex?”

They turned to where he lay and… he wasn’t there.

Rosamma’s heart dropped to her feet.

“Oh, yeah, they came and dragged him away while you were scouting,”

Fawn said to the room.

“I thought you noticed.”

Rosamma mentally kicked herself for being so absent-minded. But the truth was, she had been overwhelmed, her thoughts in disarray. All she could think about was the Meat Locker and Striker Fincros’ black eyes of death.

She listened for that terrible noise of music again, and indistinct voices raised aggressively. She knew they came from the Habitat, where Phex was now the prime source of amusement.

“They’re going to kill him,”

she whispered in desperation.

Anske waved her off.

“His well-being is the least of our problems.”

“He’s our pilot.”

Phex was important to Rosamma in other ways, but she didn’t go there with the women. She could only twist and knead her braid in a vain attempt to ground herself.

“We aren’t flying anywhere, remember? We can’t detach our ship.”

“What if we find a way?”

Alyesha promptly clamped a lid on that discussion.

“Phex himself said it was impossible, so don’t start again. We’ll focus on sending out a distress signal, and we’ll do it with or without Phex. Eyes on the prize, Rosamma.”

Alyesha proceeded to tell everyone about the discovery of the Meat Locker, sparing no detail about the gory contents they'd found within.

“Don’t go there,”

she concluded.

“We won’t,”

the rest of the group promised.

It was a nightmarish place.

And yet, Rosamma had a cold premonition that she’d see the inside of the Meat Locker again.