Page 8 of Seven Oars (Rix Universe #3)

Gro mobilized the able-bodied women to help her reinforce broken shelving with scraps of wire and rags lying around, and then meticulously stockpiled it with their food supplies. Each shelf contained approximately a month’s worth of food and water, and taking from another before the time came was declared a criminal offense.

There were five shelves in total.

“You’re so good at organizing,”

Anske complimented Gro.

“That’s right. I’m also good at making sure it stays that way. Worked food service during one of my trips to the clink.”

“One of? How many did you do?”

Sassa asked.

“Several. My sentences were never long.”

“What sent you to prison in the first place?”

Alyesha wanted to know.

Gro wrinkled her nose.

“Nothing too grand. Mostly dealing in stolen property and some small-scale fraud. Got tangled up with the wrong man when I was young and never quite righted my life after that. It’s tough, you know.”

She drew a breath.

“I had such high hopes for this space trip. Thought that was it, my last chance to start over.”

“Didn’t we all,”

Alyesha murmured.

“We’ll figure it out somehow,”

Gro insisted.

“My son’s supposed to join me on Priss, but he still has a year in the slammer.”

“You have a son, Gro?”

Rosamma asked in surprise.

“Yeah. Didn’t do too well by him, as you can tell, but he’s a good boy. Seriously. Made Inmate of the Month twice.”

“Get out,”

Eze slapped her hands on her thighs.

“Yep. We hope for an early release.”

A swell of noise from the passageway put a halt to the conversation.

Phex appeared a short while later, brought in by Nud and Galan. They dumped him just inside the Cargo Hold’s raised threshold. His head hit a protruding rebar.

“Please, no, he’s not… Put him over here, at least.”

Rosamma pointed to the tarp the women had allocated for Phex.

Nud and Galan stopped and regarded Rosamma with hostility.

“Did you hear her? She said to put him over there.”

Then they laughed.

Instead of doing as she'd asked, they picked Phex up.

“You want him over there? Come get him, weird bitch.”

And they dragged him away.

Rosamma's chest felt hollow, like she’d just failed an important test.

“What did I just do?”

“You just made Phex’s life a little worse,”

Alyesha informed her sweetly.

It was totally on her.

She scrambled to her feet.

“Oh, no-no-no,”

Gro raised her voice.

“Don’t you dare… Rosamma!”

She was already in the passageway.

She remembered her way to the Habitat. And if she didn’t, the sounds and smells coming from it were a cue impossible to miss.

Hovering just outside the door, she took stock of the room.

Pirates were here—no telling how many—a blurred group on the periphery of her vision, which was laser-focused on Phex, lying in a heap on the floor.

“Look.”

“Hey! Are you new around here?”

“Are you lost?”

Guffaws and snorts.

“Come in! Just don’t fart. We take it personally.”

More laughter and dumb jokes.

They circled her.

The Striker had warned her about leaving the Cargo Hold. A nuisance.

Fighting lightheadedness, Rosamma put a hand on the wall. It was gross and slimy.

“Yeah, it ain’t hair gel. Nud uses this wall as a wipe after his private time.”

Nud slugged the one who spoke, but it was half-hearted; he was laughing too hard to be serious.

“She came to collect the dead meat defender and place him over there.”

He was in stitches.

It took effort, but she tuned them out.

Phex was unconscious. He must have gotten new bruises, but it was hard to tell when his old ones were so fresh and colorful. His hair was loose, falling around his head in soft, silky strands. His bruised skin was covered in velvety fuzz wherever it was exposed. Unlike human males, he had no facial hair, just downy softness all over. Her alien.

Being the alien, he weighed three times as much as she did, and she wouldn’t be able to take him anywhere without help. Which she didn’t have.

Nud prodded Phex with a metal tool.

“He’s hurt,”

she tried to reason with them, eliciting a new bout of wild amusement.

“No fucking shit he is! He lost the Program Challenge.”

“What is that challenge?”

She was afraid to know.

Galan answered, “To take it like a good slave. See, all he had to do was be real still and not fight back. Reeaalll still. We would have barely slapped him around and let him go, swear to all the stars. But no, he had to flap his little arms around.”

Galan clucked his tongue. “Shame.”

Rosamma’s stomach churned. And reasoning with them was a silly idea.

“Can I… sit with him?”

The only thing she could do for Phex under the circumstances was to boost his body with some of her energy. She needed a few moments of skin-to-skin contact.

There was a ripple of silent communication before Ucai stepped forward.

“Only if you take on a challenge for him.”

Rosamma looked around warily.

“Are you… going to beat me?”

“Yes!”

Nud twirled the metal tool.

Ucai chuckled.

“She won’t last, and it’ll be boring.”

His words were slightly reassuring, but a nagging sense of dread wouldn’t lift. She felt watched, and from the corner of her eye, Rosamma saw the Striker standing with his legs apart outside the circle of pirates.

His chair had been empty when she walked in, and she’d assumed he was gone.

Ucai produced a flexible sack made out of some crinkled material. Rosamma recognized the sack—it was one of the contamination bags the defenders had used in the cruiser to clean up barf and such.

“You can sit with the defender as long as you like. But you’ll have to wear this. To make it a challenge, yes? When the defender wakes up, he can take it off your head.”

Dread spilled like black oil inside her.

“And if he doesn’t… wake up?”

“We won’t rig the game by killing him,”

Ucai promised solemnly and smiled at her with encouragement.

Everything inside Rosamma rebelled.

“I don’t want to play this game.”

“Of course, it’s your choice.”

Ucai stepped back.

Nud pointed the metal rod at Phex’s stomach and leaned in.

“Wait!”

she cried, tears springing to her eyes. She was so easy.

Nud removed the rod.

She looked around again, her blurred gaze landing briefly on each alien face, the men grimy, brutal, and indifferent to suffering except as a form of entertainment. She skipped the Striker altogether, only glimpsing his scars.

Games? Okay, alright. She could play this one, seeing as they left her no choice.

“I’ll play.”

“That’s the spirit.”

Ucai placed the flexible bag over her head, tying it around her neck.

Immediately, all sound became muffled. The world turned into an indistinct blur behind the bag’s frosted material. It was warm and claustrophobic.

Rosamma dropped to the floor and groped for Phex’s hand, releasing a controlled burst of her energy into his wrist without delay. She prayed it would help rouse him… quickly. But given the extent of his injuries, she knew it wouldn’t be an instant resurrection.

She sat still, measuring her breathing. Even so, the warm material quickly became suffocating. With a sinking feeling, she realized that the bag’s air capacity was too small. The oxygen just might run out before Phex awakened.

She gripped his limp hand harder, sending another healing burst into him. Her head was already ringing from the thin air, from the usual weakness of the energy sharing, and because she was so, so afraid.

Time passed, but Phex’s body remained still.

Rosamma’s breathing grew shallow.

She opened her mouth like a fish, but there was little to catch to fill her lungs.

Vaguely, she realized the pirates had left. Only Phex and she remained in the Habitat.

Wake up, Phex! Wake up!

She wanted to run, go somewhere, cry for help. Her legs scissored, and she writhed on the floor.

Dizzy, dizzy.

The world behind the crinkles was dimming.

Rocked by an involuntary gag, she let go of Phex and clawed at the bag ties around her neck, pulling, tearing, digging her fingers in.

Nothing.

The Cargo Hold! Run for help!

But the commands from her brain couldn’t reach her legs.

Then, she couldn’t breathe at all.

She flopped, helpless.

A movement next to her… The world was obscured by the frosted material and her fading awareness.

Hot. Dark…

When the lights returned, she was lying on the mesh floor, and Phex’s bottomless eyes were trained on her, a frown between his fine brows.

“Can you breathe?”

She must be able to, since she heard him, saw him, felt the cold air on her skin again. Her head throbbed. A tinny taste filled her mouth.

Phex cursed quietly.

“Don’t do that again. Don’t play. Don’t come to my rescue.”

“I’m sorry,”

she mouthed without a sound.

A tear slid down her cheek before she could stop it from forming. Rosamma drew a slow, deep breath that filled her lungs with precious air.

They’d survived this round, only to be abused again in a demoralizing circle of life on Seven Oars.

*****

Rosamma hadn’t meant to share what had happened, but when Phex had more or less dragged her in, not the other way around, questions started coming.

Gro chided her for her foolishness.

“I hope you’ve learned your lesson.”

She had. Yet if Phex needed her, she’d put herself on the line again without hesitation.

“Hey, at least they didn’t make you dance!”

Fawn said, upbeat.

“No, they didn’t do that.”

Rosamma lay down, utterly exhausted.

“Or raped you,”

Sassa said quietly.

Alyesha gave Rosamma an assessing look that dismissed the possibility.

Phex was incensed.

“Not the alien females.”

“Bro,”

Fawn said, “we aren’t suggesting you have those kinds of thoughts. But they might.”

The robot rolled in, and everyone went silent. The purple light distracted Daphne from staring at the wall. She wanted to follow it, and when Eze gently tightened her arms around her, she pitched a wailing fit.

Under the women’s wary gazes, the robot whirred and squeaked, doing its little robot dance, rolling back and forth in small motions, as if deciding where to go next. Its fake eyes rotated with purpose, scanning the Cargo Hold’s interior.

Evidently, nothing aroused suspicions, because without a word, it abruptly quit their quarters.

“That thing is funny.”

Fawn giggled.

Alyesha gave Fawn a withering look.

“This thing is not funny; it’s vile. It spies and snitches.”

“Why does it look like a fortune teller?”

“It probably knows when you die,”

Alyesha said drolly.

“You should ask it.”

“Hell, no. And it can’t know. You’re just being a bitch.”

Fawn fell silent, which was likely Alyesha’s point.

But her comparison was spot on.

The robot represented an ugly embodiment of a twisted engineering thought. Its “body”

was as square and heavy-looking as a fireproof safe set atop a spindly tripod. The tripod was tipped with sturdy rover wheels that looked capable of scaling extraterrestrial boulders. It rolled nimbly, pivoting and changing direction at a moment’s notice to avoid collisions.

In itself, an autonomous interactive robot wasn’t surprising.

Its costume was.

Dressed up to approximate a female, it wore an old jet-black wig with a drooping violet bow. Lashes that looked suspiciously like paintbrush bristles stuck out above the bulbous eyes. A colorful silk scarf was tied loosely around its “shoulders.”

By far the worst feature was the robot’s after-market breasts that someone had, inexplicably, taken time to craft from available materials. They were large, uneven, and poorly attached. Still, they were recognizable breasts. With nipples.

“Have you already eaten? I’m starving.”

Bustling past Alyesha, Anske headed to the supplies. She took several cans and pouches of food, way more than the agreed-upon daily norm.

Gro and Eze sprang up from their respective pads and advanced on her.

“Put that down.”

Anske blanched.

“What… Why?”

“It’s not mealtime, and that shelf is for the next month. Put it back.”

Anske’s face was slowly filling with color.

“When was the last time you knew what day it really was? Or what month? It doesn’t matter.”

Her hands clutched the food tighter.

Gro and Eze flanked Anske from both sides, and they meant business.

Anske quickly saw she was outnumbered. A pleading look she shot at Alyesha’s gained her no support.

“You want me to starve!”

she exclaimed dramatically.

“No, we want you to follow the rules. Otherwise, we’ll all starve.”

Flustered, Anske tried to put the supplies back but kept shoving them into the wrong spot. Stuff fell and rolled.

“It’s a stupid system! I can never remember it. I just want to eat, okay?”

She was genuinely distraught.

Silently, Rosamma picked up the fallen cans and returned them to their proper place. She selected one can and one pouch from the current shelf and handed them to Anske, who grabbed them and stomped to her pad. She ate in silence, with her back to the room.

The Cargo Hold fell quiet.

Rosamma felt tired and despondent. It was so cold in here. Her skin was covered in large goose bumps that wouldn’t subside.

She fingered the dozen alloy bracelets on her wrists. Uncle Zaron had commissioned them for her after some alien quack claimed the metals had healing qualities. Zaron had paid dearly for them. The bracelets couldn’t stop her energy from escaping, but they did capture it a tiny bit, slowing its inexorable leak.

Mostly, the bracelets just annoyed her, and right now, the cold metal on her wrists deepened the chill in her bones.

Rosamma rose to see if anything was left for her to put on.

Unlike the food, the pirates had appropriated most of women’s things, of which there were few to begin with. What remained in a small pile on the Cargo Hold’s floor included several discarded bras, crushed cosmetics, a sunhat, and a picture of Fawn in denim overalls.

She eyed the offerings with frustration, then returned to her thin pallet she’d fashioned from smelly rags. Luckily, she was the proud owner of an old thermal blanket that Gro had found and saved for her.

She tossed and turned under the blanket, unable to get comfortable. Her lower belly felt heavy.

She groaned. Her period had arrived. And in these conditions!

Rosamma looked around at the other women.

“Sassa!”

she called quietly, dragging herself closer.

Explaining the situation, Rosamma asked about the supplies.

Sassa gave her a blank look.

“Why didn’t you get the shots?”

“What shots?”

“To stop your period and provide birth control.”

Sassa puzzled over Rosamma like she was a mindless creature living under a rock. Which would be such a correct assessment.

“Your brother’s girlfriend, Paloma, signed us all up through the Shadush’s public clinic,”

Sassa said.

“We got two shots for free, and the effects last a year. It was part of our prep plan.”

The heat of embarrassment suffused Rosamma’s face.

“I guess I missed that part.”

“Oh, no.”

Sassa pulled at her lower lip.

“I don’t have any personal care items, Rosamma. I’m sorry.”

Rubbing her arms to generate friction, Rosamma lay down again. Her back felt every hard line of the mesh floor through her thin pad. The thermal blanket, a short, crinkly square, had holes from old age. She wrapped it around herself tightly, missing the soft wool of her lost shawl. Missing so much more than her shawl.

The pirates’ muffled laughter filtered through the door, jarring her senses. But the sound of the big machine whirring and straining under the Cargo Hold was oddly soothing. So powerful and constant. She listened to its measured revs.