Page 115 of Seven Oars
“Don’t worry, nothing happened,” Fawn assured them.“The Rix don’t do heat, who knew? This place is so dead. Not literally! I mean, just so boring.”
“Goddammit, it was such much fun before,” Eze said drily.
Fawn only laughed.
“Gotta make the best of it, Gro,” she said.“We only have one life. Is there any food left for today?”
“Buzz off, Fawn,” Gro snapped.
“What a grouch,” Fawn replied without rancor.
She picked up the sheet she used as a wrap and sashayed into the shower stall.
The rest of them sat silently and listened to her bang around and curse in there.
“She’s going to use up all the water,” Anske grumbled.
“That’s okay. I’ll filter more,” Rosamma quickly offered.
They had to stay united. They had to trust one another. It was their only strength, all they had left. It troubled her greatly that not everyone saw it.
Sassa’s loss should have pushed them closer, but instead, it seemed to accelerate their unraveling.
Alyesha had never come back to the Cargo Hold.
Anske only obsessed over snaring Galan as a potential disciple.
Fawn was sniffing around the Habitat for male attention.
Their unified structure was beginning to wobble at the base.
“If the Rix don’t do heat,” Anske said quietly, then dropped her voice even lower,“Do you think they can die from it?”
Gro stretched her legs in front of her.“I wouldn’t complain if they did.”
Eze shook her head.“I’m afraid you would. Something’s wrong with the station, and someone better fix it, or we’re all screwed.”
“Thilza was supposed to fix it,” Rosamma pointed out.
“Yeah, we’re screwed,” Eze said.
As far as they knew, the pirates showed no urgency in performing repairs. No one bothered to do anything more than bemoan the heat and get plastered. Even Fincros was only pissed at Thilza for acting out.
Maybe it was nothing.Maybe the station was programmed to resolve such problems without intervention.
Still, it was becoming uncomfortably hot.
Rosamma rose.“I’m going to see Phex. He might know something.”
She crept out of the Cargo Hold and stealthily made her way to the Habitat.
Fawn was right: the station was so unusually silent.
In the stillness, the hum of theoarsseemed louder and more menacing. Rosamma’s steps, no matter how hard she tried to be quiet, made the mesh floor respond with squeaks, screeches, and clangs.
The Habitat stunk, the usual combo of lingering body odors, congealed blood, and stale smoke, underlaid by the metal tang of the aging equipment.
The Striker’s swivel chair was turned sideways, concealing the tattoos.
