Page 31 of Seven Oars
“Follow me,” he commanded.
The women were slow to rise, but the pirate waited patiently, watching them.
He took them down a short, darkened passageway with the same springy mesh floor and peeling walls.
“The aliens are here,” he announced as they passed through another unhinged doorway.
This area was larger and better lit than the Cargo Hold.
The stronger lighting gave Rosamma her first clear look at the men who had captured them, and who would, in all probability, put them to creative deaths some day soon.
She stepped inside the room.
Hell must be empty,flickered through her mind.All the demons are here.
The big scarred pirate that wasn’t the Striker stood over a pile of goods looted from their cruiser.
Another one, a stranger, reclined against a wall, smoking a pipe whose shape and complexity rivaled a French horn. Its intense, cloying exhaust made the women gag and sneeze.
Their sneezes triggered guffaws from two pirates who couldn’t stay still. They jabbed at each other and stomped around like hyperactive, uncouth children. One of them was the short, pugnacious Nud, and he called his homely, disheveled friend Xorris.
The tall, gaunt pirate who’d offered to kill Phex was sorting through the women’s clothes, stretching garments, and sniffing them. If he knew what a bra was, it was not readily obvious from his actions.
Galan, the one with the placid face, sat cross-legged on the floor, methodically inspecting each food item he pulled from the pile. The bewigged robot, parked beside him, scanned the labels with its eyes and translated the contents in its modulated voice.
Galan stacked up what he wanted to keep and threw the rest over his shoulder. Nud and Xorris gleefully stomped on some discarded items and watched the contents spray out.
The room looked and smelled repulsive, and every creature in it was loathsome.
Like a cherry on top of this degenerate sundae, the Striker reclined in a wide swivel chair perched on a crudely welded metal platform, a dais erected to elevate a narrow-minded tsar with an ego problem.
“Welcome to Seven Oars, alien females,” he said in his distinctive low voice.“What you seek, may you receive.” It was a mockery of the traditional Universal greeting.
Nud sneered. Xorris roared with laughter, displaying missing teeth.
The guy with the pipe took a drag.
Next to Rosamma, Sassa shook like a leaf in the wind. Rosamma wrapped her arm around Sassa’s shoulders, offering comfort as much as seeking it. It was just so cold in here.
“Where’s your polite response? Where’s your gratitude for staying alive?” The Striker’s ruined eyebrow curved in disdain.“I know you understand me. Come talk to me.”
It was an order.
Because he was Rix, and Rix's eyes had no whites, it wasn’t clear who he was addressing.
When none of the women moved, the pirate who had brought them in gave a shove from behind.
Before she knew what was happening, Rosamma flew across the room and crashed into the platform. Her cheekbone struck the Striker’s rough boot, and she cried out, sliding into a heap at his feet.
He grunted in displeasure, a soulless sound.
Propping herself up on trembling arms, she looked up.
Her heart raced. Her face throbbed. Her head swam. In this concerto of pain and fear, the Striker’s image was crystal-clear—not perverted or crass, just sharp planes and scars with no expression. A cold, black gaze of death.
His smooth forehead furrowed in confusion.“Why are you looking like that? Did you piss off a witch doctor?”
Ah, the joys of her mixed heritage. Even a disfigured pirate was bothered by her looks.
