Page 33 of Seven Oars
“Describe him to me.”
She blinked once, eyes steady on his. How to describe a Rix to a… Rix?
“He had black eyes and fine sandy hair.”
That applied to every Rix in the room.
The Striker’s eyebrows edged upward.
A memory stirred.“Lyle has a scar on his upper lip and a missing tooth.” She touched her mouth to show the exact spot.
Loud cursing erupted in the room.
“You… know him?” Rosamma couldn’t believe it.
“Hell, yeah, we know him,” said the other scarred Rix.“The Shadow Flyer! I flew a mission with him once.”
“You’re full of shit, Esseh. And that fuck was suicidal.”
“Don’t I know it?” Esseh laughed.“So he survived the bombing…”
Seemingly forgetting about Rosamma and the frightened gaggle of women at the end of the room, the pirates swapped anecdotes about Lyle, reminiscing about a past where they killed and plundered without remorse.The details were gory, and they took great pride in what they had done.
All Rosamma could do was despair.
Yes, Lyle had been infamous, but it was before. In another life. The life he left behind after escaping the destruction of his planet.He had believed himself the only long-term survivor.
The chair creaked as the Striker leaned back, drawing her attention.
Unfortunately, Lyle had been wrong. He wasn’t the only survivor.
“Do you know how to fly a space cruiser?” the Striker asked.
“Me? No, I don’t know.”
“Do they?” He motioned at the women.
“No, they don’t, either.”
“Then you can’t go to Priss.” His regret was insincere.“And your defender escorts are… indisposed.” The Striker grinned like a shark.“Lucky for you, alien life forms, you get to stay with us on Seven Oars. Indefinitely.”
He rose and stepped over Rosamma.
She slumped at the foot of the platform.
The pirates shouted and cheered wildly. They were going to celebrate—whether it was the capture of the women, the victory over the defenders, or Lyle being alive, Rosamma wasn’t sure.
They brought in more foul-smelling narcotics and another pipe.
A short fight broke out over the choice of music. Clearly, any issue, no matter how trivial, was settled by brute force.
Rosamma glanced at her companions, still there, still afraid to move or speak. She longed to join their ranks but, like them, was afraid to move from her slump. She stared at the chair in total confusion while unfamiliar sounds, smells, and sensations crushed over her like waves until she was drowning.
The chair held her focus. It was something simple she could relate to. A chair. A known object whose purpose and function she understood.
It was a big, ugly piece, stamped with washed-out, off-center designs that resembled tattoos.
A fresh blast of cold air from the vents hit Rosamma. If she had a crumb of food left in her stomach, she would have spewed it all out.
