Page 134 of Seven Oars
Esseh decided for them.“Get the defender. Let him deal with the remains.”
Xorris bolted, pushing Rosamma aside.
She barely winced from the collision with his hard shoulder.
She approached the sleeping node, halting at the edge of what she could bear to see.
Daphne lay on the cot, its padding soaked with blood.
She was a pretty girl, Daphne, with a fine bone structure and soft brown hair that curled at the ends.In repose, her vacant expression softened by her unfocused eyes, she looked young and peaceful and serene, like an angel.
The bloody mess of her torso, split wide open, ruined the angelic image.It made her look… settled in death. Irrevocably gone. More so, somehow, than Father Zha-Ikkel.
Rosamma hugged herself, staring.
It wasn’t real. It couldn’t be.The scene in front of her eyes was too odd, too unnatural. To violate a living being so—it was incomprehensible. Sick with a capital S.
Xorris returned with Phex.
“Rosamma!” He was surprised to see her, in a good way.
Understandably, since the last time they talked, she’d been ready to receive her last rites.
But Rosamma’s joy at being alive wasn’t felt keenly right now.
She raised her eyes to Phex in silent supplication.
Help,she wanted to scream at him.
But he couldn’t. It was unfair to expect miracles from him.
All of it was unfair.
Phex stopped abruptly when he saw Daphne. His jaw tensed, like he was biting his tongue to keep from cursing.
“She was already dead when we found her,” Esseh said, belligerent.“Get her off. I’ll open the trash chute.”
After a small hesitation, Phex stepped inside the blood-soaked sleeping node, careful to pick his way through the tight, messy space.
He shuddered as he picked Daphne up.
Her head lolled, so empty of life.
Without thinking, Rosamma grabbed a piece of cloth from the node that looked unsoiled and covered Daphne’s exposed internal organs.
Phex followed Esseh out of the Crew Quarters.In a daze, Rosamma trailed after them.
Tutti met them in the passageway, whirring and blinking, blabbering about protocol. It was all inane and meaningless in the face of the somber fact that Daphne was gone, killed in the most brutal fashion imaginable.
Rosamma wished she could do more than stand by, arms hanging at her sides, a silent vigil for the broken girl.
If Anske could come and say a prayer, maybe it wouldn’t seem so clinical. But Anske would get all upset and cry and preach about opening their minds.
And anyway, nothing would make it better.
“Who killed her?” came a cold, raspy voice.
He approached so quietly she hadn’t heard a sound.
