Page 195 of Seven Oars
Rosamma interrupted,“He’s a Commander of the Rix Defender Force.”
“Yes. So, I was saying, there is no way in hell I am coming near Enzomora, Commander Aeshac, or the Rix Defender Force. Reason being, I’d rather be blind than dead.”
Rosamma hesitated.“Don’t you have family there?”
“Distant family. That’s another reason. I’ve debased myself beyond all hope. It’s better they think I’m dead.”
He got up and moved around the Meat Locker, teaching himself new ways to navigate. He bumped into Father Zha-Ikkel and swatted him, annoyed.
Watching him stumble was pure agony, but he refused Rosamma’s help. He had to learn. There was no going back.
Following his orders, Rosamma also moved around the room and performed simple tasks like bending or sitting down, at first close by, then farther away. He tracked her, but his eyes spasmed, the ruined muscle trying to focus like it once had. It hurt him. The gashes were too raw, the eyes too red.
Finally, Rosamma placed her hands on his eyes and sent energy. And sent energy, and sent, until he gently removed her hands. She cried when he did.
“Why are you crying?” Fincros asked her, baffled.
“Because I’m sad! What a mess this all is.”
“A mess, yes. But there’s meaning in it.”
“What meaning, Fincros?”
“Life.”
Chapter 28
On the surface, the do-nothing-productive routine on Seven Oars continued unchanged. The pirates gathered at the Habitat and amused themselves with drugs, infighting, and loud“music.”
But a sense of foreboding hung over them all like a sword.
Tutti squeaked around the station with its light on but no real direction.Echoes of clashes, ones Fincros wasn’t part of, filtered into the Cargo Hold through the grating chuffing of its greatoar.
Yes, unrest was in the air, and the urgency to prepare their escape drove the Cargo Hold inhabitants toward recklessness.
Esseh had caught Eze out on the Bridge and chased her to the Cargo Hold.
“It was never a problem before,” she complained as Rosamma and Gro applied cool compresses to her bruised ribs and face.“We always walked around. The Striker allowed it!”
“Different Striker, dumbass,” Gro muttered, trying to mask her dismay at Eze’s new injuries.
Rosamma glanced at Fincros, who sat with his back to the wall, legs bent and spread slightly apart.
To her, he was still the Striker.
He was using lulls in his beatings to relearn how to function, to make sense of the world without seeing it. He struggled, and he made no secret about it. He made progress daily, but the climb was steep.
“The crew doesn’t trust Phex,” he said. “They’ll attempt to throw him.”
“Who will? Esseh?” Rosamma tenderly smoothed silky hair from his face. She’d stopped pretending around Eze and Gro, and there was no hiding their closeness now.
“Could be. There’s going to be unrest.”
“Phex is strong,” Gro said.
“Strength alone is not enough. He lacks the drive.”
Fincros settled firmer against the wall, his eyes blinking out that inner third eyelid that signaled stasis. Rosamma knew the signs. She’d given him a little energy, and it comforted her to see him resting.
