Page 37 of Seven Oars
Rosamma, tucked in next to Daphne and Gro, shivered from the cold and fought a headache.
Whether it was day or night, she didn’t know. She only knew she was still alive, lost somewhere on the outer edges of the galaxy, unlikely to ever be found.
She had dozed off at some point, only to wake up to the robot’s purple light blinking into her face.
The brutal zap that came without warning was hot and cold, paralyzing and galvanizing.
Rosamma’s body bowed off the floor. Sagged back down. Convulsed.
“Git, demon!” Gro pushed the robot’s square metal body away from Rosamma, making it roll backward on its rover wheels.
“Your actions are perceived as an offensive, human,” it intoned and zapped Gro, sending her into the same contortions.
“Fucking golem,” Gro wheezed, writhing.
Sassa’s round eye peeked at Rosamma from the depths of a hoodie she was trying to disappear into.
“I think it was trying to wake you, Rosamma,” she whispered, drawing back.
Groaning, Rosamma sat up.“I am listening.”
She had no idea if the robot would respond.
It did.
“Striker Fincros wants your presence in the Habitat immediately.”It rolled toward the door, expecting Rosamma to follow.
Two things occurred at once to Rosamma as she stood, favoring the side still tender from Nud’s kicking.
First, the Striker had a name.
And, she’d once again become the go-to spokesperson for their group, a role she hadn’t volunteered for and could definitely do without.
Her heart rate picked up when they neared the pirates’room. The Habitat. It brought back vivid memories of pain and ugliness. And fear. So much fear.
She shook her ringing head and squared her shoulders, telling herself not to appear afraid.There was nothing she could do to make herself bigger-faster-stronger, but did she have to look like a pale shadow of a woman?
They were bullies. They fed on fear. She would not show any.
Yet her self-talk did nothing to quiet her hammering heart.
I won’t bow down to that Striker. For once in my life, I will stand tall. Even if he kills me. That is,beforehe does.
She crossed the threshold and stumbled.
Her foot twisted, her leg bent, and she pitched forward, body-planting onto the robot.
It rolled beneath her, taking Rosamma on a wild ride around the room on the madly squeaking rover wheels. The purple light flashed rapidly, and after a series of high-pitched beeps and whistles, the robot zapped her again.
Completely incapacitated, she slid off the indignant contraption to land on her hands and knees at the foot of the platform holding the chair. With Striker Fincros sitting in it.
His scarred face wore the cruel, remote expression she remembered, but there was a distinct cringe vibe about him, as if he felt acute secondhand embarrassment on her behalf.
“Is she worth keeping around?” The Tarai alien asked moodily.
He leaned against the wall, unimpressed by Rosamma’s dramatic entrance.
Otherwise, the room was empty. It was also quiet, and only the lingering smell from the weed smoke reminded her of the absolute mayhem she had witnessed—was it only a day before?
