Page 45 of Seven Oars
“The Meat Locker.”
He shoved them inside, mindless of a high threshold that bruised their shins.
All other questions fled her head. She didn’t want to know what Ucai had intended, but feared she’d find out anyway.
Dim lights flicked on, revealing a box-like room. The setup was rather standard for a meat locker: metal shelves and a rusted metal sink along one wall, a rack with hooks lining the other.
The shelves and sink were dirty but empty.
The rack, however…
Rosamma gagged and backed out, but Ucai fisted her hair and pulled until her eyes watered.
“If you barf, I’ll kill you myself,” Alyesha muttered under her breath.
Rosamma didn’t barf, but using their human language didn’t go over well with Ucai.
He turned on Alyesha. “If you speak that garble again, I’ll string you up next to that body. Understand?”
“Yes, Ucai,” Alyesha demurred. She trained her liquid eyes on his face, seemingly calm and composed. She even smiled.
Not that Rosamma had ever wanted to be like Alyesha, but just then, she wished like hell she’d been blessed with the nerves of steel that woman had. One had to wonder what kind of life Alyesha had lived to develop that level of toughness.
There was no draft, no telltale hum of refrigerators kicking in, but suddenly, the temperature inside the Meat Locker dropped even lower.
Ucai tensed.
“Taking our guests on a tour?” said the low, gravelly voice that was all too easy to recognize.
Ucai turned ever so slightly. Striker Fincros—coincidentally or not—was blocking their exit. If he wanted, he could shut them all in, turn the lever, and never open it again.
He could, and he knew it. So did Ucai.
“I was showing them where their path would end if they snoop again,” he explained.
“Snoop?” The Striker’s face was in shadow, but he was tracking their every move. Ucai’s, too. No one was guaranteed safety in this place. Nothing was a given.
“Caught them near the Command Center,” Ucai said.
The Striker’s attention became a tangible thing. “Were you snooping?”
Alyesha, already behind Ucai, slipped deeper into the Meat Locker, leaving Rosamma exposed to the Striker’s gaze. It was slowly turning her into stone.
She had to answer, to say something. Form a sentence in Universal, a suddenly unachievable task.
“The dark-haired one, come forward and speak to me,” Fincros said, leaving Rosamma weak in the knees. Weak, and ashamed of the relief she’d gained at Alysha’s expense.
Ucai nudged Alyesha forward.
Striker Fincros studied her. “Name?”
“Alyesha.”
He screwed up his face. “What a name. I don’t like it.”
Alyesha showed no reaction except for a small, agreeable smile.
“What were you doing at the Command Center?” he asked.
