Page 47 of Seven Oars
Rosamma and Alyesha sagged in relief.
“But.”
They tensed again.
He walked past them toward thatthinghanging from the hook. “Come here.”
They followed—what choice did they have?
The carcass was large and heavy. It was skinned and missing a head, but not gutted.
And it was definitely not a four-legged animal.
“This is my trophy,” Fincros said with quiet pride.
Rosamma forced herself to take deeper breaths to stave off encroaching dizziness.
“You said you had some Tana-Tana in you?” Fincros asked her.
“Y…yes.”
He nodded, like that settled it. “He was a Tana-Tana.”
While he turned away, presumably to admire his “trophy,” Rosamma allowed herself to close her eyes for a moment, hoping for a respite from the sight.
It was useless. The image was already etched on the backs of her eyelids, and it would remain there forever.
“His name was Father Zha-Ikkel,” Fincros said. “He used to own this space station.”
He circled them before stopping in front. His sheer size was intimidating, and he meant it that way. His scars were off-putting, and he knew it.
“When the defenders bombed Sir-Sar,” he began, “a few of us escaped in a small cruiser. Smaller than yours. It wasn’t designed for long space flights. There were no provisions, no room to move around. The air was thin. But we had weapons and a will to fight for our lives. A good cause to fight for, don’t you think?” he taunted them subtly, challenging them to fight for their lives andknowingthey could do nothing.
Rosamma scrambled for a reply, but he didn’t need any.
“We came across this space station and started following it, plotting an attack. And we got ’em.” He slapped the wall as he said that.
The women jumped.
“This place was swarming with Tana-Tanas, but we killed them all. Still took months to air out their stink.”
Rosamma said nothing. What could a half Tana-Tana say to that?
“At first, I’d left Father Zha-Ikkel alive for information,” Fincros said. “Can’t take over a space station without some knowledge transfer. Too many moving parts.”
He touched the body then, caressing the skinless, frozen flesh with his bare hand. The blue talons of his six fingers made shallow grooves in the frosty layer covering it.
Rosamma tasted bile and had an urge to pee from the onslaught of abject fear and revulsion.
At the same time, she could almost see herself swinging from the hook next to poor Father Zha-Ikkel. If she had no head, she wouldn’t be so afraid anymore. If she had no skin, she wouldn’t be so cold.
The Striker dropped his hand and lowered his voice, as if in confidence. “I debated whether or not to kill him. He was old and wise, and he knew stuff.” He sighed deeply. When he exhaled, steam whooshed out of his weird Rix nose. “But I needed leather for my chair.”
This time, it was Alyesha who gagged.
“This is a very interesting story,” Rosamma forced her lips to say, petrified that he’d hurt Alyesha for gagging in some unspeakable way, like pulling the skin off her body.
“Do you think so?” he asked, his tone mildly curious.
