Page 62 of Seven Oars
She kept washing, bending over to rinse her hair, crying silently.
A loud crash startled her, followed by a woman’s scream. Men laughed nearby.
No, not men.Alien pirates.
Rosamma dropped the hose and grabbed the damp towel.
The stall door was yanked open, and Massar stood in the entrance.
Holding still, Rosamma pressed the towel against her front. Her long hair dripped water.
Massar smiled, revealing uneven, serrated teeth. His black, soulless eyes were like empty holes.
Suddenly, surviving any number of weeks seemed unimportant.She shouldn’t be afraid to die.She should be afraid not to.
“Funny creature,” Massar said.“Were you hiding?”
He stepped closer and grabbed her by the chin.“Answer me.” His grip was so forceful that her jaw nearly cracked.
She whimpered and dropped the towel, reaching for the hand squeezing her face.
He yanked her head to the side, inspecting her naked body from the neck down, mindless of the strain he was putting on her neck.
“Skinny little thing,” he murmured.“Young.”
Fisting her hair, he dragged her, almost senseless, to the Habitat, where he threw her down.
She fell, her knees scraping raw against the mesh floor.
There were sounds all around her—voices, male laughter. And weeping.
Whatever was happening, it wasn’t good.
Someone crawled closer and placed a hand on top of hers.
“Gro?” Their hands linked, gripping each other tightly.“What’s going on?” She was soaking wet, and the air was winter-cold.
“A new game just dropped,” Gro whispered.“It’s called Sexual Predator Sweepstakes. Enter one to win one. And we’ve just all been entered.”
“Shut up and move away!” Nud shouted at them.
To get his point across, he kicked them apart.
Rosamma caught a boot to the ribs. The blow was so sharp she couldn’t stifle a gasp.
Her eyes found Phex, restrained against the anchors that once upon a time supported scientific equipment. His face bore fresh bruises and was badly swollen. He was conscious and looked undefeated.
The sight gave her strength. It was a relief to simply see him again. Alive.
The women were also here. All of them. All naked.
She plucked random images from the room like still frames: Anske, clutching her Holy Guide to her wide bosom; Alyesha’s closed-off expression and crossed arms; Fawn and Sassa cowering on the floor…
The pirates crowded in as well. The air was ripe with feverish anticipation. Whether it was bloodlust or just plain lust, Rosamma couldn’t determine.
Xorris and Nud nudged each other in tune with the“music” that threatened to destroy eardrums. Thilza smoked, and the cloying fumes from his smoldering pipe swirled like patchy fog, adding a surreal aspect to the scene.
Striker Fincros lounged in his horror of a swivel chair, one boot propped negligently against the wall. He lightly pushed at it, making the chair move with piercing squeaks, right and left, right and left… The valleys of scars on the right side of his face caught light with each move, flashing and disappearing again.
