“You don’tdaretouch me with this in my hand,” I said, nodding at the sigil. “You know anyone holding the Baron’s sigil is untouchable on pain of death.”
This was actually true. It wasn’t like the Baron was the law or anything—in fact, if what I had heard was true, he was more like a Mafia Lord than a Police Chief. But he was so rich and powerful and feared that just holding his sigil was proof against almost any kind of physical violence or retribution from anyone you might have offended or harmed.
I hadn’t seen it often—he rarely gave his sigils out—but I knew that much just from the gossip of the other Blood Whores. To them, Baron Vik’tor was kind of like the Royal Family to people who read tabloids or frequent gossip blogs. They loved to talk about every aspect of his life, though of course, none of them knew him personally.
“I don’t know where you got that, but you’ll be sorry!” the would-be rapist exclaimed in a low voice.
“No,you’rethe one who’s going to be sorry if you don’t leave me alone!” I snapped. “Don’t you know I’m the Baron’s special Blood Whore? He likes me because he’s halfhsh’fruxand I’m fullhsh’frux —he says my blood is the sweetest and the warmest he’s ever tasted!”
I was making this up as I went along, kind of enjoying myself actually. It felt good to put the fear of God—or in this case, the fear of Baron Vik’tor—into a bastard like this. He probably would have been happy to rape me and drain me dry if he’d gotten a chance—now he wouldn’tdare.
“I don’t understand this—any of it!” he snarled. “But you’ll be sorry, you littlehsh’fruxbitch—I promise you that!”
His words might have frightened me if I thought that he knew my pimp. But there was no way someone dressed like him was going to know Rx’s. I very much doubted they ran in the same social circles, if you know what I mean.
As for being frightened that the Baron himself might come around, demanding to know why I was using his sigil, I didn’t even give that a second thought. Using his sigil was kind of like shoving a picture of a movie star or a billionaire into someone’s face back on Earth. You don’t figure that Elon Musk or Bill Gates is going to come after you for something like that, because you’re literally beneath their notice—the same way an ant is beneath the notice of an elephant.
Still, after I scared off the rich client, I found I was done for the night. I knew I ought to try and get one more paying customer, but after the adrenaline rush wore off, I felt weak in the knees and trembly all over. I couldn’t even bring myself to go beg at one of the food or drink carts scattered around the Central Hub.
As I said earlier, the merchants at these carts kept little glass collection jars with a sharp needle at the top. Naggian customers were allowed to prick their fingers and pay for goods with drops of their dark blue blood if they didn’t have enough creds on them. Though the merchants and shop keepers wouldn’t allow me to mix my “dirty” blood with the blood they’d collected in their jars during the day from Naggian customers, one or two of them would sometimes have pity on me and give me something to eat that had burned or gone flat or sour or stale or had spoiled in some other way.
But tonight, I couldn’t work up the energy even to beg. I had half a tube of the awful but cheap nutritional paste back in my hole—I would eat a little for supper and save the rest for a meager breakfast, I told myself. As the Warning Gong went off, letting everyone know the Sweepers were only minutes from appearing, I dragged myself back to the tunnel that housed my little hole.
There, I would huddle in the frozen semi-darkness and try to get some sleep so I could dream I was back home on Earth, happy and healthy and working on my dissertation instead of living the miserable life of a Blood Whore on O’nagga Nine.
I had no idea that the very next day I would pay for my use of the sigil—pay in ways I had never expected.
TWO
VIK’TOR
“There you are—thought you weren’t coming. Why are you so fucking late?” I looked up as my second-in-command, Azz’lx, walked into the sitting room of my living quarters which were located at the top of my building—the biggest in the city.
“Ah, Baron Vik’tor—please forgive my tardiness. I had a mostunusualthing happen on my way through the Central Hub,” he excused himself.
“Unusual? What are you talking about?” I asked, frowning. Hedidlook kind of unsettled—his usually slicked back hair was in black strings around his narrow white face and his expensive maroon robe was rumpled and pulled all askew.
Azz’lx always dresses to impress. Myself, I don’t bother—mainly because there’s nothing I can do to make other Naggians see me as anything but ahsh’fruxhalf-blood, so why even try?
There’s no denying or hiding my half-blood heritage—not that I would want to. My father was Braxian, one of the Twelve Peoples whom the Ancient Ones had created when they seeded our galaxy with life. They’re a ruthless race—prone to going into berserker furies in battle or if they think their chosen female is being threatened. They also have blue skin, white-on-black eyes and horns that grow from their temples.
Well, I didn’t have the Braxian eyes—mine were glowing blue like most other Naggians—and my hide was white instead of blue, but the two curling horns that sprouted from either side of my forehead proclaimed my heritage well enough. In addition, I had gotten some Braxian tribal tattoos along my arms and up the side of my neck in the same distinctive shade of blue my father’s skin had been.
He and my mother were dead now—killed in a shuttle accident when I was in my early twenties—but I paid tribute to them and their love in every way I could. And if the Naggians I lived around didn’t like it—well, fuck them. I knew well enough they all looked down on me and loathed me—it was one reason I’d been so damn determined to become the wealthiest male on O’nagga Nine. Once you have that kind of “fuck you” money, nobody can turn up their nose at you, no matter how “dirty” your blood is.
All this flashed through my mind as I looked at my normally sleek and buttoned-down right-hand man. Azz’lx wasn’t exactly what I’d call a friend, but I trusted him—well, about as much as I trusted anyone—and I was genuinely interested to know what had him so rattled.
“What happened?” I asked him. “What was this ‘unusual’ incident that has you looking like a fucking ghost crawled up your ass?”
He had been pacing at the far end of the room, far back from the fireplace. Though he has never complained, I know he doesn’t like how warm I keep my living quarters. Now he ran a long, white-fingered hand through his hair and turned to me.
“Do you know that a common Blood Whore is using your sigil?” he demanded.
“What?” I sat forward on the edge of my seat, frowning. The sigil is something I give out only to esteemed guests and colleagues—it’s a physical symbol of my personal protection so I don’t take someone using it lightly.
Especially when I didn’t fucking give it to them in the first place.
“You heard me!” Azz’lx was still pacing and running a hand through his hair. “I stopped on the way here to get a quick bite and this…this common little Blood Whoreaccostedme!”