“Is this the only place you guys film Beauties versus Beasts?” I asked. My voice sounded weirdly normal with Last Light, Last Breath. “I mean, I know you have a ton of different ladies on the show, so I was just wondering where you’d keep that many women with this being such a small place.”
“Admittedly, Van Diemann’s location is one of our smaller hubs,” the demon guy said, messing with a button on his jacket. “But it is the sole location on this planet. We tend to keep each of our locations limited to on-planet broadcasting to avoid intergalactic regulations. The variety of new faces comes mainly from the market side of things. Every now and then an item is killed or maimed in such a way that they’re too ugly for broadcast, but more commonly, bidders buy up our strongest and most beautiful items for slaves. We’ve got to keep hunters out looking for new items constantly to meet demand.” He leaned over like he was telling us a secret. “Beauties versus Beasts is more of a sales platform than a primary source of revenue.”
“I’ve watched the program for years, and this is the first I’m hearing of the selling,” Warcry said, shaking his head. “Bleedin’ pathetic. Could’ve had me a beauty right off the show.”
“If the price was right,” the demon guy repeated, showing sharp pointed teeth.
Warcry laughed. “I’m a Thompson from Qaspar-7. Ya can’t name a price I can’t match.”
You could practically see the dollar signs flashing in the dude’s eyes when he heard that.
“Right this way, Mr. Thompson. I assume you’ll want one of our high-roller boxes?”
“Bet your leathery arse I do.”
The demon guy led us around to a cushy section of boxes at the top of the stands. Each one was surrounded on three sides by half-walls and set up with plush chairs and a table. We plopped into our seats, and the demon called over a lady wearing a Transferogate and skimpy dress.
“Keep these gentlemen stocked on drinks,” he said. “They’re on the house, gents, so don’t be shy.”
When I saw the stylized phoenix tattooed across the top of the waitress’s thigh, Last Light, Last Breath evaporated, and I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep my expression neutral. I’d spent half my time with the OSS trying not to get a zap from the script remote tied to my indenture tattoo. It hurt like crap and literally knocked you off your feet. The tattoo was probably the whole reason they even let her roam freely around the stands—because they knew they could keep her in line.
“Give us a pitcher of dark for the table, lovey,” Warcry said like he actually was that douche out partying for his birthday. He stuck out his red-brown stubbly jaw. “And a kiss, yeah?”
She leaned over and pecked him on the cheek. It wasn’t until she stood up that I saw the ugly grin on Warcry’s face. The only time he ever smiled like that was right before he kicked someone’s teeth in.
Luckily, the demon dude didn’t catch a whiff of that oncoming sewage storm.
“Enjoy yourself, Mr. Thompson, and let me know if anything catches your eye.” He glanced at the waitress, then winked at Warcry. “In or out of the cage. I’ll be around.”
He gave us a smile that felt like it smeared slime all over me, then headed off to do whatever his job was.
The waitress came back and dropped off a pitcher of foamy black beer and three glasses. Warcry made a show of pouring until she left.
“She has an indenture tattoo on the top of her thigh,” I whispered to Rali and Warcry once we were alone again. “Someone here has to have the script remote to it. Probably that demon dude.”
“Could be,” Warcry said, passing a glass to me. Sticky foam rolled down the side and across my fingertips. “Seems like the kind of cove who runs everything else here.”
I looked around for the demon guy. He was over on the opposite side of the cage now, talking to some guys in the stands.
“He should be our first target,” I said. “That way he doesn’t have time to activate the remote and incapacitate anybody.”
Warcry passed me another glass. “Then stop glaring at him and pass this to the big man. You’re gonna blow this before it even starts.”
I tore my eyes away from the demon and turned to Rali. He was frowning out at the cage, face twisted up like he couldn’t decide whether to barf or start murdering people.
“Dude,” I said, nudging his hand with the sticky glass.
He curled his hand into a fist. “This is evil. Look.” He jerked his chin at the blonde in the cage, who was just barely staying alive against the wolves. “Whenever she tries to use her Spirit abilities, the Spirit transfer device kicks in. Someone, somewhere, is getting a ton of Spirit from her.”
Rali sounded a lot more upset about that than about the whole slave trade thing, which I guess shouldn’t have been that surprising considering how he’d felt about it when I had a Transferogate. To him, Spirit was sacred, and anybody who tampered with it or stole it for themselves was going against everything he believed in.
I set the drink in front of him.
“Here’s your chance to go on that rampage you always wanted,” I said. “Really stick it to the people who think of Spirit as something to be quantified and sold and hoarded.”
Rali shot me a tight smile. “Nonviolent.”
“Like, all the time?” I said. “Because I’ve seen you get plenty violent before.”
He turned back to glaring out at the fight.
The blonde must’ve survived long enough, because a bell rang, and the door in the side of the cage opened. She stumbled out into the stands, escaping the wolves, bleeding from bite marks all over her arms and calves. A pair of big dudes grabbed
