Excerpt from Vampire Outlaw of the Milky Way
by Weston Ochse

When we last left our fearless, intergalactic, vampire bounty hunter, he and his friends were infiltrating a HITman Trade Station by holographically disguising him so that he'd appear as one of the topless, hopelessly erotic consorts of the Lord High Baron.

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Intergalactic Porn Star

What good were breasts when you couldn’t feel them?

Monray was the most beautiful woman in the galaxy and he couldn’t even touch himself. In the hierarchy of unfair that ranked first. Plus, this whole docile-naked-servant-of-the-Lord-Baron-trip was getting old. Monray had never been one to flee. He was the definition of confrontational. He lived by many mottos, one being see problem, fix problem. And to be forced to become a spectator rather than a participant was almost too much to ask. He was nearly reaching the point when he’d shut down the delimiters and launch himself into this crowd of scavengers.

They wouldn’t be missed.

Not a one.

The only thing that kept him from laying waste to these station misfits was that they hadn’t found Bevini yet. Once they spoke to the rancid little joker they could leave this putrid place and the persona of the Temptress behind. Right now the best he could do was to grit his teeth, stay back and watch, and appreciate the fact that he wasn’t getting his hands dirty.

Which meant that he wasn’t having any fun, either.

Iago’s Balls!

To make matters worse, he was getting tired of people staring at his breasts. How many times did they need to look? His breasts weren’t going anywhere, yet the entire flotsam and jetsam of the galaxy seemed concerned about the effects of gravitational pull and centrifugal force on a pair of breasts that would never feel the brush of love. For the seventh time, he reminded himself to rethink his infatuation with the female figure, simultaneously hoping that he wouldn’t pass any more view ports.

But that wasn’t his worst problem.

Twice he’d almost attacked. Once when Majaji found the Glamour Jack and he’d seen its blood and when the legless man had confronted them. Each time, the symbiot had tried to influence him and send him into a rage so that it could feed.

Those times Monray had managed to hold back.

Seeing the situation and the crowd, however, he knew that he’d be forced to fight before the afternoon was over. What Majaji and B’dam had failed to see was the other Glamour Jack directing everything. When the legless man had looked back, it was to the Jack, who’d nodded then melted into the crowd. He’d been quick, but not quick enough for Monray to miss the purple hue of royal pearl covering his body. The only way one could get royal pearl would be from a royal ship. The last royal to go missing was Majaji’s cousin, whose fate was still unknown. Speaking to the Jack might shed some light on what happened. That is, if Monray could keep his lover from killing him. For now, Monray continued to play his part, allowing Majaji to guide them through the warren of make-shift living quarters as she queried those who’d answer regarding the whereabouts of Bevini.

B’dam guarded their rear and his growls kept those with too much curiosity from getting close enough to feel the edge of his blades.

And throughout it all, the Jack watched them.

Sometimes it was a momentary splash of purple, other times Monray would see a sly smile. Always the Jack watched them. Usually forward leaning and on point, Monray was nose to the action. He’d never been in the position were he could observe and lay back while others took the more proactive role, which was probably why he saw the Jack and they didn’t. As surreptitious as a breeze, the man never thought that the Temptress was anything other than who she was. Had he, he’d surely have taken precautions.

Another thing Monray noticed was the moss. He’d seen it before, and although he couldn’t remember exactly where, he knew without a doubt that he’d never seen it in such quantities.

As they searched for Bevini he saw pots filled with the nasty green stuff at almost every stake. One man used a swatch as a poultice, dabbing at a pregnant, puss-filled wound on his thigh. The stuff grew everywhere. A part of Monray wondered if it was for good or ill. He found it hard to believe that something growing in the worst part of the station could bode well for the sentient races.

Suddenly they found themselves in the rear of the hold beside the trash scubbers. Immense buckets loaded with station refuse, the scrubbers offloaded the waste onto one-way scows shot into the gravitational fields of nearby stars. Fire and forget. Monray had been on enough stations to know that these scrubbers were a great place to get rid of things. Rooting around was like a death lottery. By the time the warning lights flashed, the air lock had already begun to open and any chance of survival after that could be calculated on the head of a pin. Only those on the outermost edge had a chance to escape.

Yet prospecting could reap incredible reward for those who dared. Fortunes had been made in station scrubbers. If there was a more dangerously inglorious occupation,

Monray didn’t know it. On one hand he couldn’t help but admire the courage of those who tread on the edge, but on the other he wondered if it wasn’t merely need that fueled them.

Were they addicts or entrepreneurs?

At least a dozen people rooted through the odd-shaped packages and commercial waste. Several used long poles to push and prod the trash as they searched for things of value, occasionally clashing when they came too close, their poles rising and striking as deadly as any weapon. Sometimes they backed away, other times one would go down, skewered or bludgeoned, now part of the refuse which he’d just been searching.

They found Bevini near the edge of the refuse, curled into a fetal position, his shoulders hiding a blender cradled in his hands that was screwed into a shunt in the

side of his head. The whir of the blades pulping what looked faintly human was almost drowned out by Bevini’s fevered chant, “Faster faster faster faster faster.” Finally the blender stopped, replaced by a sucking sound as the contents were pulled through the translucent hose into the shunt. Bevini threw his head back and clacked his teeth. He let out a laugh and began to crawl towards the center of the scrubber.

“Oh no you don’t.”

B’dam took two long strides, grabbed the revenant by the ankle and hauled him clear of the scrubber and onto the deck.

Bevini reacted violently, kicking and flailing on his back, his limbs gyrating spastically and striking out at odd angles. Majaji, B’dam and Monray jumped out of the

way of the thrashing limbs. Mottled gray skin and moldy hands slapped the floor with a sick wet sound. At his crotch and across his shoulders like a shawl, patched and repatched material hung ragged and frayed. His eyes had long been sewn shut, yet it seemed as if the revenant were seeking something by the way his face twisted back and forth.

B’Dam threw a knee into the revenant’s chest and pinned him to the floor as he used all six of his arms to keep the limbs from thrashing. The Kalithay growled with the effort it took to subdue the undead creature who was far stronger than a living counterpart ought to be. Finally, he managed to contain the revenant’s energy.

Monray felt sympathy for the travesty of the revenant, but recognized that the decorum of a Temptress meant that he shouldn’t even notice the creature. Still, Monray was human, at least partially. That which wasn’t human and vampire was Jepps-created. In this, they were equals.

Revenants had been created for menial tasks. Pulling levers. Pushing buttons. Things that took little or no thought. For centuries the Jepps mass-produced and sold them to businesses of all sizes. What’s not to like about a worker that eats garbage, doesn’t get paid, and never sleeps? But then Hidalgo got involved. They saw that there was money to be had and where money talked, Hidalgo walked. They soon convinced the Council that forced servitude of the dead was the rudest crime. Thinking they were making a bargain, the Council ruled that revenants could only be in the service of the creators for ten years. A small victory for Hidalgo, this was a blow to the undead. With proper attention, a revenant could live fifty years. But without the assets of the Jepps Dolls, they lasted only a few years past maturity. The definition of ancient dropped from fifty years to fifteen, as the effects of living without the Jepps medical support staff twisted and ruined the revenants. In the end, the Council determined that the issue with the revenants was ownership. A servant, even an undead one, would receive medical treatment. But nowhere in the books was a regulatory requirement that ordered the treatment of the undead.

Monray at once despised the revenant and loved him.

They were Jepps brothers whose existence was predicated on the consummation of flesh—Monray of the living, and Bevini of the dead.

Majaji kneeled down, her fur flashing red hues as the light washed against it. “We’ve been looking for you, Bevini.”

The revenant hissed through gray lips that parted and revealed sick black gums, toothless and decaying. A mottled gray tongue pushed rancid specks of unimaginable

offal clear before he spoke. “Leave me,” came a voice like a cold wind. “I must feed.”

“No can do, dead man.” Majaji leaned in close, sliding the point of her stiletto across the revenant’s cheek. “You tried to kill the man I love. I don’t like people who do that.”

“You gonna kill a dead man?” Bevini’s rusty chuckle stilled her hand. “Leave me.”

“Not a chance. You tried to get Monray captured. Why? Who got to you? Who made you do it?”

“What did that halfwit vampire go and do now?”

“He followed your guidance. You sent him to Vashnu Prime. You told him there was a Shared Soul there. Why’d you lie revenant? Why’d you do it?”

“I’m tired.” Bevini sighed like the sound of air escaping a lock. “Leave me. Let me feed.”

Just as she was about to try a new tactic, a voice interrupted them from behind.

“If you want to use that blade, you can try it on me any day.”

Majaji whirled, her stiletto held low and ready. Her other hand went to her throat as her fur flashed cinnamon red. Her smile toppled, only to be replaced by a look of such shock that her face froze as the seconds ticked by. Her unblinking eyes quivered with emotion.

The other finally broke the silence. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“In a way I have,” she cried, her voice cracking.

“Ah. So you were related to her.” The Glamour Jack caressed the purple-pearl cuirass that armored his body from neck to waist as if it were a living woman. “She’s given me such pleasure. Without her I never would have survived."

Available from Bad Moon Books