“It’s just what they do.”
“Do you have one?”
“Not yet. But one of the women here when I first arrived explained it all to me.”
“Which one?”
The woman’s lips quivered, but she kept it together. “She’s gone,” was the clipped reply. Shalia didn’t pry for more details. “Anyway,” she continued, “the commander mixes up a special batch of pigment, usually sourced from the world they’re stationed on. It’s a big deal to the Dohrags, and the commander’s worth increases every time his crew gathers enough prisoners for processing. We get marked, but he does too, though it’s just a tiny embellishment in his case. Each one represents a processing. A visible way to show his accomplishments.”
“So, we get some tattoo? Like the translation one the Raxxians put behind our ears?”
“Not really, but sort of. It’s not a useful one. Just a marking specific to this unit and this commander. But it does not convey any skills or enhancements with it. We will just be marked, is all.”
“Really not liking the sound of that.”
“There’s not much you can do about it,” the woman replied. “Come on, we’d better get to work. No one wants the guards’ attention if it can be avoided.”
They did just that, setting off to work, harvesting the fruits from the prickly plants. By noon, Shalia’s hands had been poked so many times she would leak a little blood just from moving her hand. Washing them off at the end of the day was going to feel marvelous.
“Newcomers, fall in as instructed!” a voice boomed out over a loudspeaker Shalia could not see. For all she knew, it was some mysterious alien tech simply making the sound appear out of thinair. Whatever the case, she hurried back along with the others as a lone shuttle descended from the sky.
They waited outside their barracks for some time while the commander spoke with his planetary underling. The nearby guards snapping to attention was the only warning they had that the man was finally coming to see them. Shalia knew they weren’t supposed to look at him directly, but curiosity got the better of her, and what she saw was something of a shock.
The man was clearly not a typical Dohrag. For one, they were all quite ugly, but this man had a normal nose, regular-set eyes, and far more refined features in general. If he wasn’t a brutal alien, she’d almost say he was even attractive, in a tough guy sort of way.
Physically, he was imposing. Much larger than the others, he was also not wearing armor. Being the boss had its privileges, it seemed, and as a result, she could clearly see the rippling muscles barely contained within his clothing, as well as the hard-to-miss bulge in his trousers. He was absolutely built in more ways than one and so buff his six-pack probably had its own six-pack. From what she’d learned of Dohrag culture, this had undoubtedly served him well. Among their kind you had to be the toughest of the tough if you wanted to rise to the top. The biggest dog among the big dogs, though he was more than that. He was different.
In addition to his features, his skin was different as well. There was the usual Dohrag gray-blue color to it, but also a hint of warmth behind the cool look. And the tattoos he sported seemed to be largely consisting of black, gold, and even traces of silver rather than the simple black ink of the rank-and-file troops.
Then there were the eyes. Piercing, bright violet eyes complementing the pale gray-blue skin stretched over his high cheekbones.
Wow, she mused, her lady bits feeling a warm tingle as she looked him up and down in spite of herself. In spite of her dire situation. All of that aside, this guy was quite the specimen.
Her momentary appreciation ended in a flash as the towering man barked out orders to the assembled women before him.
“Strip,” he said in a tone that made it clear he expected complete obedience.
Shalia hesitated, but the others quickly began removing their clothes. Surrounded by armed guards and prisoners of these brutish men, there wasn’t much choice.
When in Rome, I guess, she thought, then did likewise until she was quite nude like the rest of them.
The commander walked in front of them, inspecting them like a shopkeeper would check out new merchandise. He stopped at each of them, quickly looking them up and down, spinning them around once or twice with his meaty hands before dipping a small device he was holding into a little bottle of dark-purple ink.
Not ink.Pigment, Fetza had said when Shalia asked about the tattoos she and all the others had. Might as well get the terminology right, she figured.
One by one he moved down the line, manhandling each of them then applying his special mark to them, the location varying seemingly on a whim, though perhaps it had something to do with the other tattoos the women already possessed all over their bodies. He did appear to be careful not to overlay any of their detailed rune designs, but there was no way for Shalia to know. Not now, anyway.
The commander stopped in front of her and sized her up with those piercing eyes. Like the others, he placed his powerful grip on her and moved her as easily as he would a child. He was so strong she couldn’t help but wonder if he might be able to lift her with a single hand. She felt the heat radiating off him, twitching involuntarily with an electric jolt of unexpected pleasure as his hand grazed her exposed nipple on its way to her shoulder, where he grasped her firmly. Had he meant to do that?
“Ow!” she blurted, her moment of pensive curiosity abruptly brought to an end as he began jabbing her with the tattoo device.
His eyes locked with hers, blazing with quiet energy, but also ahint of something else. What was that? Interest? Anger? She couldn’t tell. “Silence,” he said in a deep, rumbling baritone that felt like it shook her whole body.
She did as she was told and looked away, glad to note that he had, at least, been switching out needles for each person. Of course, they were all still rather gross from their work in the fields, but he did clean the patch he chose as the spot to ink them first. In her case, it was on her collarbone. The whole process only took a few minutes. Say what you might about the man, he was nothing if not efficient.
The commander continued until all of them had been marked, then turned to leave. One of the women began sobbing. The guards started laughing at her misery. That, it seemed, was enough to make the man stop in his tracks. How, exactly, these people’s odd social structure worked, it was clear that he had to exert his control and put an end to their outburst at once.
He strode to the woman in three long strides, grabbing her by the neck and squeezing with a precise application of pressure. She passed out seconds later, crumpling to the ground. Unharmed, but quite unconscious.
