“Leave her alone!” Shalia shouted without thinking.
All eyes locked on her, prisoners’ and guards’ alike. And worst of all, the commander’s.
Shit.
The man came at her, reaching out and grabbing hard. But Shalia wasn’t about to stand still and take it without a fight. She swung hard, scratching and clawing at his rock-like chest, tearing his shirt as she did, revealing many intricate golden tattoos interlinked in swirling unison on his body. She also saw blood. Her fingernails had, apparently, managed to dig into that seemingly impervious flesh, bloody streaks from her fingers smeared on his body, the red contrasting his naturally cool coloring.
The commander backhanded her hard, sending her flying into the barracks’ wall. Shalia fell to the ground, intact and conscious, but bruised and sore. The man glared at her a moment, angry,clearly, but his face also showed just a hint of a smile creasing the corners of his lips, pleased at the woman’s fiery spirit. He wiped any trace of it from his face almost immediately and looked at the overseers.
“Watch this one,” he growled to the lead guard. “There is still much work to be done. The rest of you, come.” He then turned and stormed off, his troops following close behind. He did, however, turn once, glancing back at the prisoners, his eyes resting on Shalia notably longer than the others.
The guard hauled Shalia to her feet and shoved her into the barracks, slamming the door behind her and locking it.
“No meal for you tonight. The rest of you, get back to work!”
The others scrambled back into the fields, leaving Shalia aching and alone in their spartan living quarters.
She absent-mindedly rubbed the painful spot on her collarbone, stopping immediately when it suddenly began to burn.
“Ow! Fuck!” she blurted, then hurried to rinse off as best she could, the little bits of gray-blue skin she’d scraped from the commander’s chest under her fingernails sticking stubbornly to her new tattoo before finally washing away.
Shalia’s belly growled, but she forced it to quiet. There would be no food until morning. She’d just have to deal with it.
“Looks like I managed to trade one shitty situation for another,” she grumbled, thinking back to their former captors. “Bright side, Shalia. Look on the bright side. At least these assholes aren’t giant lizard men. You’re not on the menu anymore, and you’re still alive. Sure, a gajillion miles from home, but one problem at a time. How bad is it, really?”
She glanced at the aching symbol now inked into her flesh and thought back to what had just happened with a groan.
“Okay, pissing off the big boss? Yeah. That might qualify as a problem,” she admitted to herself, sitting alone, locked away to await whatever might come next.
2
It was a different sort of life, working for the Dohrags, and an older woman with deep blue skin and fine silver highlights to her black pigment rune tattoos had given the newcomers a rundown on how it all worked in the camp when they’d first arrived. That helped their transition a lot, and they’d been operating relatively smoothly ever since. At least, as much as one could expect, given the situation.
And now they had settled into a routine. They rose early, ate a modest breakfast of simple porridge and water, then set to work, harvesting all manner of crops, the work teams rotating on a regular schedule. There was no meat in their diet, but Shalia was surprised to find she felt strong as ever. Several days later, after she’d gotten tattooed and promptly, and quite foolishly, pissed off the Dohrag commander, she found out why.
“Dotharian crops,” the blue woman, whom Shalia had learned was named Margussa, explained. “All worlds under their oversight have ‘em. Some are just regular fruits and vegetables, but many have a bit of protein in them as well. Part of the Dotharian Quality Foods Protocols put in place ages ago.”
Shalia nodded her understanding. “It sounds like a good thing, but titles can be deceiving, especially when massiveorganizations are involved. Kind of like ketchup being considered a serving of vegetables.”
“What is a ketchup?”
“Nevermind. Just a mashed-up paste. And it’s a fruit, not a vegetable, but the politicians in charge either didn’t know that or didn’t care.”
“Ah, politics. I understand the problems you are talking about, at least on a regional level. But the Dotharian Conglomerate, as an overseer on a much larger scale, is actually quite a proponent of caring for the masses. While poverty still exists, they felt that at a bare minimum, everyone should be able to go and work the land for their sustenance and not starve. Yes, most of the plants might not be glamorous, but you can live off them if you have to.”
“And these crops? This isn’t exactly a cheerful little hippie commune.”
“Hippie?”
“Sorry. Did it again. What I mean is, this doesn’t look like what we’re harvesting is food for the masses.”
“Oh, certainly not. This is all for the Dohrag fleet. We raise these crops for them alone. The shuttle comes daily to bring the harvest to the orbiting transit station, where they will be sorted and stockpiled until the next ship arrives.”
“So, we just pick this stuff and send it up?”
“That is what happens the majority of the time.”
Shalia didn’t exactly like the sound of that.
