Zara crawled onto the bed and sank nose first into the mattress, which shaped itself around her forming a shallow tomb. She made sure the towel stayed firmly in place and covered her bottom.
What kind of design had Galen chosen? The Vendu might be an advanced civilization but their culture was archaic and barbaric. She feared it would be something grotesque. One of those battle scenes when the Vendu slaughtered their foe. She’d heard the warriors who fucked captive slaves were tattooed with depictions of their conquests. One friend back home told about a warlord who had covered his girl with erotic scenes. One of her fellow students at the technology university had laughed such things off, claiming it was a myth put about by Earthlings to discredit the Vendu and spoke of poems or exotic creatures inked onto skin.
Zara was about to find out which story was true.
She lay stiffly, her arms snapped to her sides and eyes squeezed shut. The four women must be close; she heard their movements as they prepared themselves. They were chanting softly in time to the music.
Zara felt a tiny pinpoint of pressure in four places on her back. The faintest sensation of something touching her. It tickled a little a first, then even that became too subtle to notice.
Time passed. She drifted, feeling sleepy and the rigidity in her limbs dissolved. The combination of music, chanting, and the gentlest of probing was strangely affecting. She had to admit she enjoyed being the center of attention.
“They’ve finished the pattern. You might feel a small scratch as they inject the ink,” Bisma warned.
The scratch was sharp but brief. The Vendu created changes in the skin cells with special instruments, then injected the dye into the cells. Humans knew the technique; however, the exact nature of the inks was a closely guarded secret.
“There. We’ll break for refreshments. You must be stiff, Zara.” Bisma tapped her shoulder and helped her up off the bed.
Zara couldn’t wait to see the tattoo. She ignored her rumbling stomach and hurried to the mirror. With her back facing it, she twisted and looked over her shoulder.
There was nothing there! Her skin was the same pale color it had always been. No patterns, no pictures. She was blank. They’d spent hours doing nothing more than tease her. If this was supposed to be one of Galen’s humiliating punishments, it had worked.
Furious, she rounded on Bisma. “Is this some kind of cruel joke? I’ve laid there for hours while these silly women chant their mumbo-jumbo over me and there is nothing to show for it.” She stamped her foot on the floor in frustration.
Bisma’s cheeks flushed red. “How dare you, Earthling, accuse these sacred women of wasting your time? This is not some pathetic human inking where you’re stabbed with needles and gaudy colors. This kind of tattoo is one of the most prized. Your insolence has been duly noted.”
“They’ve not done anything!” Zara repeated, exasperated.
“Just because you can’t see it, doesn’t mean there isn’t anything there. You are not the one to see. You will find out what purpose the ink serves in due time.”
“What the hell does that mean? There is nothing to see. It’s not worked.” Zara ran her hand up and down her back—the skin felt smooth.
“Your lack of faith in the abilities of these inkers is going to land you in trouble.” Bisma flashed her a warning glance.
The threat was there in the tone of her voice. Zara couldn’t afford to risk upsetting her or especially Galen. She needed to convince him to give her access to her computer.
“Special inks?” she asked.
“Yes. Lord Galen is more than a judge. He is a wealthy lord who can command such privileges.” Bisma pointed to the platter of food that had arrived as if by magic. She must have left the room to prepare it while Zara was undergoing the tattoo. “Eat.”
She was famished. Thirsty, too. After she and the silent inkers had eaten and rehydrated themselves with water, she was told to lie on her back.
“You must be very still,” Bisma said. “Keep your arms to your sides and don’t wriggle.”
One of the inkers had a small projection device that cast a shadow of patterns over Zara’s upper torso. It looked like rings were circling her breasts.
“Close your eyes and relax, Zara,” Bisma instructed.
There was nothing els
e to do but obey. As she closed her eyelids, she saw nibs of the pen-like devices used to alter the structure of her skin cells hover just above her nipple. They would work fast; the window of opportunity for the inks to take was brief. Within a few hours, the cells would return to their natural state, locking in the dye. The invisible dye.
The last stage required Zara to part her legs. She shoved the towel between them to hide her nudity and attempted to lie still. It was difficult. She was bored. Her legs trembled and sometimes she could feel a ticklish sensation. The chanting was no longer relaxing. The drone of incomprehensible words was irritating and monotonous. She’d heard the same sequences over and over.
The Vendu liked rituals. Zara liked fun. The lack of compatibility was stark. However, the need to come together to resolve their differences was essential if humans were to survive. The Vendu needed them, too. Nobody back at New Phoenix was entirely sure the extent of the alien’s population decline or how quickly their home world, Halos, was dying. Given that the Vendu had occupied Australia decades again, the aliens weren’t in a hurry to explain their plans. It was part of Zara’s mission to encourage greater openness between the two species in the hope the Vendu would be more forthcoming.
The inkers proclaimed they were finished by ringing small chime bells over her. When she sat up and gazed down at her breasts and legs, it came as no surprise this time that the tattoos were invisible.
What exactly had they done to her and why the mystery?