easily. How dare he think the best sex of her life was some accident of his own angst?
At one point, while she viciously applied a smoothing treatment to her hair, she wondered about the exact nature of his angst. How could a grown man, a sexy, passionate man, feel so guilty about something so natural? There was more foreignness to off-worlders than just bad accents and an odd preference for zippers.
But she didn’t think too long on that, finding her self-righteous anger far more soothing.
The next morning, she woke calm and resolved. Her memory of the fight was already softened by time, but she had the distinct impression she hadn’t made much sense. Only Rasmus made her that mad, that incoherent.
She was going to make him understand, and this time she wouldn’t be reduced to sputtering gibberish by her outrage.
Of course, by the time she’d pulled together a short list of talking points and arrayed herself in casual perfection, the day was already well begun. Rasmus did not answer his door.
With a little research she found an occupation medical center attached to the campus of the Temple of Flesh, with Rasmus listed as a senior physician. The coincidence gave her pause, as did the idea of visiting the campus for the first time, but she would not back down this time.
Fedni sent a terse message through his public mailbox. “We have things to discuss. Will you please give me the pleasure of your company for lunch? I will be there at 13:00.”
From the moment she arrived, she found her surroundings strange. The main Temple of Flesh campus for the city was huge, yet more compact than the Temple of Passion grounds she had grown up on. Instead of lawns, there were plain five-story buildings and the occasional concrete square. Even the seating was more efficient—instead of discrete conversation groupings, there were rows of concrete benches, like bumpy extensions of the ground itself.
The most off-putting part was the air of abandonment. She saw other people, of course, but far fewer than she’d expect on sidewalks so wide. Litter had blown into corners and entire buildings were shuttered.
The occupation medical offices were easy to find; they alone were doing bustling trade. The building itself was squat, more poured gray concrete with green-tinted windows. A crowd of people rode the lift with her, lower-caste members who allowed her an appropriate amount of space.
In a wide reception area, a line formed for check-in kiosks and automated medipods. Fedni bypassed that entirely, heading straight for a waifish off-worlder with riotous curly hair at a reception desk.
She narrowed her eyes as Fedni approached.
“I’m here for Rasmus Misseen.”
“You need to check in, and a doctor will be assigned.”
“I am not a patient. This is a social visit.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“Yes, he is.”
Well, he was, if he’d checked his mail.
The woman looked unconvinced. They stared at each other a moment, judging the situation. Fedni began to get angry, a bit fed up with off-worlders who thought they knew better than you on everything—but then the woman waved a hand in surrender. “Please take a seat. I’ll let him know you are here.”
Fedni sat in a molded plastic chair, her back straight and her legs crossed just so.
She was oddly uncomfortable in a room of people so far below her station—perhaps because that station was now in question. Five years ago, she wouldn’t have been acutely aware of stolen glances and people who avoided walking down her row. She wouldn’t have wondered if hushed murmurs were to respect the noise levels in the room, or to talk about her, so obviously luxury caste in a waiting room meant for the service caste.
When Fedni looked back at the desk, the woman had been replaced by two men leaning over a former Flesh acolyte’s data pad.
The receptionist was gone, and Rasmus was nowhere in sight. Fedni stood, but she didn’t bother with the desk a second time. She walked
At one point, while she viciously applied a smoothing treatment to her hair, she wondered about the exact nature of his angst. How could a grown man, a sexy, passionate man, feel so guilty about something so natural? There was more foreignness to off-worlders than just bad accents and an odd preference for zippers.
But she didn’t think too long on that, finding her self-righteous anger far more soothing.
The next morning, she woke calm and resolved. Her memory of the fight was already softened by time, but she had the distinct impression she hadn’t made much sense. Only Rasmus made her that mad, that incoherent.
She was going to make him understand, and this time she wouldn’t be reduced to sputtering gibberish by her outrage.
Of course, by the time she’d pulled together a short list of talking points and arrayed herself in casual perfection, the day was already well begun. Rasmus did not answer his door.
With a little research she found an occupation medical center attached to the campus of the Temple of Flesh, with Rasmus listed as a senior physician. The coincidence gave her pause, as did the idea of visiting the campus for the first time, but she would not back down this time.
Fedni sent a terse message through his public mailbox. “We have things to discuss. Will you please give me the pleasure of your company for lunch? I will be there at 13:00.”
From the moment she arrived, she found her surroundings strange. The main Temple of Flesh campus for the city was huge, yet more compact than the Temple of Passion grounds she had grown up on. Instead of lawns, there were plain five-story buildings and the occasional concrete square. Even the seating was more efficient—instead of discrete conversation groupings, there were rows of concrete benches, like bumpy extensions of the ground itself.
The most off-putting part was the air of abandonment. She saw other people, of course, but far fewer than she’d expect on sidewalks so wide. Litter had blown into corners and entire buildings were shuttered.
The occupation medical offices were easy to find; they alone were doing bustling trade. The building itself was squat, more poured gray concrete with green-tinted windows. A crowd of people rode the lift with her, lower-caste members who allowed her an appropriate amount of space.
In a wide reception area, a line formed for check-in kiosks and automated medipods. Fedni bypassed that entirely, heading straight for a waifish off-worlder with riotous curly hair at a reception desk.
She narrowed her eyes as Fedni approached.
“I’m here for Rasmus Misseen.”
“You need to check in, and a doctor will be assigned.”
“I am not a patient. This is a social visit.”
“Is he expecting you?”
“Yes, he is.”
Well, he was, if he’d checked his mail.
The woman looked unconvinced. They stared at each other a moment, judging the situation. Fedni began to get angry, a bit fed up with off-worlders who thought they knew better than you on everything—but then the woman waved a hand in surrender. “Please take a seat. I’ll let him know you are here.”
Fedni sat in a molded plastic chair, her back straight and her legs crossed just so.
She was oddly uncomfortable in a room of people so far below her station—perhaps because that station was now in question. Five years ago, she wouldn’t have been acutely aware of stolen glances and people who avoided walking down her row. She wouldn’t have wondered if hushed murmurs were to respect the noise levels in the room, or to talk about her, so obviously luxury caste in a waiting room meant for the service caste.
When Fedni looked back at the desk, the woman had been replaced by two men leaning over a former Flesh acolyte’s data pad.
The receptionist was gone, and Rasmus was nowhere in sight. Fedni stood, but she didn’t bother with the desk a second time. She walked
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