through a set of wide double doors, walking too confidently for anyone to dare stop her.
The office became a maze after that. Dozens of staff had offices, or desks in halls. Automated pods were taking and disgorging people at a high rate, each manned by a medical professional in a pale lavender vest with a low Nehru collar. There were data crystals heaped in piles and a janitor was mopping right in the middle of the hubbub.
It was nothing like the medical office she attended, a discreet place with decent tea and personal attention. This was more like a factory, a manufacturing line to take in people, do their yearly exam and spit them out on the other side. How could Rasmus stand this?
Fedni followed the purple back of a doctor into a long room of curtained sitting areas. The nearest area, curtain open, had a desk, a data console and an exam table smashed into a space too small for comfortable movement.
Her unknowing guide closed a curtain behind her, and another one opened to disgorge a patient. Fedni was turning to go when she heard Rasmus’s voice.
Fedni walked closer, identifying the right curtain by the hum of Rasmus’s soft voice—but she paused outside, not certain what she might be interrupting. For the first time it occurred to her Rasmus might not be able to arrange his schedule to eat with her on such little notice.
“What do I do for now?”
A lick of clingy desperation burned Fedni’s taste centers, not passion at all but too strong for her to miss.
“I know it’s hard to imagine, now, but you will be fine. Go to your counselor, use the new health systems. Come here for your appointments on time. Take the pills, eat well, use lotion to ease the regenerating scars. Six months sounds like forever now, but you’ve had the scars for four years already. Life will pass quickly enough.”
Fedni froze, horrible images pelting her imagination.
Scar regeneration was an expensive procedure, and lengthy, but not that lengthy. This woman’s scars must be very bad to plan for six months of regrowth before surgery.
And four years? That was after the conquering, but before the Temple of Flesh had been disbanded. Why hadn’t the procedure begun immediately? But Fedni already knew the answer to that. The value of beauty in the Temple of Passion was such that even minor scars from childhood spills and acne were tended, but in the Temple of Flesh, acolytes had a far lower value. Disfigured workers were retired, or moved to more exotic venues.
She couldn’t interrupt this. This wasn’t someone here for a yearly weighing. Guiltily, the courtesan moved, letting the curtains of an empty exam room shield her from view.
“And you promise?”
Rasmus seemed to know exactly what she meant. “I can’t promise you will look exactly as you did, but I promise the scars will be gone. No one will know unless you tell them, after the surgeons are done.”
“But will I be beautiful? Will I look weird?”
And now Fedni could taste Rasmus’s sorrow and pity. It tasted familiar, like turnips or bitter kale, and like Rasmus.
“The surgeons, with your input, will pay attention to aesthetics and do their best to make you pretty. They can do amazing things.”
“You don’t know?”
“It will depend on the depth of the scarring and the growth of the stimulated tissue. That affects what they have to work with.”
A moment of silence left Fedni confused, then a soft sob reached her ears. There as a rustle, and she imagined Rasmus pulling the woman close to hold her—a physical comfort Xanian doctors would never lower themselves to, not even with another of the professional caste.
“What do I do?” the woman repeated, her voice cracking. “Who will I be if no one can stand to look at me ever again?”
The words rang harshly in Fedni’s ears. It was a question she had asked herself—“Who will I be?”—as news of her temple’s disbandment had filtered down. What did you do when everything about yourself was
The office became a maze after that. Dozens of staff had offices, or desks in halls. Automated pods were taking and disgorging people at a high rate, each manned by a medical professional in a pale lavender vest with a low Nehru collar. There were data crystals heaped in piles and a janitor was mopping right in the middle of the hubbub.
It was nothing like the medical office she attended, a discreet place with decent tea and personal attention. This was more like a factory, a manufacturing line to take in people, do their yearly exam and spit them out on the other side. How could Rasmus stand this?
Fedni followed the purple back of a doctor into a long room of curtained sitting areas. The nearest area, curtain open, had a desk, a data console and an exam table smashed into a space too small for comfortable movement.
Her unknowing guide closed a curtain behind her, and another one opened to disgorge a patient. Fedni was turning to go when she heard Rasmus’s voice.
Fedni walked closer, identifying the right curtain by the hum of Rasmus’s soft voice—but she paused outside, not certain what she might be interrupting. For the first time it occurred to her Rasmus might not be able to arrange his schedule to eat with her on such little notice.
“What do I do for now?”
A lick of clingy desperation burned Fedni’s taste centers, not passion at all but too strong for her to miss.
“I know it’s hard to imagine, now, but you will be fine. Go to your counselor, use the new health systems. Come here for your appointments on time. Take the pills, eat well, use lotion to ease the regenerating scars. Six months sounds like forever now, but you’ve had the scars for four years already. Life will pass quickly enough.”
Fedni froze, horrible images pelting her imagination.
Scar regeneration was an expensive procedure, and lengthy, but not that lengthy. This woman’s scars must be very bad to plan for six months of regrowth before surgery.
And four years? That was after the conquering, but before the Temple of Flesh had been disbanded. Why hadn’t the procedure begun immediately? But Fedni already knew the answer to that. The value of beauty in the Temple of Passion was such that even minor scars from childhood spills and acne were tended, but in the Temple of Flesh, acolytes had a far lower value. Disfigured workers were retired, or moved to more exotic venues.
She couldn’t interrupt this. This wasn’t someone here for a yearly weighing. Guiltily, the courtesan moved, letting the curtains of an empty exam room shield her from view.
“And you promise?”
Rasmus seemed to know exactly what she meant. “I can’t promise you will look exactly as you did, but I promise the scars will be gone. No one will know unless you tell them, after the surgeons are done.”
“But will I be beautiful? Will I look weird?”
And now Fedni could taste Rasmus’s sorrow and pity. It tasted familiar, like turnips or bitter kale, and like Rasmus.
“The surgeons, with your input, will pay attention to aesthetics and do their best to make you pretty. They can do amazing things.”
“You don’t know?”
“It will depend on the depth of the scarring and the growth of the stimulated tissue. That affects what they have to work with.”
A moment of silence left Fedni confused, then a soft sob reached her ears. There as a rustle, and she imagined Rasmus pulling the woman close to hold her—a physical comfort Xanian doctors would never lower themselves to, not even with another of the professional caste.
“What do I do?” the woman repeated, her voice cracking. “Who will I be if no one can stand to look at me ever again?”
The words rang harshly in Fedni’s ears. It was a question she had asked herself—“Who will I be?”—as news of her temple’s disbandment had filtered down. What did you do when everything about yourself was
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