THE SHIBOLQUERON CANTICLE

“Ridiculous.” N’Ayvan Silva muttered under his breath as he stood opposite the sterile field, physically separated from the scene before him by a large glassine wall that permitted a view of the entire procedure room. A gurney bearing a nearly unconscious, anesthetized form was the central focus of activity.

"Keep an open mind, Silva.” Dorian cajoled at his shoulder, “You know she’s wanted this done for a long time. She’s worked hard to get it, so we should support her decision. Remember, ‘The crew that fails to support each other in times of want can’t be counted on in times of need.’”

N’Ayvan rolled his eyes. He didn’t care to hear Dorian spout any of Captain Shea’s inspirational pearls of wisdom. At that moment, he had had just about enough and wanted nothing more to do with the carrying-ons of Captain Agramine Shea. Despite his own very serious circumspection and vow that he would never again be led astray by the enthusiastic Shea, she had managed through her humor, charm and flawless strategic analysis to rope him into yet another one of her bizarre schemes. Against his better judgment he had allowed her to drag himself and the entire crew halfway across the sector to Ydjera.

Of all twelve known sectors of the Omnisverse, Ydjera was the flagship of all the pleasure planetoids. It was one of the last true neutral territories. Not even the Margham Imperial Forces dared step upon the terrain, nor navigate the waters or skies of Ydjera with anything but the most benign of intentions. Tourists and travelers as well as criminals and law enforcement from all sectors of the Omnisverse made their way to Ydjera for all manner of “entertainment” and debauchery. No law enforcement save that of Ydjera had jurisdiction there and all who entered its space were aware that violation of even the smallest regulations at Ydjera held the most severe penalties. It was the only way that “Pleasure for all” the motto of the Ydjera could be assured for each and every visitor.

It was this, the promise of two entire decasoma of shore leave on the renown pleasure planetoid that swayed and lured the crew of the Eurydice across the sector despite their knowledge that the opportunity for obtaining wealth beyond what they had already acquired during their tour of duty existed at a nearby lightly-guarded Paradoxan trader outpost. In high spirits the crew disembarked at Ydjera, the ship safe and secure under the watchful eye of the Ydjeran authorities. Then as if cast to the six winds, they proceeded to the gaming tables, camp grounds, spas, brothels and tournaments offered by the popular resort venue.

Ydjera’s charms held no sway for N’Ayvan, however. To his mind, his personal time was better spent planning and preparing for the needs of the one-hundred twelve personnel that lived and worked aboard the Margham-commissioned Combat Stores Ship, the Eurydice. His private time was precious and he resented exhausting his all-too-short shore leave so that Shea could perform her insane self-mutilation. In fact, the only reason he was there at all and not back in his quarters cataloguing and listing the objects acquired from their most recent raid was that as First Mate it would be his duty to take over the ship if something should go dreadfully wrong during the operation.

“We’re ready to begin,” one of the robed and gloved figures behind the glassine shield called out to the two highest ranking members of captain Shea’s crew.

With little fanfare, one of the assistants pulled back the fabric sheeting that draped the body of Agramine Shea in repose. She lay on her stomach, every part of her from head to toe was bared. N’Ayvan fought the compulsion to look away; After all it was just an antiseptic medical procedure. He told himself there was nothing particularly provocative about the form that lay before them, but he knew better. Despite all her antics, he still managed to have an interest in Captain Shea. He used the term interest because it was the best he could summon under the circumstances. He did not become involved with others on an intimate physical or emotional level. The manner in which he was bred and educated forbade it, but if he had had the ability he was pretty certain that she might be the focus of a great deal of his attention. As it stood however, he was the First Mate and she was the Captain. They might even be what one would call “friends” but there the relationship ended. However despite the emotional distance, he marveled at her.

“You better enjoy this now.” Dorian laughed.

“Ex-excuse me?” N’Ayvan spluttered and blushed violet.

“I said, you should enjoy this. You know it’s a rare thing to ever see Agramine Shea so quiet.” She chuckled then noted the blush that crept over his cheeks, “I mean…what else did you think I meant?”

“Nothing,” he replied quickly, “This is hardly the time for jokes.”

“Oh, don’t get bent out of shape, Silva. She is quite the specimen. Anyone would take a second look…even you.”

N’Ayvan took account of her as she lay still and exposed. He was amazed at how dark and even her skin was and had to admit that for a ship’s captain with as many battles under her belt she should have been more damaged, but she was not. Agramine Shea was perfect...well, except for the horribly jagged scar just below her right shoulder blade. He winced. He remembered when she received that not-too-lovely reminder that even a weapons expert like Shea could potentially be bested by a skilled fighter at close range…especially a skilled fighter who was not above fighting beyond the generally accepted rules of civility.

For generations the story was related that the crew members of the merchant trade ship were so charmed by the provincial character of Obrynic that they remained there long after repairs were made to their navigational systems. During their term on the serene planet, they watched in amazement as the residents demonstrated how they gathered the strange growing mineralite and crushed it then liquefied it, then strained it, then dried it, liquefied it and strained it again before molding it into fuel rods for use in their machinery and appliances. The Obrynic inhabitants showed the crew how the mineralite, kethet actually grew in abundance and was hardy and relatively maintenance free. Thrilled with the discovery, the merchants took back several crates of the mineralite to their home world. However the mineralite failed to thrive in the Paradox. It seemed that the peculiar circumstances of the Abyssian planetoid created a singularly ideal environment for the production of kethet.

Not quite ready to abandon the idea of manufacturing the mineralite, the merchant traders then approached the governing body on Obrynic to purchase tracts of land for the cultivation of kethet for export. At first the governing body was wary, but with the promise of jobs and an influx of development and technology, they suppressed their wariness and allowed a select few merchants to build farms dedicated to the production of kethet. That was their first mistake.

In the generations that followed, the use of kethet as a fuel source became almost standard in the Omnisverse. The few planetoids that grew the mineralite became mills for its production. Obrynic was no exception.

An explosive growth in the mining operations resulted in an influx of off-worlders into Obrynic. Many traders left off traveling between the Paradox and the Abyss to hawk their wares and instead established permanent residences on Obrynic to farm kethet. The first kethet plantations began as communal farms with the native Obrynics supplying the labor while the Paradoxan plantation owners insured that the resources necessary for conversion and distribution of the mineralite were in place. Lovely neighborhoods were built surrounding the farms to house the workers and their families and the promised technological and industrial advances appeared to be on the horizon. But as the inexpensive kethet became the standard fuel source the demand for it rose sharply. The workers were required to work longer hours but they determined that it was worth it with the promise of new industry and education..

In order to meet the increasing demand, the farms grew larger. The governing body began to resist the movement of the farms into the open spaces where animal domestication ranches had been entrenched, but as a compromise were convinced that the temporary dedication of unused spaces in the interior of the cities would resolve the need. So with the blessing of the governing body, spaces that had been designated for schools, hospitals and park areas were all gradually rededicated to seeding and mining operations.

The inhabitants of Obrynic saw their planet gradually becoming a wasteland, but when they finally developed the group consciousness to organize and oppose the growth of the kethet industry, “too late” had long since passed. The majority of the planet’s inhabitants were employed in industries that were either directly or indirectly tied to kethet production. The only housing which was not built for the merchants and traders were the dormitories that housed miners on the kethet plantations. There were no new enterprises, no alternative business and in less than three generations the rural paradise was converted into a factory town. The only places that maintained any of the natural beauty of the original landscape were the heavily wooded lands of the countrysides and the swamps - both of which were areas where kethet did not naturally grow in abundance.

The discovery of kethet occurred maybe a generation after the first Paradoxans entered the Abyss, which for N’Ayvan would have been maybe eight or nine generations before any of his forbearers were brought to the wretched place. Growing up he had no true family and as an orphan was shipped from pillar to post laboring at different jobs on Obrynic until when just into his adulthood, when the mining camps on Kethet were closed for good, he bartered a ride on a transport to one of the main planets in the system intending to employ what he had learned in the mining camps of Kethet to maybe serve as a manual laborer or a cook, but those plans were short-lived.

His thoughts were interrupted by a loud moan. On the gurney, Captain Shea sighed then smiled a seductive smile even though she remained anesthetized. It was one of the effects of the Elysia, a narcotic used in complex medical procedures and in smaller, diluted quantities in the drug and sex trades, both of which trades N’Ayvan was intimately familiar.

“It won’t be long, now” the Shivan technician whispered to the captain while lightly stroking her back. A smile rose then faded from the captain’s lips as the technician increased the amount of anesthesia gently floating her to a deeper level of unconsciousness.

The technicians in the procedure room threw back the covers on a gurney located a safe distance from Captain Shea. On the gurney lay a Simoth…probably male, N’Ayvan surmised from the size and definition of his dorsal structure. He was not heavily sedated and maintained a sluggish consciousness throughout the preparatory period.

“Why is he not anesthetized?” Dorian asked the staff member who had been assigned to guide them through the procedure.

“The donor cannot have an anesthetic in his bloodstream at the time of the transfer. It has been known to inhibit a proper graft.”

Dorian nodded acknowledging the explanation as the sensored cutting device was positioned over both donor and recipient.

The Simoth’s heavily-lidded reptilian eyes blinked languidly at the approach of the cutting tool. N’Ayvan didn’t even attempt to hide his disgust. He could tell the Simoth was an addict, afflicted with a taste for Drowse. It was the narcotic of choice for the poor and disenfranchised and almost certainly assured their continued and permanent poverty. Drowse was an expensive intoxicant. It allowed one to control the aspects of his dreams to make his moments of repose into an idealized existence. Throughout his term on Kethet N’Ayvan had seen many a Kethetchian laborer fall to its allure. During their periods of labor that seemed to stretch for decasoma they were little more than slaves, but on Drowse their soiled and broken bodies became perfect and whole, Kethet was once again Obrynic, a glorious rural paradise and they were all free from the bonds of merchants, plantation owners and the scourge of kethet. Unlike the necessities of life on Kethet which were provided to them at great cost, Drowse was provided in limitless quantities, free of charge by the kethet plantation owners, the cost of it presumably underwritten by the profits gained from the sale of the kethet which was mined at great cost to the planet and its inhabitants.

“We’ve found that a jagged cut provides for a better bond than a straight one in these instances and that it shortens the recovery period.” The staff member noted then handed them both dark protective eyewear. Dorian donned her pair but N’Ayvan waved away the pair he was offered preferring his own dark goggles. The machinery immediately began to hum and a bright beam of light cut into the backs of both captain Shea and the Simoth.

“Aiiiiiiiiieeeeeee!” The Simoth’s scream jarred everyone in the procedure room. The Simothan donor was held immobile by straps on the gurney but his head lashed from side-to-side as the beam cut into the dorsal area just above his waist. The creature pleaded for anesthesia, for help, for death, but the team in the procedure room remained focused on the task at hand. By the time the smooth-scaled dorsal area and tail were completely cut away and removed, the Simoth had passed out from the pain. Two technicians were required to restrain the removed and flailing tail as they transferred it across the room to where the other members of the medical team were removing a section of Agramine Shea’s spine that corresponded in size and shape to the section removed from the Simoth.

“Get the scion in place. No time to lose.” The doctor directed from her position beside Captain Shea.

The section of the Simoth’s tail fit perfectly into Captain Shea’s lower back precisely as planned…like the missing piece to a puzzle.

“The next several days…I mean soma are crucial,” said the staff member that stood with N’Ayvan Silva and Dorian, “See how the dorsal structure and tail are of a silver-blue hue? In no more than six hours…I mean…uh six laeme they should take on the tone of your Captain Shea’s skin evidencing a proper graft.”

Even before she made the error of using the term “days” instead of “soma” or “hours” instead of “laeme” N’Ayvan had already determined that the staff member was not Abyssian... a newcomer from the Paradox most likely, which did nothing to improve his wariness over the situation.

Dorian and N’Ayvan watched as the medical team worked rapidly, surgically securing the still-writhing tail to the captain’s back. They stood dispassionately viewing the activities as if it were an event they observed on a daily basis, neither of the two openly expressing their growing concern. Shea had impulsively decided to graft the tail of an alien species into her spine, done not for vanity but out of fear. After the near evisceration she suffered on SyMolys, she began showing signs of depression and trepidation in carrying out her command. She told them that the graft would make her feel safe, that it would give her the confidence that no one would be able to get that close to her again and cause her harm.

“So, what if the graft doesn’t change color according to schedule?” Dorian asked, her eyes still fixed on the tail as it whipped about in the hands of the technicians.

“The color change is what happens in the best possible circumstances. Just because it doesn’t happen immediately might not mean that the graft won’t take. There are so many variables based upon lineage, medical history, emotional state--”

“--Then give us the worst case scenario.” N’Ayvan said.

“It is our belief that the graft will take. But in the event that it doesn’t, the scion will have to be removed and the cutaway section, which we keep here in stasis in case of rejection, will have to be reattached and another graft sought at a later time. But don’t worry, even if there are issues with the graft, we can usually correct any problems…if we catch them soon enough.”

N’Ayvan breathed out a loud, deep exasperated sigh. The very last thing he wanted to do, under any circumstance was make a return trip to Ydjera or stay there any longer than absolutely necessary.

“What can we do to help insure that there are no problems?” N’Ayvan asked half expecting the Paradoxan staff member to ask for a bribe or for some other form of additional compensation. But the staff member surprised him saying, “The best thing you can do is watch her constantly over the next thirty laeme when a rejection is most likely to occur. She will still be under the affects of the anesthesia and not able to care for herself or able to inform anyone on the staff that something feels wrong. The eyes and ears of those who know her are the best information-gathering devices we could ever hope for.”

The two ship’s mates looked at each other and without speaking knew their resolve was the same. Dorian sighed with a shrug of her shoulders, “Well then, who takes the first shift?”

o)0(o-

 N’Ayvan followed the staff member down the halls of the hospital recovery area with his travel bag slung casually over his shoulder. Despite the fact that there was no martial hierarchy at the Ydjera, the uniform of a Margham officer always engendered respect or fear. And the fact that he also wore the colors of a Combat Store held an additional cache that even the high command could not boast. The Combat Stores were created by the same legislation that created and maintained the regular Imperial military, but the Combat Stores were not bound by the same rules or regulations. The Eurydice and her sister ships, for all intents and purposes were Empire-sanctioned pirate ships.

The crews of the two hundred ten commissioned Stores were not only skilled at their posts, but resourceful and intelligent, excellent fighters and extremely wealthy as a result. Promotions within the CSS were earned through performance and not through the regular hierarchical system and the positions were highly coveted. The successful completion of an extensive forty-nine-somatan period of combat conditions trial was required in order to join a crew and where more than one person completed the trial, they were placed in desert conditions in a “sudden death” phase to determine who was the most fit. Frankly, it was the only manner in which N’Ayvan could have become a member of the crew. His term in the mines of Kethet had prepared him for almost any physical hardship imaginable and his resourcefulness and a heavy dose of good luck were the only things that kept him alive thereafter.

With the majority of the crew on shore leave at Ydjera and the captain out of commission, Dorian felt more than adequate to the task of commanding the ship and left the first watch to N’Ayvan. He announced himself at the door of the recovery room and was granted access.

The private room was not quite what he expected. Unlike the cold antiseptic rooms he usually associated with medical procedures, the program controlling the long-term recovery room had it attractively decorated and rather warm and inviting. The staff member explained that since the scion was Simothan, the grafts usually reacted better in the warmer temperatures that the Simoths were accustomed to.

There in recovery Captain Shea lay as she did in the procedure room…on her stomach, her body completely exposed. Three lead contacts that transported information back to the monitoring screen were placed in a triangular pattern….one below each shoulder blade and the last one in the middle of her back where the dorsal fin of the tail began. Her arms were restrained at the wrists near her head and at the elbows allowing for only a limited range of motion in her upper body as she slept. Her legs were bound at the ankles spread shoulder width apart leaving room for the grafted tail to rest in between.

“Why is she bound like this?” He asked the staff member.

“The use of an energy field to hold her in place will inhibit the graft. We have found that though seemingly barbaric, this is the simplest and most effective means of promoting recovery.”

N’Ayvan circled the bed examining the restraints. When he satisfied himself that she didn’t appear to be in any major discomfort, he sat in the lounge chair that was placed next to the bed and began reading the non-fiction classic, “Conflicting Histories of the Azoth Temple: A Chronicle of the rise of the Renfield Empire in the Paradox and Abyssia” a work he had always wanted to delve into but never had the time.

Though not pleased at first about the prospect of sitting for the next ten laeme waiting for Captain Shea’s tail to change color, he quickly began to view it as an opportunity. Instead of looking at the monitoring of Agramine Shea as a chore, he intended to fill as much time as possible with as many of his incomplete projects as he could. His com-pad was filled with volumes he intended to read and projects he wanted to give his attention to.

The Shivan technician walked into the room, her deep blue skin and sparkling black eyes had drawn N’Ayvan’s attention to her from the moment he first saw her in the operating arena. She was probably one of the more striking females he had ever seen. Her six arms moved quickly in a flurry of activity as she simultaneously checked the readings on the monitors, examined the graft site and engaged N’Ayvan with a firm handshake. The rich blue of her skin was a contrast against his own which carried a subtle blue undertone…unless he was angry or upset, then it took on a dark shade of blue even darker than the Shivan’s lovely shade…but that rarely happened. He took great pains to remain in control at all times.

“Everything looks good, very stable,” She smiled after registering all the readings on her com-pad, “If she continues at this pace we may be able to release her in a decasoma.”

“That is very good news,” He nodded.

“Still, we have to keep an eye on her and make sure that she doesn’t suffer any setbacks.”

“Certainly,” he nodded again then focused on the reptilian tail that every now and then flipped back and forth, “Is that supposed to happen?”

“Yes,” Until she’s conscious and able to control the actions of the tail, it will sometimes react involuntarily to sounds and other sensations that she is experiencing.

The two stood for a moment in silence before he asked, hesitantly, “Have these procedures ever had serious problems?”

“Well…” she said cautiously, “In the past there have been some incidents where a severe tissue rejection caused convulsions serious enough to result in death. One fatality actually occurred from the tail itself lashing the recipient to death. We have also had patients suffer from high and low fevers which have caused neural damage. But those situations are rare and our current matching programs have had an extremely high rate of success, so I hope that allays the majority of your concerns.”

“Pardon my curiosity,” N’Ayvan asked, "But why do people go through these procedures? You have to admit that this is not a necessary surgery. It seems such a high price for vanity.”

“Many people have expressed the same concerns that you have but actually, I have rarely observed vanity as a reason for undergoing a procedure of this magnitude. The majority of the procedures I have seen done were done when couples from two different species have mated and seek to have a common physical bond” The Shivan replied.

N’Ayvan again offered his customary nod of the head but his mind was far away. The idea that Captain Shea could actually suffer severe harm from the surgery never really occurred to him and in a flash a thought raced through his mind before he could stifle it. With Captain Shea’s death, he would temporarily ascend to the position of Captain of the Eurydice…his first command. He immediately felt guilty for the rush of excitement that followed the thought. Before Agramine Shea, he had never had a mentor, someone to truly take an interest in him as an individual. She was the one who made his integration into the crew smooth and relatively painless and who taught him nearly everything he knew about running a ship. At that moment the thought of anything happening to her filled him with a piercing sense of dread. He knew he was ready for his own command, but not at that cost.

He watched the technician as she completed her review of the captain’s status then he shook her hand as she left. He relaxed into the lounge chair and tried to read and keep his mind filled with positive thoughts but it was difficult to remain focused on the information in front of him. His eyes kept running over the same passages of words on the page not absorbing their meaning.

“My, what have you done to yourself?” A familiar voice asked.

N’Ayvan looked up from his reading to find Agramine Shea smiling that seductive, mischievous smile she sometimes used when doing business, her eyes penetrating his own.

“You are supposed to be asleep Captain Shea…unconscious they said,” he answered, guarding his surprise.

“Why did you change it?”

“Change what?”

“Everything.” She said changing her mischievous smile to a coquettish pout.

He scrutinized her closely. She didn’t look quite herself, at least not the self she normally employed when interacting with him though he knew her seductive poses well. She used them from time to time to wheedle information from reluctant informants or when in the presence of certain members of the high command or sometimes when she frequented the saloons and bars desiring company for the evening. But this look was more than those. It was almost…predatory.

“Come closer,” she said her smile returning.

He approached then stood within a few paces of the bed waiting as she drew herself up on her elbows. He averted his eyes as the points of her nipples peered out at him over her rounded breasts. Her dark brown eyes showed amusement at his reticence.

“You were not so shy on Applonis II,” she said with a wink.

N’Ayvan’s face flushed a deep violet and he began to tremble. This was a highly unexpected turn of events. Applonis II was stored in the recesses of his memories…buried. He had been careful, guarded about his past. All the while he thought his secret was well-hidden, but apparently despite his carefully contrived deceits, she found out. She knew. His legs turned liquid as he stumbled to the lounge chair near her bed and sat trying to control his erratic breathing and the wild beating of his secondary heart.

“I-I have never been to Applonis II,” he lied badly, “What…what do you know of Applonis II?” He stammered trying to quell his tremors.

“Oh, come now…Princess Depyjys. You are much too humble. Or maybe you’ve forgotten our time together.”

No. Actually, he hadn’t forgotten their time together. Much to the contrary it remained firmly fixed in his memory despite his desire to forget all that occurred on Applonis II.

“You mistake me for someone else,” He replied weakly.

“Oh now don’t be bashful. You are the most proficient shibolqueron player I have ever seen in all my life and that includes the time I spent on Kethet--…excuse me…Obrynic.”

He was now visibly shaking, his skin taking on a darker blue hue that confirmed his agitation. He could barely even make eye contact and yet she continued discussing the past, speaking casually of things that were almost impossible for him to bear thinking about.

“Do you recall?” She continued, “It must have been nearly seven milsoma past. You were performing at…What’s the name of that place? The Siglonex!”

“The Siglonex,” he echoed just above a whisper unconsciously holding his clothes together tightly at the collar. Just hearing the name…The Siglonex…filled him with dread.

~continuing 

“Excuse me,” he said then rose and in measured steps walked quietly out of the room.

Once out of the room, N‘Ayvan‘s knees nearly buckled but he focused on clearing his mind and bringing his secondary heart back into sync with his primary. His respiration returned to normal and his skin gradually began to take on its normal appearance,

She found out,  is all his mind offered. He staggered a bit as he began to compose himself trying to decide what he should do, what it all meant. Would he lose his post? Would he have to go back? Would they make him? What was his next move if Agramine… Then his mind stopped short. What was he thinking? Agramine Shea was coming out from under the effects of the anesthetic after major surgery and very soon she would be feeling the searing pain of having her flesh and neural network merged with the Simoth’s flailing reptilian tail. He quickly rushed down the corridor toward the control desk. N’Ayvan hurried down the hall toward the desk where the technicians were seated.

We need a technician in the recovery room. It’s an emergency.” He said in a hushed but urgent tone.

“Is there a problem?” The Shivan tech asked as she strode quickly behind him.

“She’s coming out of the anesthesia.”

“Impossible,” the tech said speeding past him toward the room, “She is being monitored constantly.”

The two of them arrived at the room and entered to the sound of Agramine Shea singing. When she saw N’Ayvan on the heels of the Shivan tech she smiled, “Ahhh there you are. I thought you’d abandoned me…”

“See she’s awake,” N’Ayvan whispered.

“…I was looking forward to one of your famous back rubs, you know like on Applonis II.” She winked.

The Shivan tech smiled knowingly as N’Ayvan blushed.

“Look here,”  she motioned for him to join her at the console. “See this pattern? It means she’s asleep.”

“No," N’Ayvan responded shaking his head, “She was talking. She looked directly at me. We had a conversation.”

The Shivan tech smiled, “I know, but she’s dreaming.”

“Like this?” N’Ayvan asked indicating at the singing captain. “This is sleeping? This is dreaming?”

“Yes it is.” The tech answered as she began to adjust the anesthesia. “Sometimes the patients push through and talk, sing, cry, tell dirty jokes…talk about secret romances…” She smiled slyly at N’Ayvan.

“It happened a long time ago. I didn’t think she even remembered.”

“She might not remember,” the tech said as captain Shea began to calm down and drift into a deep sleep. “For her this is just a dream. This encounter may well be buried deep in her subconscious. For all you know, it just might be something she’s trying to forget, too.”

The tech completed her review of the system then examined the sleeping captain before seeing her way out.

N’Ayvan returned to his lounge chair and sat for a moment trying to become interested in the literary work he had been reading, but his mind continued to drift back to the captains words, back to the Siglonex. He tossed the pad aside and lay back closing his eyes. The last thing he wanted to think about was anything that had to do with the Siglonex. Of course it wasn’t always that way.

Like most, his first view of the Siglonex was with awe and fascination. Its lofty spires and expansive bridges swept across the eternally twilit sky announcing itself as the largest pleasure palace on Applonis II. He and the shuttle load of young people like him with no formal education or training looking for opportunities in the cities after the closing of the mines on Kethet saw the pleasure palaces as an opportunity. Many of them had experience as domestics working in the homes of the Merchants and in the lodgings that were made available for guests and dignitaries that visited the planetoid. Some, like N’Ayvan could cook and sought employment in the many kitchens at the Siglonex. Others possessed great physical strength and sought manual labor or work as security officers at the palaces. All arrived with hopes of a new beginning and the ability to live and earn on their own.

When they were all registered and separated into categories of workers he was fortunate to have been selected for one of the formal dining kitchens in the Siglonex. It sounded significant enough but in reality, those starting out at the kitchens basically started out in the scullery scrubbing the floors, cleaning the cooking utensils, dishes, eating utensils and appliances. Because the pleasure palaces never closed, the work periods were long and arduous but they didn’t care. Several of them rented a housing pod not too far away from the Siglonex and slept there in shifts that corresponded with their work schedules and for the first few decimes, things went well. N’Ayvan earned a small living wage, but since he was single he managed well. The trouble started however, when he was finally able to afford a proper shearing. His hair had grown long and unruly and his unkempt facial hair gave him a scraggly appearance. On Kethet, shearing was done on a regular basis primarily to visually inspect the chattel for abrasions and disease and to reduce the possibility of contagions. In fact for a long while he had intentionally resisted shearing…his own silent protest against the tyranny of the Kethetchian plantations. But after a while, the stubble then scraggly hairs on his cheeks and chin began to drive him to distraction and after much soul-searching he decided that once he had the funds to spare, he would have his head and body properly shorn.

He arrived at the shearing shop and stood in line with several others. He had chosen that particular shop because be had been informed by a few of his housemates that it sported private booths, something that those who had been marked by the plantation system generally sought. The shearer took a variety of clients from every corner of the Omnisverse. Some required full-body shearing, others only required head and facial. He was due for the basic head and facial with a close shearing on more intimate body parts. At the better shearing salons the patrons were washed prior to the shearing, and because the shop was located so close to the pleasure palaces, the salon he chose was required to offer the best of services. So after being shampooed from head to toe and gently air-dried, he was escorted to a private booth. After only a short wait the shearer’s chief apprentice entered to begin the process.

“Kethetchian…” the fastidious Shearer’s apprentice commented while divining the dark blue lines of scar tissue that ran in stylized designs across his eyelids, back and chest.

The scarring was a fact of life for all Kethetchian miners. When the demand for kethet outgrew the supply of native Obrynic inhabitants, the plantation owners required additional workers. A forced reproduction plan with the Obrynic inhabitants was considered but purportedly would have taken too long to support the then incipient labor needs. So the next best thing was cheap imported labor.

It only took the plantation owners a few attempts to determine that all races were not physically equipped to work in the mines. Apparently, the Obrynic inhabitants had certain characteristics that made them more suitable for the task than others. After the deaths of thousands of laborers from poisoning and asphyxiation; from accidents in the mines from their failure to see in the darkness; from heart failure from the physical hardship of the labor itself, one of the plantation owners spawned the idea of surgically altering its laborers.

The scars from the Kethetchian surgeries were utilitarian slashes made at the appropriate points to modify the bodies of those who had been brought to the planet to mine…to make their physical abilities as much like those of the native Obrynics as possible. The designs and swirls were added later on by members of the Kethetchian community to camouflage the ugliness of what had been done to them in the name of commerce, by adding their own concept of artistic interest.

You didn’t do these yourself, did you?” The apprentice asked.

“No, these were done when I was very young. In fact I actually have no memory of them being done, at all.”

“It’s splendid work,” the apprentice commented as he marveled over the elaborately swirling scar tissue. “It is some of the best Kethetchian cutwork I have ever seen.”

The apprentice tipped N’Ayvan’s face upward and brushed the thick shock of hair from his face that shielded his eyes. “Oh my! This ocular scrollwork is breathtaking. Why do you hide it?”

“I don’t hide it. I just don’t take great pains to display it.” N’Ayvan responded coolly.

“Well, that’s just a shame. It truly is magnificent.”Magnificent? N’Ayvan thought. What was magnificent about Kethetchian newborns’ eyes being sewn shut for decasoma after birth to ensure that the ocular grafts they were forced to undergo developed properly for use in the mines?

The dark pin-pricks mottling their eyelids were a source of horror and shame. The fact was that technology existed to do all the surgeries without scarring, but that would have required the purchase of special surgical equipment and supplies which would have cut into profits. Unlike with the Drowse, the plantation owners saw no long-term benefit to themselves for ensuring that the mine workers’ bodies were maintained scar free. N’Ayvan once heard a plantation owner laughing with one of its guests when discussing the phenomena of the surgical scars. The owner told the inquiring guest that the scarring made no difference since it was so dark in the mines they couldn’t really see each other, anyway.  That the Kethetchian laborers did what they could to minimize the shame inflicted upon them was hardly a thing to be revered.

The apprentice continued his assessment taking no notice of N’Ayvan’s diffidence while preparing to begin the shearing.

“Look, I have this image file of a native Kethetchian in the traditional garb and hair fashion. Is something like this what you are seeking?”

He peered at the image of the Kethetchian model in the long-sleeved flowing gown. It was open to the waist to display the model’s well-defined musculature. The hair was cut so that it’s length only barely met the eyes yet framed them with dramatic effect. The model had obviously been a miner. Even though the traditional natives of Obrynic would not have had any scarring, the model’s modified scars were presented as if they had been placed there intentionally.

“I truly have no preference,” N’Ayvan said as he disregarded the image and looked on to the other choices that were simultaneously being exhibited on the walls of the booth.

“Well, if you have no preference,” The assistant posed excitedly, “Would it be all right if I explored doing the traditional cut?”

“This won’t cost me more will it?” He asked, always concerned about keeping his costs low.

“No, no, not at all,” the excited shearer’s apprentice replied, hurriedly assembling the tools of his trade.

The standard shearers used one tool with different settings to cut, comb and style. That was what N’Ayvan was used to on Kethet, but he discovered once he left the mining planetoid that the better-quality shearers preferred to have a set of from twelve to twenty tools all designed to cut and sculpt the almost infinite variety of pelts, manes and tresses found on Abyssian inhabitants. When the apprentice was ready to begin, he had laid out a variety of cutting and sculpting tools that N’Ayvan had never seen before…strange “clips” “brushes” “curlers” and “ornaments” lay among the more familiar combs and shears.

Despite the apprentice’s suggestion, he refused to have his genitalia shorn bald as was the current fashion. He imagined it would be uncomfortable and found the idea to be highly immodest. Otherwise he let the apprentice have his way to style and cut to his heart’s content. After nearly forty centimes the apprentice stepped back to admire his handiwork.

“If I hadn’t done this myself, I would swear it had been done by one of the Masters!” The apprentice exclaimed with a self-congratulatory pat on the back..

N’Ayvan looked at himself in the all-around imager. The apprentice had indeed done a better than adequate job. In fact even as N’Ayvan dressed the apprentice continued to sing his own praises.

“So how much is the shearing?” N’Ayvan asked as he dressed still listening to the apprentice prattling away.

“Thirty-nine marghols is the standard price,” the apprentice said, “but I’ll let you have the shearing for free if you allow me to use your shearing images for publicity.”

Always anxious to save as many marghols as possible, he gladly agreed.

“This work truly is my masterpiece!” The young apprentice marveled. “Now, if anyone asks,” the apprentice said following him out and cramming his AdCards into N’Ayvan’s pockets, “Tell them that your shearer is Rebni at the Morploss.”

“I will. If anyone asks I will happily send them your way,” N’Ayvan said as he set off from the shearers newly shorn, happy to have saved a fistful of marghols and skeptical that he would ever have to make good on his promise.