The mermaid race of Ūdan-III requires damp accommodation; preferably an ocean, like the one we stole them from. Waterlogged apartments are the best we can provide, but they’re cramped and overpopulated bubbles of despair. Mermaids use telepathy to talk — unspoken thought — so their natal social infrastructure crumbles into dust. They need an open sea for comfortable communication, and we haven’t found a suitable solution to the problem.

The Bathhouse is our best attempt, although it’s far too small. At first, it soothed the ‘maids. They rotated scheduled sessions there. Tolerance developed, and a feedback loop of torment filled the liquid; melancholic currents eddied underneath. Evacuation schooners took them home, to solipsistic pods; lonely vesicles, akin to solitary confinement.

Ownership of Bathhouse was entrusted to the mermaids, who saw an opportunity for profit in the lakes. They manufactured aromatic powders, pressed them into cakes, then threw them in the water to release a heady fragrance. All the colours of our rainbow — and a few elusive hues — spiral from the bombs to form a soapy scum upon the surface. Tulips, or dried lavenders, are hidden in the mixture, adding to the hedonistic lather as it propagates.

Rich and avaricious patrons pay extortionate amounts for single gift-wrapped bars (and an hour in the baths). They bask, completely unaware the mermaids have a plan; a dangerous ambition to return to Ūdan-III. Pirates will assist the fish-tailed beauties in their plight, if they have the currency to meet a hefty price. Bathhouse offers them the means to save a modest fortune, and with it they intend to hire help from buccaneers.