The baby, she realized, was looking at her. It was not crying. It was not all wrinkled like most newborns she had seen. Rather, it was fully formed and its eyes were open and it was beautiful and normal, not a monster at all. It gazed at her, and she heard in her heart and her soul the voice of the baby. It was a soft voice, almost a whisper, a voice as soft as the fluttering of a hummingbird’s wings, and it said, “Mother, Mother, Mother,” again and again and again, and she understood that this was its song and her song, too. She thought, What is this thing? What has come out of me?

The sergeant took her free hand and laid it upon the baby’s head.

Love seemed to flow between her hand and the pulsing, warm skin of her baby, a wave ancient and deep, the secret wave of motherhood, and it rose high within her and carried her swiftly away into its mystery, and the mystery of death.

“God damn you, Turner.”

“It was an uncontrollable hemorrhage.”

“It was murder and you know it.”

“Nobody could have saved her.”

“The hell. I’m gonna report this to Washington.”

“You’re gonna do as you’re told.”

The baby began to squirm in Sarge’s arms, then to cry, its screwed-up face turning red.

“Hold it still.”

Turner had taken the disk from its case. He was careful not to bring it close to the metal of the stirrups. Nothing must disturb its magnetic field, not in the slightest.

The baby wailed.

“Left temple,” Turner said.

“I know,” Sarge muttered. He didn’t think it was right. He’d never thought it was right. He had broken every rule in the book to reach the Senate Intelligence Committee, because this was evil. It was unholy. Project Inner Iron was one thing—a soldier genetically modified for extreme toughness. But this zinc-finger program was not right. This was technology from hell. It was alien technology, he knew it damn well.

“Okay, I’m applying for a transfer, then.” He looked down at their lovely girl, at her ivory skin and gray lips, at her eyes gazing into nowhere. What a waste, what evil.

And God in heaven only knew what was going to happen to this little boy in his arms. He wanted to take him home and find a wet nurse for him and bring him up. Foster him out to some good family, at least, give the poor little thing some kind of a chance.

The baby was red now and moaning as if in grief, moaning and squirming, a tiny bit of life struggling hard, poor damn little thing.

Turner moved the gleaming metal disk close to the baby’s temple.

“This is history in the making,” he said.

He pressed it against the naked scalp.