Hali had been checking the synchronous beat for almost an hour. Waela had come to this Natali retreat without protest, obeying every suggestion Hali made with a sleepwalker’s passivity. She had appeared to gain some energy after feeding at a corridor shiptit—a process which still filled Hali with confusion. So few ever received elixir at the shiptits anymore that most Shipmen ignored them, taking this as a sign of Ship’s deeper intents or displeasure. Attendance at WorShip had never been more punctual.

Why was Ship feeding Waela?

While Waela drank from the shiptit container, Hali had tried to get a response from the same corridor station. No elixir.

Why, Ship?

No answer. Ship had not been easily responsive since sending her to see the crucifixion of Yaisuah.

The lines on the monitor screen were merging once more—fetus and mother in synchronous beat. As the lines merged, Waela opened her eyes. There was no consciousness in the eyes, only an unmoving stare at the compartment ceiling.

“Fly us back to Jesus.”

As she spoke, the synchronous lines separated and Waela closed her eyes to sink back into the geography of her mysterious sleep.

Hali stood in astonished contemplation of the unconscious woman. Waela had said “Jesus” the way Ship pronounced the name. Not Yaisuah or Hesoos, but Geezuz.

Had Ship sent Waela, too, on that odd journey to the Hill of Skulls? Hali thought not. I would recognize the signs of that shared experience. Hali knew the marks on herself which came from that trip to Golgotha.

My eyes are older.

And there was a new quietude in her manner, a wish to share this thing with someone. But she lived with the knowledge that no other person might understand . . . except possibly . . . just possibly, Kerro Panille.

Hali stared at the pregnant mound of Waela’s abdomen.

Why had he bred with this . . . this older woman?

Fly us back to Jesus?

Could that be just delirious muttering? Then why Geezuz?

A deep sense of uneasiness moved itself through Hali. She used her pribox to call down to Shipcore and arranged for a relief watch on the monitor. The relief showed up presently, a young Natali intern named Latina. Her official green pribox hung at her hip as she hurried into the compartment.

“What’s the rush?” Hali asked.

“Ferry sent word that he wants to see you right away down at WorShip Nine.”

“He could’ve called me.” Hali tapped her own pribox.

“Yes . . . well, he just said for me to tell you to hurry.”