“The baby tells me what to do,” Kurz said. His eyes closed, his breathing slowed. “This infant has a name,” he said. “She is called Vata.”

Out, out.

Waela heard the voice in her head. She saw darkness, smelled blood, felt her nose stuffed with . . . with . . .

“Am I being born here?” Kurz asked. He leaned back in a rapturous movement, held up a glistening infant wriggling in his hands.

“How did you do that?” Ferry demanded.

Waela threw her arms wide, felt the baby delivered to her breast. She felt the dwarf touching her, touching the infant—Vata, Vata, Vata . . . Visions of her own life mingled with scenes which she knew had occurred to Kurz. What a sweet and gentle man! She saw the battle at the Redoubt, felt Kurz being wounded. Other scenes unreeled before her closed eyes like a speeded holo. She felt Panille’s presence. She heard Panille’s voice in her head! Terrifying. She could not shut it out.

The touch of the infant teaches birth, and our hands are witness to the lesson. That was Panille, but he was not here in the medical shelter.

She sensed the people they had left aboard Ship then—the hydroponics workers, the crew going about their business along the myriad passages . . . even the dormant ones in hyb: All were one with her mind for an instant. She felt them pause in their shared awareness. She felt the questions in their minds. Their terror became her terror.

What is happening to me? Please, what is happening?

We live! We live!

All the other people vanished from her awareness as she heard/felt those words. Only the speaker of those words remained with her—a tiny voice, a chant, an enormous relief. We live! Waela opened her eyes, looked up into the eyes of the dwarf.

“I have seen everything,” he whispered. “The infant . . .”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Vata . . . our Vata . . .”

“Something’s happening,” Ferry said. “What is it?” He put his hands to his temples. “Get out of there! Get out, I say!” He collapsed, writhing.

Waela looked at Kurz. “Help him.”

Kurz stood up. “Yes, of course. The worst of the wounded first.”

Chapter 69

Chapter 69

In that hour when the Egyptians died in the Red Sea the ministers wished to sing the song of praise before the Holy One, but he rebuked them saying: My handiwork is drowning in the sea; would you utter a song before me in honor of that?

—The Sanhedrin, Shiprecords

OAKES FELT his heart pumping too fast. Perspiration drenched his green singlesuit. His feet hurt. Still, he staggered away from the Redoubt.

Legata, how could you?

When he could move no farther, he sank to the sand, venturing his first look back. They were not pursuing.

They might’ve killed me!