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sweating.
"Doctor ..." A tech pointed to something on a vid monitor.
"Mm," said Ritter, glancing up, then continuing fiddling. The techs
murmured, Vaagen and Henri murmured, calm, professional, reassuring . . . she
was so cold. . . .
The fluid trickling over the white dam of her skin changed abruptly from
pink-tinged to bright, bright red, a splashing flow, much faster than the
input feed was emitting.
"Clamp that," hissed the surgeon.
Cordelia caught just a glimpse, beneath a membrane, of tiny arms, legs, a
wet dark head, wriggling on the surgeons gloved hands, no larger than a
half-drowned kitten. "Vaagen! Take this thing of yours now if you want it!"
snapped Ritter. Vaagen plunged his gloved hands into her belly as dark whorls
clouded Cordelias vision, her head aching, exploding in sudden sparkling
flashes. The blackness ballooned out, overwhelming her. The last thing she
heard was the surgeon's despairing sibilant voice, "Oh, shit . . . !"
Her dreams were foggy with pain. The worst part was the choking. She
choked and choked, and wept for lack of air. Her throat was full of
obstructions, and she clawed at it, until her hands were bound. She dreamed of
Vorrutyer's tortures, then, multiplied and extended into insane complications
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that went on for hours. A demented Bothari knelt on her chest, and she could
get no air at all.
When she finally woke clear-headed, it was like breaking up out of some
underground prison-hell into God's own fight. Her relief was so profound she
wept again, a muted whimper and a wetness in her eyes. She could breathe,
although it pained her; she was bruised and aching and unable to move. But she
could breathe. That was enough.
"Sh. Sh." A thick warm finger touched her eyelids, wiping away the
moisture. "It's all right."
"Izzit?" She blinked and squinted. It was night, artificial light making
warm pools in the room. Aral's face wavered over hers. "Izzit . . . tonight?
Wha' happened?"
"Sh. You've been very, very sick. You had a violent hemorrhage during the
placental transfer. Your heart stopped twice." He moistened his lips and went
on. "The trauma, on top of the poisoning, flared into soltoxin pneumonia. You
had a very bad day yesterday, but you're over the worst, off the respirator."
"How . . . long?"
"Three days."
"Ah. Baby, Aral. Diddit work? Details!"
"It went all right. Vaagen reports the transfer was successful. They lost
about thirty percent of the placental function, but Henri compensated with an
enriched and increased oxy-solution flow, and all seems to be well, or as well
as can be expected. The baby's still alive, anyway. Vaagen has started his
first calcium-treatment experiment, and promises us a baseline report soon."
He caressed her forehead. "Vaagen has priority-access to any equipment,
supplies, or techs he cares to requisition, including outside consultants. He
has an advising civilian pediatrician, plus Henri. Vaagen himself knows more
about our military poisons than any man, on Barrayar or off it. We can do no
more, right now. So rest, love."
"Baby-where?"
"Ah-you can see where, if you wish." He helped her lift her head, and
pointed out the window. "See that second building, with the red lights on the
roof? That's the biochemistry research facility. Vaagen and Henri's lab is on
the third floor."
"Oh, I recognize it now. Saw it from the other side, the day we collected
Elena."
"That's right." His face softened. "Good to have you back, dear Captain.
Seeing you that sick ... I haven't felt that helpless and useless since I was
eleven years old." That was the year Mad Yuri's death squad had murdered his
mother and brother. "Sh," she said in turn. "No, no ... s'all right now."
They took away all the rest of the tubes piercing her body the next
morning, except for the oxygen. Days of quiet routine followed. Her recovery
was less interrupted than Aral's. What seemed troops of men, headed by
Minister Vortala, came to see him at all hours. He had a secured comconsole
installed in his room, over medical protests. Koudelka joined him eight hours
a day, in the makeshift office.
Koudelka seemed very quiet, as depressed as everyone else in the wake of
the disaster. Though not as morbid as anyone who'd had to do with their failed
Security. Even Illyan shrank, when he saw her.
Aral walked her carefully up and down the corridor a couple of times a
day. The vibra-scalpel had made a cleaner cut through her abdomen than, say,
your average sabre-thrust, but it was no less deep. The healing scar ached
less than her lungs, though. Or her heart. Her belly was not so much flat as
flaccid, but definitely no longer occupied. She was alone, uninhabited, she
was herself again, after five months of that strange doubled existence.
Dr. Henri came with a float chair one day, and took her on a short trip
over to his laboratory, to see where the replicator was safely installed. She
watched her baby moving in the vid scans, and studied the team's technical
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readouts and reports. Their subject's nerves, skin, and eyes tested out
encouragingly, though Henri was not so sure about hearing, because of the tiny
bones in the ear. Henri and Vaagen were properly trained scientists, almost
Betan in their outlook, and she blessed them silently and thanked them aloud,
and returned to her room feeling enormously better.
When Captain Vaagen burst into her room the next afternoon, however, her
heart sank. His face was thunderously dark, his lips tight and harsh.
"What's wrong, Captain?" she asked urgently. "That second calcium run-did
it fail?"
"Too early to tell. No, your baby's the same, Milady. Our trouble is with
your in-law."
"Beg pardon?"
"General Count Vorkosigan came to see us this morning."
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