Alys was crying, yet not hysterical; she glanced only once over her shoulder at her husband’s body, then concentrated grimly on trying to run. She did not run well. She was hopelessly unbalanced, her arms wrapping her belly in an attempt to take up the shocks of her heavy footsteps. “Cordelia,” she gasped. An acknowledgment of recognition; there was no time or breath for demands of explanation.
They had not lurched more than three blocks when Cordelia began to hear sirens from the area they were fleeing. But Bothari seemed controlled again, unpanicked. They traversed another narrow alley, and Cordelia realized they had crossed into a region of the city with no streetlights, or indeed any lights at all. Her eyes strained in the misty shadows.
Alys stopped suddenly, and Cordelia skidded to a halt, almost jerking the woman off her feet. Alys stood for half a minute, bent over, gasping.
Cordelia realized that beneath its deceptive padding of fat, Alys’s abdomen was hard as a rock; the back of her robe was soaking wet. “Are you going into labor?” she asked. She didn’t know why she made that a question, the answer was obvious.
“This has been going on—for a day and a half,” Alys blurted. She seemed unable to straighten. “I think my water broke back there, when that bastard knocked me down. Unless it’s blood—should have passed out by now, if all that was blood—it hurts so much worse, now… .” Her breath slowed; she pulled her shoulders back with effort.
“How much longer?” asked Kou in alarm.
“How should I know? I’ve never done this before. Your guess is as good as mine,” Lady Vorpatril snapped. Hot anger to warm cold fear. It wasn’t enough warmth, a candle against a blizzard.
“Not much longer, I’d say,” came Bothari’s voice out of the dark. “We’d better go to ground. Come on.”
Lady Vorpatril could no longer run, but managed a rapid waddle, stopping helplessly every two minutes. Then every one minute.
“Not going to make it all the way,” muttered Bothari. “Wait here.” He disappeared up a side—alley? The passages all seemed alleys here, cold and stinking, much too narrow for groundcars. They had passed exactly two people in the maze, huddled to one side of a passage in a heap, and stepped carefully around them.
“Can you do anything to, like, hold back?” asked Kou, watching Lady Vorpatril double over again. “We ought to … try and get a doctor or something.”
“That’s what that idiot Padma went out for,” Alys ground out. “I begged him not to go … oh, God!” After another moment she added, in a surprisingly conversational tone, “The next time you’re vomiting your guts out, Kou, let me suggest you just close your mouth and swallow hard … it’s not exactly a voluntary reflex!” She straightened again, shivering violently.
“She doesn’t need a doctor, she needs a flat spot,” Bothari spoke from the shadows. “This way.”
He led them a short distance to a wooden door, formerly nailed shut in an ancient solid stuccoed wall. Judging from the fresh splinters, he’d just kicked it open. Once inside, with the door pulled tight-shut again, Droushnakovi at last dared pull a hand-light from the satchel. It illuminated a small, empty, dirty room. Bothari swiftly prowled its perimeters. Two inner doors had been broken open long ago, but beyond them all was soundless and lightless and apparently deserted. “It’ll have to do,” said Bothari.
Cordelia wondered what the hell to do next. She knew all about placental transfers and surgical sections now, but for so-called normal births she had only theory to go on. Alys Vorpatril probably had even less grasp of the biology, Drou less still, and Kou was downright useless. “Has anyone here ever actually been in on one of these, before?”
“Not I,” muttered Alys. Their looks met in rather too clear an understanding.
“You’re not alone,” said Cordelia stoutly. Confidence should lead to relaxation, should lead to something. “We’ll all help.”
Bothari said—oddly reluctantly—”My mother used to do a spot of midwifery. Sometimes she’d drag me along to help. There’s not that much to it.”
Cordelia controlled her brows. That was the first time she’d heard the sergeant say word one about either of his parents.
The sergeant sighed, clearly realizing from their array of looks that he’d just put himself in charge. “Lend me your jacket, Kou.”
Koudelka divested the garment gallantly, and made to wrap it around the shaking Lady Vorpatril. He looked a little more dismayed when the sergeant put his own jacket around Lady Vorpatril’s shoulders, then made her lie down on the floor and spread Koudelka’s jacket under her hips. She looked less pale, lying down, less like she was about to pass out. But her breath stopped, then she cried out, as her abdominal muscles locked again.
“Stay with me, Lady Vorkosigan,” Bothari murmured to Cordelia. For what? Cordelia wondered, then realized why as he knelt and gently pushed up Alys Vorpatril’s nightgown. He wants me for a control mechanism. But the killing seemed to have bled off that horrifying wave of lust that had so distorted his face, back in the street. His gaze now was only normally interested. Fortunately, Alys Vorpatril was too self-absorbed to notice that Bothari’s attempt at an expression of medical coolness was not wholly successful.
“Baby’s head’s not showing yet,” he reported. “But soon.”
Another spasm, and he looked around vaguely and added, “I don’t think you’d better scream, Lady Vorpatril. They’ll be looking by now.”
She nodded understanding, and waved a desperate hand; Drou, catching on, rolled up a bit of cloth into a rag rope, and gave it to her to bite.
And so the tableau hung, for spasm after uterine spasm. Alys looked utterly wrung, crying very quietly, unable to stop her body’s repeated attempts to turn itself inside out long enough to catch either breath or balance. The baby’s head crowned, dark haired, but seemed unable to go further.
“How long is this supposed to take?” asked Kou, in a voice that tried to sound measured, but came out very worried.
“I think he likes it where he is,” said Bothari. “Doesn’t want to come out in the cold.” This joke actually got through to Alys; her sobbing breath didn’t change, but her eyes flashed in a moment of gratitude. Bothari crouched, frowned judiciously, hunkered around to her side, placed a big hand on her belly, and waited for the next spasm. Then he leaned.
The infant’s head popped out, between Lady Vorpatril’s bloody thighs, quick as that.
“There,” said the sergeant, sounding rather satisfied. Koudelka looked thoroughly impressed.
Cordelia caught the head between her hands, and eased the body out with the next contraction. The baby boy coughed twice, sneezed like a kitten in the awed silence, inhaled, grew pinker, and emitted a nerve—shattering wail. Cordelia nearly dropped him.
Bothari swore at the noise. “Give me your swordstick, Kou.”
Lady Vorpatril looked up wildly. “No! Give him back to me, I’ll make him be quiet!”
“Wasn’t what I had in mind,” said Bothari with some dignity. “Though it’s an idea,” he added as the wails went on. He pulled out the plasma arc and heated the sword briefly, on low power. Sterilizing it, Cordelia realized.
Placenta followed cord on the next contraction, a messy heap on Kou’s jacket. She stared with covert fascination at the spent version of the supportive organ that had been of so much concern in her own case. Time. This rescue’s taken so much time. What are Miles’s chances down to now? Had she just traded her son’s life for little Ivan’s? Not-so-little Ivan, actually, no wonder he’d given his mother so much trouble. Alys must be blessed with an unusually wide pelvic arch, or she’d never have made it though this nightmare night alive.
After the cord drained white, Bothari cut it with the sterilized blade, and Cordelia self-knotted the rubbery thing as best she could. She mopped off the baby and wrapped him in their spare clean shirt, and handed him at last into Alys’s outstretched arms.
Alys looked at the baby and began crying again muffled sobs. “Padma said … I’d have the best doctors’ Padma said … there’d be no pain. Padma said he’d stay with me … damn you, Padma!” She clutched Padma’s son to her. In an altered tone of mild surprise, she added “Ow!” Infant mouth had found her breast, and apparently had a grip like a barracuda.
“Good reflexes,” observed Bothari.
