Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Robbie’s cry woke her from a fitful sleep, and Melissa knew immediately that something was wrong.
It wasn’t his hungry cry, the urgent, rhythmic wail that demanded attention and sustenance.
It wasn’t his wet cry either, or his lonely cry, or any of the dozen variations she had learned to interpret over the past three months.
This was different. Weaker. A thin, reedy sound that made her blood run cold.
She was out of the bed before she was fully conscious, crossing the cell in two strides to scoop him from the crib.
Hot.
The word registered before anything else. His small body was burning against her chest, his skin flushed an angry red, his dark eyes glassy and unfocused. She pressed her hand to his forehead and felt her stomach drop.
“No, no, no.” The words came out as a whispered prayer. “Not here. Not now. Please.”
A fever. Her baby had a fever, and she was trapped in an alien prison with no medicine, no doctors she could trust, and no way to help him.
Think. I have to think.
She carried him to the sink and ran cold water over her hands, then pressed them to his forehead, his cheeks, and the back of his neck. He whimpered at the contact, turning his face away, and the sound cut through her like a knife.
“I know, sweetheart. I know it’s cold. But we have to bring your temperature down.”
How high was it? She had no way to measure, no thermometer, nothing but her own terrified instincts. High enough that his skin felt like it was radiating heat. High enough that his cry had turned weak and his movements sluggish.
Febrile seizures. The words floated up from some half-remembered parenting book. Babies can have seizures if their fever gets too high.
She wet a cloth and laid it across his forehead, humming tunelessly to keep herself calm. It wasn’t working. The panic was rising in her chest, making it hard to breathe, hard to think.
I need help.
The thought tasted bitter in her mouth. She had spent her entire adult life solving her own problems, relying on her own skills and knowledge.
Even when she’d decided to have Robbie, she had done it because she was capable of handling motherhood alone.
But this wasn’t about her pride. This was about her son’s life.
She crossed to the door and pounded on it with her free hand, hard enough to make her palm sting.
“Hello? Is anyone out there? I need help!”
Silence. The thick metal absorbed her voice like a sponge.
She pounded again, harder, putting her weight behind each blow. “Please! My baby is sick! He needs medicine!”
Still nothing. She wanted to scream, to tear the door from its hinges, to burn this entire facility to the ground. Instead, she pressed her forehead against the cold metal and forced herself to breathe.
Becsul. He said he’d come back. He said—
The door slid open so suddenly that she stumbled forward, nearly losing her balance. Strong hands caught her shoulders, steadied her, and she looked up into solid black eyes filled with concern.
“Melissa? What’s wrong?”
“Robbie has a fever.” She thrust her son towards him, too desperate for embarrassment. “It’s a bad one, and I don’t have any medicine. I don’t have anything—”
He gently pressed a big hand against Robbie’s forehead while the other supported his small body. His expression hardened.
“How long has he been like this?”
“I don’t know. I just woke up and he was—” Her voice cracked. She bit down hard on her lip to keep from crying. “Please. You have to help him.”
“I will,” he said firmly. “I’ll be right back.”
He transferred Robbie back into her arms, and she clutched him automatically, pressing him close.
Then he was gone, the door sliding shut behind him with a soft hiss.
The silence was worse than before. She carried Robbie back to the bed and sat down, rocking him gently, murmuring nonsense words against his heated skin.
The wet cloth had already gone warm so she wet it again and stroked it gently over his skin.
“It’s okay, baby. Mama’s got you. Someone’s coming to help. Just hold on.”
He didn’t respond. His eyes had drifted closed, his small chest rising and falling in shallow, too-fast breaths.
Please, she thought, to whatever god might be listening in this alien place. Please don’t take him from me. He’s all I have.
Time stretched and warped. It might have been five minutes before the door opened again, or it might have been an hour. Becsul was at her side before she could even look up, pressing a small vial into her hand.
“Fever reducer,” he said. “It’s a pediatric dose. I had to check the database to make sure.”
She didn’t ask questions, didn’t hesitate. The vial had a built-in dropper; she squeezed it gently to fill the reservoir, then coaxed Robbie’s mouth open and let the liquid dribble onto his tongue.
He swallowed reflexively, grimacing at the taste, and then his eyes drifted closed again.
“How long?” she asked.
“Twenty to thirty minutes for the initial effect. The full dose should bring his temperature down within the hour.”
She nodded, not trusting her voice. She kept rocking, kept humming, kept wiping the damp cloth over his body and pressing her hand to his forehead as if she could will the fever away through touch alone.
Becsul didn’t leave. He settled onto the floor beside the bed, his back against the wall, and his tail curling loosely around his own feet instead of reaching for her.
He was giving her space, she realized. Being present without crowding.
It was thoughtful. It was kind. She wasn’t sure what to do with either of them.
“Thank you,” she said finally, when the silence had stretched too long. “For getting the medicine. For—” She gestured vaguely. “Being here.”
“Where else would I be?”
It was such a simple question, asked in such a matter-of-fact tone, that it took her a moment to understand what he meant. He wasn’t here because it was his job, or because he felt obligated, or because he wanted something from her. He was here because she had needed him, and that was enough.
When was the last time anyone showed up for me like that?
She couldn’t remember. Maybe never.
“Can I ask you something?”
He tilted his head, a gesture she was learning meant she had his attention. “Of course.”
“Your job. Before this place. What did you do?”
He was quiet for a long moment, and she thought perhaps she’d overstepped. Then he shifted his weight and settled more comfortably against the wall.
“I worked at the reproductive center in the capital. The Council established it as soon as they realized the effects of plague,” he said quietly.
“They were trying to save our species through science. Artificial wombs, genetic manipulation, anything that might allow us to have children without the mate bond.”
“Did it work?”
“No.” The word was heavy with old grief.
“They could create embryos. Fertilize eggs, grow them in tanks, monitor their development. But something always went wrong. They would fail to implant, or they would stop developing after a few weeks, or they would make it to the third month and then simply… stop.”
Her arms tightened around Robbie involuntarily. She couldn’t imagine it—watching pregnancy after pregnancy fail, hope after hope crumble into dust.
“How long?” she asked quietly.
“Fifteen years.” He looked up at her, and she saw the exhaustion etched into his face. “Fifteen years of failure. Of watching my people die faster than we could ever try to replace them. Of knowing that everything we did was pointless.”
“That’s why you’re here. Why you’re part of this.”
“Yes.” He didn’t look away from her eyes. “I don’t believe the ends justify the means, Melissa. I know what we’re doing to you is wrong. But I understand why Naran thought it was necessary. When you’ve watched your entire world die, you become willing to try anything.”
She should be angry. Part of her was angry—a hot, steady flame that burned beneath her fear and exhaustion. But a larger part of her understood what he was saying, even if she couldn’t accept it. If Robbie was dying, if there was no other way to save him, what wouldn’t she do?
“The worst part was the ones who made it out of the artificial wombs. Who almost lived. There was one. Three years ago. She made it further than any of the others—five months. Our first female.” His tail twitched against the floor. “Her heart beat so strongly. We thought… we all thought…”
He didn’t finish the sentence. He didn’t need to.
“I’m sorry,” she said, and meant it.
“So am I.”
Robbie stirred against her chest, making a small sound that was somewhere between a whimper and a sigh. She pressed her hand to his forehead and breathed a sigh of relief.
“He’s cooler.”
Becsul sat up straighter. “How much?”
“Still warm, but not—” She closed her eyes, focusing on the feel of his skin. “Not as hot as before. I think it’s working.”
“Good.” The relief in his voice was palpable. “That’s good.”
They sat in silence for a while longer, watching Robbie’s breathing slow and deepen into something closer to normal sleep. The tension in her shoulders began to ease, replaced by a bone-deep exhaustion that made her eyelids heavy.
“You should rest,” Becsul said.
“I can’t. What if his fever comes back? What if—”
“I’ll watch him. I’ll wake you if anything changes.”
She wanted to argue. Every maternal instinct she had screamed that she should stay vigilant, that she couldn’t trust anyone else to care for her son as well as she could.
But she was so tired. And he was looking at her with those solid black eyes, steady and calm, and some small, fragile part of her that she had kept locked away for years believed him.
“Just for a little while,” she heard herself say.