“Lissanne, sweetheart, don’t pull Mikoz’s tail,” Wendy called across the room.
The two children were playing on the floor, building an elaborate structure out of blocks and shells. Mikoz had grown in the past months, his vocabulary expanding daily, his green skin developing more defined patterns. He looked more Cire every day, which had initially terrified her until Taranov pointed out that it actually supported their story—a hybrid child would favor one parent or the other. Lissanne looked exactly like her mother except for the pale green tint of her skin and her small tail.
The fear never completely left, but it was no longer a constant worry.
“How’s the documentation holding up?” Wendy asked softly.
“Fine. No one’s questioned it.” She shifted again, her back aching. “No one at the clinic thinks it’s strange that I’m having Selik’s child.”
“Good. The Council’s been quiet lately. Taranov thinks they don’t want to call attention to the possibility of hybrid pregnancies.”
Another contraction hit, harder this time, and her breath caught.
Wendy was on her feet immediately. “That was less than five minutes.”
“It’s still false labor. I’m not due for another week.”
“Babies don’t read calendars.” Wendy moved to her side and crouched down to study her face. “How long since the last one?”
She tried to remember. She’d been talking about Anya’s progress in her studies, about how the girl had made friends with several local teenagers, about how she seemed finally, truly happy.
“I don’t know. Ten minutes? Fifteen?”
“And now another one at five minutes. That’s it,” Wendy said decisively. “We’re going to the medical center.”
“I’m not in labor.”
“You’re definitely in labor.”
She wanted to argue, but another contraction rolled through her, stronger than the others. She gripped the arm of her chair, breathing through it.
Oh.
“I’m in labor.”
“Yes.” Wendy was already moving, gathering up the children. “Lissanne, sweetheart, we need to go. Mikoz, come here.”
“But we’re not done building?—”
“Now, Lissanne.”
The girl must have heard something in her mother’s voice because she abandoned the blocks without further protest. Mikoz followed, confused but obedient.
Wendy helped her to her feet, wrapped a supportive arm around her waist. “Where’s Selik?”
“Home. Working on the boat.” Another contraction, barely two minutes after the last. “Wendy, I can’t—I’m not ready?—”
“You’re ready. And Selik will meet us there.” Wendy was already guiding her towards the door. “Lissanne, grab my comm and call your father. Mikoz, hold my hand.”
The walk to the medical center should have taken ten minutes. She made it in twenty, stopping four for contractions that left her gasping and gripping Wendy’s arm. The medical staff took one look at her and rushed her to a room.
She barely registered the activity around her—the staff asking questions, checking vitals, helping her into a medical gown. All she could focus on was the pressure, rolling through her in waves that left no time to prepare, so much more intense and overwhelming than her pregnancy books had described.
“How far apart are the contractions?” a voice asked.
“Less than two minutes,” Wendy answered. “They started about thirty minutes ago.”
“First pregnancy?”
