CLASS ONE SECURITY/GENERAL GORRUK'S EYES ONLY NO ADDITIONAL RESOURCES ARE REQUIRED.
UNLESS YOU DIRECT OTHERWISE, MY PLAN AS FOLLOWS. WILL PRESERVE LIFE OF THE ONE ALIEN IN MY CONTROL. WILL USE TO ASSIST IN GETTING CLOSE TO REMAINING ALIENS. IT IS WINTER AND TOO COLD FOR OPERATIONS WHERE ALIENS ARE LOCATED. IN LOCAL SPRING (KON DATE: 13M26) AN EXPEDITION TO THE ALIEN ENCAMPMENT WILL BE MOUNTED. ALIENS WILL BE LIQUIDATED OR CAPTURED AS YOU DIRECT.
LONGO COL. SECURITY
Longo coded the message into the burst transmitters and, with burgeoning trepidation, punched the transmit button. Gorruk's response arrived two hours later:
TO: SECURITY COL. LONGO FM: EMPEROR-GENERAL
CLASS ONE SECURITY/COL. LONGO'S EYES ONLY
KILL THE ALIENS. HOW YOU ACCOMPLISH THAT TASK IS UP TO YOU. DO NOT FAIL.
GORRUK
* * *
"Is winter never going to end?" Buccari sniffed. She stood shivering in front of the lodge fireplace. Her feet were wet and her toes were near frostbitten—again.
"It's almost over," MacArthur whispered, teeth chattering. They had bravely attempted a patrol of the perimeter. The biting cold had turned them back before reaching the palisade wall. "I don't give it another month. It was balmy outside."
Buccari looked at his windburned features and laughed softly. As Buccari and MacArthur talked, Tookmanian made a rare appearance outside the labor room to add wood to the galley fire. To no one's surprise, the tall saturnine man had taken charge of the birthing. A tarpaulin hung across the entrance to the water room, isolating it and converting it into a labor room for Lee. The dried wood crackled and popped as it ignited. A gust of wind rattled across the roof. Tookmanian disappeared behind the curtain.
"How's Les doing, Nance?" Buccari inquired.
Dawson lay drowsing next to the fire. She and Goldberg had alternated waking hours through the night. The pregnant female's water had broken in the early morning hours, and Lee had been in painful labor ever since.
"Don't know, Lieutenant," Dawson yawned. "She's asleep, but I don't know if that's a good sign or not. At least it keeps Winnie quiet."
Fenstermacher lay bundled in a corner, sound asleep. Sleep had been hard to come by, and most of the men were upstairs in the loft trying to recover from the long night. Mendoza and Schmidt sat at the table helping Tatum and Shannon take care of the babies. Miraculously, both infants napped. During the previous night and day they had efficiently taken shifts whining and screaming. The confined space of the lodge had never seemed smaller or more crowded.
The silence ended. Everyone's attention was collected by a gulping, gasping groan followed by loud grunts. Fenstermacher leapt awake and dove through the slitted opening. Dawson, moving more slowly, followed. Agonizing minutes crawled by.
"Okay! Okay!" came Tookmanian' s deep voice. Lee yelled and gagged.
"Don't hold back, Les," Dawson encouraged. "Go ahead and scream."
"Okay, momma. Push!" Tookmanian growled. "Okay! Okay! Okay! Okay!"
"Come on, Les," Goldberg gasped. "You can do it!"
Lee screamed—a deep, throaty roar never expected from the shy medic. Outside the curtain everyone stared with grieved wonder, unable to shut out reality by simply closing their eyes. It was a prison. Deathly cold beyond the stone walls of the lodge, it was too cold to leave; they were trapped! They shared! If not the pain, all hands shared the uncertainty and the stark terror of the suffering mother's plight. They were joined in tribulation, and they prayed—prayed with all their might to whatever greater power they could invoke.
"Oka-a-a-y-y-y!" Tookmanian announced, a statement of triumph.
Courage and hope welled. The inmates bravely made eye contact with their fellows. The newborn baby's lusty cry was a clarion call for life, and collectively held breaths were expelled, forced out by joyous cheers. The older infants added to the bedlam with frightened cries.
Dawson appeared, finger to her lips. "Shhhh! It's a girl! Shhh!" she admonished, but she was smiling as she disappeared into the water room.
Buccari looked about. The realization that she was the only woman not involved in the birthing caused discomfiture, and she did not know why. She did not have time to ponder. Dawson, leather apron bloodied, burst from the curtain with two pots. "Fill up the water pot with snow and get it boiling. Quick! We need more hot water!" she brusquely ordered, to no one and to everyone. Mendoza and Schmidt hurried to obey.
"Is everything all right?" Tatum asked.
"She's hemorrhaging," Dawson muttered as she went behind the curtain.
In her hurry Dawson left the curtain partially open, exposing a forceful firelit tableau. Tookmanian, an expression of stoic resolve set firmly on his craggy features, bent over the exposed body of the mother, tense arms bloody to the elbow. A frightened Goldberg stood at the head of the bed, the raw newborn in her arms, displayed for the mother to see. Dawson, wild red hair tangled and bedraggled, stood erect, holding clean rags at the ready, bravely awaiting her next assignment. Fenstermacher, his back to the opening, knelt on the wooden floor.