Mother of Demons by Eric Flint

It was fortunate, and not a moment too soon. For, just as Koresz had foreseen, the children soon learned a new and vastly entertaining game. Less than a year later, the first babies began arriving.

They lost many of the babies, of course. But they lost none of the young mothers, although it was a close call with Keiko Watanabe. Janet performed her first Caesarean, and it was a success. Keiko and her child survived, although the girl would never bear another.

Indira was aghast at the child mortality rate, but Julius was (bleakly) satisfied.

“Twenty-five percent after one year,” he said. “That’s horrible, by modern Terran standards, I agree. But look, Indira—and please don’t accuse me of being a cold-hearted biologist—it’s better than what the human race put up with for most of its existence. In fact, a twenty-five percent child mortality rate is incredibly good, when you consider they’re being born on an alien planet.”

Indira knew he was right, but the knowledge didn’t help much. Not when she had to help bury the pitiful little bodies. And then look at the hurt and bewildered faces of the children who had borne them.

But, over time, the children—teenagers, now—came to accept the facts of life. Here, of course, they were helped by the attitude of the owoc. Over time, Indira would be both appalled and fascinated by the way in which the inter-penetration of the two species’ cultures would produce a unique hybrid. The humans would never share the owoc indifference toward new-born babes, of course. That was biologically precluded. They would care for them, and caress them, and nurse them, and pamper them. But they would withhold the core of their hearts, until the infants began to walk.

Eighteen months. That seemed to be the critical point. If a child could survive that long, and struggle to its uncertain little feet, he or she stood an excellent chance.

Janet Mbateng was the next to die. She knew it was coming months before it finally happened, just as Koresz had known.

“It’s like something turned off, inside,” she explained to them. “I’m just going through the motions, now.”

She groped for words. “I can’t explain it. It’s not that I want to die, or anything like that. It’s just—I don’t know. Somehow I can just tell my body’s given up.”

The final weeks of her life, Janet spent every hour of the day surrounded by her pupils. (The nights, of course, were given to Hector; who held her wasted body in his arms, until he cried himself to sleep.) Hour after hour, passing on to them everything she had learned from Koresz. Hector tried to convince her to rest, but the little woman—no bigger than a child herself, now—adamantly refused.

In the end, she was satisfied she had done all she could. The day before her death, she administered the Hippocratic Oath to Maria De Los Reyes, and urged her other students to continue their efforts so that they too could become Doctors. (And they all did, over time.)

The last night, and day, she gave to Hector.

Hector followed her into the grave soon after. He claimed that he felt the same sensations that Janet and Koresz had described. Indira believed him, but Julius knew he was lying. The pilot’s muscular physique never showed more than a trace of the horrible wasting symptoms which Janet and Koresz had exhibited. True, he grew very thin. But Julius knew that Hector hardly ate anything.

No, Julius knew the truth. Hector Quintero had become the closest friend he’d ever had. Over the years, working side by side, he had come to cherish the man’s intelligence, cheerfulness, wit and courage. Inexhaustible courage, it had seemed.

But courage comes in different ways, to different people. Hector could face anything, except the empty vision of a future without Janet.

* * *

Francis Adams, strangely, seemed indestructible. The physicist was a total recluse—had been since before Koresz’s death. And for at least a year prior to that, he had stopped giving classes to the children. (Which Indira regretted not at all; Adams had been an unbelievably bad teacher, totally incapable of explaining things in a way which would be comprehensible to his students.) He dwelt by himself, as he had for years, alone in the landing boat. The last time Julius saw the portion of the boat where Adams lived, the place looked like a pigsty. Adams himself—formerly so fastidious—looked like a complete savage. He acted like one, too. He had screeched at Julius, his voice filled with fear and rage, ordering him to leave. The physicist had even seized a spear which he had secreted in his lair, brandishing it in a manner which would have been frightening if it hadn’t been so pitifully awkward.