Savanna stopped and stood still, dripping in sweat, her chest heaving, looking into the peaceful face of her beloved friend. She buried her face in Maricia’s chest, sobbing. She sniffed her hair, but the scent of death was already on her. She hugged her through her own arduous contraction. She eased her eyelids closed and held them in place for half a minute. She kissed her softly on the lips as she cried. She half whispered, half blubbered, “Good-bye, Maricia. I will teach Michael Adam about you and Raul. I will miss you so very, very much.”
Still sobbing, she collapsed heavily on the floor, offering her left arm to Lola. With her teeth and one arm, she put a rubber band above the IV target and deftly placed the IV. “Hold the bag above your heart,” she requested. Savanna complied. Lola was able to pull herself up and contort to hand the bag on a hook. She returned to the floor, scooted to a mattress, and hauled it back with her teeth. Her dull teal color made her look reptilian. Savanna rolled onto the mattress and removed her pants. They had been soaked with amniotic fluid for several minutes. Another contraction, more pain. Lola fingers slid inside. “Fully dilated. The baby is turned faceup.”
“Is that not good?” Savanna asked.
“It makes for a longer labor and delivery. Perhaps I can turn it.”
It took some repositioning to put Lola into where she had some leverage. “My self-test indicates a short circuit is draining power. It is likely that I will lose function very soon. Zhivago will guide you through the steps.”
“What next?”
“Hold on to my crushed arm and pull me toward your head. It will give me leverage.” Lola’s left hand went up to the little girl’s head and pushed it up from the birth canal and twisted. Lola tried to speak but issued just a low-pitched decrescendo moan. Her body went slowly limp.
Savanna extracted her hand from the birth canal and rolled Lola away from the mattress. “Zhivago, did it work?”
“My telemetry is not functional.”
A strong contraction hit. They were all strong now. The scant amount of pain blocker given did not seem to make any difference. The baby boy in the incubator cried off and on for the next hour as the contractions came every two minutes. She kept placing a couple of fingers inside herself to check on the progress. She wanted a mirror, pain relief, help, company. She wanted a lot of things. With the baby screaming, she had another contraction with the undeniable urge to push. Her fingers felt the head near the opening and pushed. Three more contractions and exhausting pushes with unbearable pain were not softened by her screams. The head delivered followed by a rush of blood.
“Get on your knees,” Zhivago said.
In fear, in haste, she got up on her knees to allow the baby to fall on the mattress. She picked her daughter up, turned her facedown on her arm, and rubbed her back. She coughed and started to cry. Her color was maroon, not the pink that Maricia’s boy had been. Savanna had the material to cut the cord next to her, courtesy of Lola. With prompting from Zhivago, she tied and cut the cord and then, with a flood of overwhelming love, held her newborn daughter to her breast. The infant pinked up. Savanna continued to have painful contractions afterward. “Disgusting,” she said to herself. “God, I hate blood.”
“Place some gently traction on the cord to help deliver the placenta,” reminded Zhivago. This is pretty disgusting, she thought as she pulled the kilogram of tissue out of her vagina. She threw it over toward Maricia’s afterbirth. She rolled on her side and snuggled with the newborn for a few minutes.
“Your IV bag will be empty soon. I recommend replacing it” was the advice.
She stood slowly, fighting lightheadedness, and carried the baby to the incubator. “I’m afraid you two will need to double bunk for a while.” She put the tip of her finger into the mouth of Michael Adam, and he fumbled around with sucking on it. She then replaced the empty IV bag. She saw a syringe, probably of pain blocker. She squirted it into her IV and felt dizzier. She sat down on the remaining clean mattress and let the IV run in quickly. She had no opportunity to lounge around. She looked around. The room was a disaster. Maricia, two dead med-bots, blood, afterbirths, drugs, trash, and broken pieces of equipment were strewn everywhere. Both of her legs were covered in blood. She felt dizzy then passed out. and then nothing.
“What day is it?” She awoke with a start.
“It depends on your point of reference,” answered the Russian. “I cannot access either base date or mission date. It has been forty-two minutes since you collapsed.”
“Where am I?” “Planet K-70 EDN 7.”
“We need to change that name. What do you think, Zhivago?”
“I neither agree nor disagree.”
“EDN. Eden.”
“I believe you are under the influence, Savanna,” Zhivago said.
“I dub thee Eden,” she slurred thenfell asleep.