David Weber - At All Costs

"I think that would be a good idea... Jean-Claude," she said.

Honor Alexander-Harrington stood between her husband and her wife. Her left hand held Emily's right, and her right hand held Hamish's left, while the three of them watched through the outsized window as Dr. Knippschd's technicians carefully rolled the artificial womb into the room beyond. Dr. Franz Illescue and his team stood waiting, gowned and prepared outside the sterilizing field.

Honor felt her hands tightening on her spouses', and forced herself to relax-physically, at least-before she did any damage. Hamish leaned towards her, pressing the side of his head briefly and gently to hers, and she smiled. Then she bent beside Emily's life-support chair and pressed her own cheek against Emily's.

"I never thought I'd see this," Emily whispered in her ear.

"Just wait a couple of months," Honor whispered back, and Emily looked up at her with an enormous smile.

"It'll be hard. But at least it looks like you'll be able to be here then, too."

"We can hope," Honor agreed, and straightened back up.

She glanced over her shoulder, and her lips twitched as she glanced at Nimitz and Samantha. Dr. Illescue and she weren't exactly friends, and she doubted they ever would be, but their relationship had become much more cordial since his apology and her acceptance of it. Still, he and Briarwood had seemed a bit nonplussed by the notion of having a pair of six-limbed, furry arboreals in attendance during a birthing. And the passel of armed security personnel standing behind the parents-all three of them-and the living grandparents, seven-year-old aunt and uncle, plus the unofficial aunts and uncles and the god parents-had only added to the staff's consternation. They were accustomed to having the immediate family present at such times, but this "immediate family" had challenged them.

Which was why they were gathered in the observation gallery of a full-scale operating room, rather than one of the smaller, more intimate delivery rooms normally used. Briarwood simply hadn't had a regular delivery room large enough to accommodate the crowd.

Colonel Andrew LaFollet, Lieutenant Spencer Hawke, Sergeant Jefferson McClure, Sergeant Tobias Stimson, and Corporal Joshua Atkins stood between the parents' family and the observation gallery's single entrance in a solid wall of Harrington green. Alfred and Allison Harrington stood side-by-side, each with an arm around the other, to Emily's left. Faith and James stood in front of their parents, watching with huge eyes and most imperfectly suppressed excitement. Lindsey Phillips, their nanny, stood beside them, keeping a watchful eye peeled, and Miranda LaFollet and James MacGuiness stood to Hamish's right, with Farragut cradled in Miranda's arms. Willard Neufsteiler and Austen Clinkscales had arrived from Grayson for the event, accompanied by Katherine Mayhew and Howard Clinkscales' widows, and Michelle Henke, Alice Truman, and Alistair McKeon completed the party.

Almost, that was. The Queen of Manticore and her Consort were also present, along with their treecats, and half a dozen of the Queen's Own to bolster the Harrington security cordon. Not to mention the additional security clamped around the outside of the building.

No wonder Illescue's people seemed a bit boggled by the guest list, Honor thought, suppressing a sudden, almost overwhelming temptation to giggle. Nerves, she told herself sternly. That's nerves talking, Honor.

As if Illescue had felt her thinking about him, the doctor looked up at the observation window, nodded once, and beckoned his team forward.

It's a routine procedure he performs every day, Honor reminded herself. A routine procedure. Nothing to worry about. Shut up, pulse!

She breathed deeply, drawing on decades of martial arts training, but it was hard, hard. She wanted to stand on tiptoe, press her nose to the glass, to strain for the first glance, the first sight. She wanted to wrap her arms around Emily and Hamish, to sing. She felt Nimitz and Samantha with her, sharing her excitement and her joy, and she suddenly realized no other human being had ever shared the moment of her child's birth with a mated pair of treecats.

On the other side of the glass, Illescue and his team opened the unit. The inner chamber rose smoothly, and Honor found herself holding her breath, knew that despite her best efforts she was crushing Hamish's hand-she'd engaged the governor on her left hand to protect Emily-as she saw their unborn son floating in the amniotic fluid. The child stirred, kicking, drifting, and she felt the thread of his own sleepy, unformed wonder, as if he sensed the impending moment, even through the corona of joy rising about her. The emotions of her family and friends were like some enormous sea, deep, intense, and powerful, yet focused. Not precisely peaceful, yet equally not tempestuous. They were vibrant, quivering with anticipation like a strummed guitar string, and so brightly, warmly supportive-so happy for her-that tears blurred Honor's vision.

Illescue tapped buttons on a console, and the top of the inner chamber slid open. A fibrous-looking mat floated on the fluid, and he used a vibro scalpel to slice it open. The umbilical cord had been attached to the mat, and it coiled lazily as his gloved, sterile hands reached down and lifted the tiny, fragile, infinitely precious body.

Honor's lungs insisted that she breathe. She ignored them, her entire being focused on Illescue's gentle, competent hands as he and his team severed the umbilical and cleaned the air passages, and the baby's emotions shifted abruptly.

She closed her eyes, reaching out with mental hands, trying to touch the infant mind-glow as drowsy contentment turned into fear and confusion, shock as he left the soft, warm safety of the womb for the cold and frightening unknown. She felt him protesting, squirming, fighting to return, and then, in a fashion she knew she would never be able to explain to another human being, Nimitz and Samantha were with her. And so was Farragut, and behind him came Ariel and Monroe.

The treecats reached out with her as the first, thin squall of protest sounded, and suddenly, as easily as slipping her hand into a glove, she touched him. Touched him as she had never touched another human being, even Hamish. It was as if her hand had reached out into the dark, and a smaller, warmer, utterly trusting hand had found it with unerring accuracy.

The squalling complaint stopped. The infant eyes moved, unable to focus and yet sensing the direction of the warm, comforting welcome, the love and the eagerness flowing from Honor into him. His was an unformed presence, and yet he knew her. He recognized her, and she felt the unhappiness and fear flowing out of him as he nestled close to her.

Her outer vision wavered, vanishing into the blur of tears, and she felt Hamish's arms around her. She tasted his love for her, for their son, for Emily, rising to engulf her. She clung to him, without ever releasing Emily's hand, and in that moment, she knew her entire life had been worthwhile.

The baby squirmed, protesting the intrusion of other hands, of instruments, as he was weighed, examined, evaluated. But even as he squirmed, face wrinkled in newborn concentration, tiny mouth moving, eyes squeezed indignantly shut, she cuddled him in immaterial, steel-strong hands of love. And then he was a tiny, red-faced, neatly wrapped bundle in Illescue's hands as the doctor carried him out of the delivery room to his waiting parents.

Illescue stepped into the gallery, his face one huge smile, and for once Honor tasted no trace of his prickly personality, his innate sense of superiority. There was only the pleasure, the sense of wonder and renewal, which had drawn an arrogant aristocrat into the world of medicine's most joyous specialization in the first place, and she smiled back at him, holding out her hands eagerly, as he crossed to her.