Tach sagged in the Outcast's arms, and it seemed perfectly natural to place her arms about his neck to support herself.

" I won't let him harm it," she murmured in a voice gone weak and bloodless from fear. "Help me. Don't let him hurt us anymore."

Placing a finger beneath her chin, the Outcast forced her to look up. His breath smelled sweetly of honey and brandy. Closer, closer-a kiss to be anticipated…

The slamming of a distant door brought her awake. Tachyon pushed up on the palms of her hands. Her hair hung about her like a shroud. Slowly she pushed it back. Dropped her hands until they lay protectively over her belly. And deep within her something female stirred and dropped back into the timeless sea-rocked sleep of the embryo.

How strange that in the space of a dream Tachyon had discovered a skill and an emotional gift, both of which often took a lifetime to achieve and admit. The Takisian had built a mentatic shield that would protect her and her daughter. And the parent had learned that she wanted to protect that child. Illyana was no longer something growing inside of her. Illyana was a part of her.

"There, and now you even have a name," murmured Tach gently.

Weeks passed. She now had a rough indicator of time, a clock measured by the changes in her body. The swell of her belly was now pronounced enough to make zipping the jeans very uncomfortable. Her breasts had enlarged and were tender to the touch. At times, humiliation was more than an emotion-it was a taste, a sickness in the belly, wordless cries. What a fool, a laughingstock, she would seem to the world. But Illyana was a presence, a personality, a friend in the darkness. Her thoughts were basic, almost primordial. Food, warmth, comfort. And she responded. When Tachyon was in her bleak black moods, the clear colors of the baby's thoughts became muddied, swirling like angry eddies. And when Tachyon sang the lullabies and ballads of her youth, the baby quieted, and her thoughts became like a tiny harmony.

"You know something, baby dear," said Tachyon as she sat trying to comb through the tangles in her hair with her fingers. "You are like the cockroach or the rat that the prisoner tames and talks with in the solitude of his cell. You're not really a person. You're just an eating, dreaming, sleeping machine. But you are company for me."

And suddenly, miraculously, the baby moved. Tachyon felt her roll over.

And suddenly she laughed-for the sheer joy of the moment, the reaffirmation of life. She laid a hand over her stomach, whispered, because she was half embarrassed. "And I do love you."

Apart from being an emotional mainline, there was another effect of Illyana's busy gymnastics: The morning sickness ended. Being able to keep down her meager meals had Tachyon thinking about food again. By her calculations, she was somewhere in her fourth month. And Illyana and Illyana's surrogate mother needed decent nourishment. The Peanut visit had never been repeated, and while her nightly communions with the Outcast might be emotionally satisfying, they did little to succor the body.

To achieve that, she needed to communicate with Blaise. And even thinking about him brought on a fit of the shakes so severe that Tach feared it was a seizure. Eventually, when control and a modicum of calm returned, Tachyon tried to analyze Blaise's possible reaction. It might be amusement for the ludicrous predicament in which he had placed his grandsire. It might be paternal pride. It might be violence. She recalled her terrifying abortion dream. What if he harmed Illyana? Perhaps it was better simply to hide her condition…

Tachyon's harsh laugh cut the thoughts off abruptly. This was not a condition one hid with any degree of success. Eventually, even those lack-waited teens who delivered her meals twice a day would notice.

Two days later, she noticed that her ribs felt like a washboard to her exploring fingers, and when she lay upon her back on the floor, she could feel the stony pressure against each of her vertebrae. And all of this tapered into the fecund swell of her stomach. The decision could be delayed no longer. There was simply not enough calories being fed into the body to sustain both her and the baby.

That night, as the little trap at the bottom of the door rattled open, Tach was ready. She caught the guard by the wrist and hung on while calling shrilly, "Get Blaise. I must speak with Blaise!"

The jumper broke free, and the trap slammed shut.

Again that blinding light. Tach turned away, covered her eyes with her hands until the retina could compensate. Turned back to her captor, her demon, her child. And was struck again at how much Blaise had grown. The young man was dressed in shorts and a tank top.

So, it's summer, thought Tachyon. Which means Blaise is now sixteen. How the time passes. Is there anything I could have done to have spared us this wretched outcome?

"What… do you want?" Blaise's sharp-toned question broke her reverie.

Tach lifted her eyes to his face and struggled for calm. The light in those violet eyes was evil. As melodramatic as that sounded, there was no other word that applied.

When dealing with a wild animal, it was essential not to show fear, to maintain a low, level tone, Tachyon reminded herself. "Congratulations, Blaise." Tach waited, but the teen did not play along. He continued to stare at her from beneath his thick red eyebrows. It was very disconcerting.

Tach drew a ragged breath and continued. "You will no doubt take what I am about to tell you as a testament to your virility, a proof of manhood-"

Blaise took a step toward Tachyon. She couldn't control it. She shrank away.

"Get… to the goddamn point."

Silly, trivial things intrude when you're frightened almost to insensibility. Tachyon found herself wondering where Blaise had picked up the odd speech pattern that had him hitting the opening word of a sentence hard, then pausing before continuing.

"I'm pregnant," Tach squeaked. Blaise slapped her. "Liar."

Cowering, she stuttered, "N-no. I'm t-telling you the truth."

His eyes dropped to her waist. The top button of her jeans was unhooked, the zipper only partway closed, trying to accommodate the aggressive thrust of baby. Blaise's fingers' thrusting into the waistband drew a whimper of terror that escalated into a scream as he tore down the pants. Tachyon now understood the genesis of the human phrase to have one's pants around one's knees. Total helplessness, and humiliation.

The skin of Blaise's palm was hot and sweaty as he caressed the curve of her stomach, his head was bowed almost reverently. "This… is great." His strange eyes flicked up to meet hers. "How does it feel, Granddad? What are you thinking?"

This was the moment. How she played the next three minutes would determine her fate and Illyana's fate. She cautiously wet her lips with the tip of her tongue. Weighed again the alternatives. Whatever choice you made with a madman was the wrong one. No, that pessimism would freeze her.

So should she be imperious and demanding-food and care for herself and the baby? And hope it did not whip Blaise into one of his killing moods? Resentful and sulky-get rid of this bowling ball in my belly? And hope that Blaise would do the exact opposite?

And then in an instant she knew. How to win the moment. How to sway her demon grandson. And she didn't know if she could stomach it. The power, the will, the soul that was Tisianne brant T'sara sek Halima screamed against the act she was contemplating. She was Takisian, she was incapable of such abasement.

Illyana kicked softly. Tachyon's hand flew to her belly. Her medical training enabled her to feel and distinguish the baby's head pressed tightly against the side of her womb.

Tachyon took Blaise's hand between hers. Dropped to her knees at his feet. Tears would have helped, would have convinced him of her defeat. But the ability to weep had been lost in a terrifying afternoon of blood and rape. She studied his hand, noting the smattering of freckles across the back, the red hair forming tiny whorls on the knuckles.