This one is different:

Caria has birthed him herself - she's quicker each time; it's a boy; she is alone and is holding him.

The midwives will be here any minute, along with the Corp, to take him away, to give him to the family who've been successful. She never knows their names - just in case all of the security doesn't work, and she ends up going back on her agreement - so she cannot ever find him. She doesn't usually ever get to see their faces.

She gazes at the tiny fists, bunched together; she drinks in his features, committing them to memory. She strokes his soft downy head, drying already. There's a cloth next to her and she begins to wipe him clean, before an overwhelming urge grabs her. She unbuttons the birthing gown and places the baby against her chest, breathing catching in her throat, an ache for him beginning deep inside and radiating out to every single part of her body. She wraps her gown around him and tears fall fat and wet down her cheeks. This in itself is a miracle; she's not cried properly since she arrived and she wonders if the drugs are wearing off, perhaps affected by the rush of hormones, the rush of womanhood that is usually staved off by the injections they give her, the moment they take the babies away, the moment the midwives-

-the midwives! They will be here, any second. But as the thought hits her with a sickening crunch, she hears her tab beep with an incoming message. It's right there next to her and she twists around to reach it.

It's from Lulu, the head midwife: LATE. DUSTSTORM. HOW IS LABOUR PROGRESSING?

Caria looks down at the baby. His mouth is moving, his head wobbling, in search of her breasts which are aching in return. It's entirely natural as she helps him nuzzle towards her and take her nipple in his tiny mouth. She cries harder - with wonder, with joy, for she's never been told about any of this - as he sucks. She lays back, and thinks.

Quickly, she messages back: Slowly. Nowhere near birth. Do not worry.

She lays the tab aside and looks around the room, her eyes flicking side to side, taking in everything she owns. Then she gets the urge to push again and she's confused; there was only one fetus inside her this time?

It's the placenta. It lands with a plop on the floor and the cord, slippery against her stomach, tightens. She doesn't know what to do - they never tell her anything and there's always a green cloth in front of her so she can't see.

She tries to sit up and pain makes her gasp, pain between her legs, in her muscles, in her arms where she pulled on the birthing rope above the bed. She grimaces and pulls herself to a sitting position; cradling the baby inside her gown, not interrupting his sucking. She looks at the cord. It is pulsing with a life all its own and she watches, fascinated. What is she supposed to do with it? She wriggles to the edge of the bed and peers over, feeling woozy at the sight of the huge burgundy lump at the end of the cord. She knows it is the placenta; she's heard them say it in previous births, but what is she meant to do with it?

Her underwear and trousers are on the floor where she threw them as she felt the baby begin to come. She stands, and feels ill again at the rush of blood that slides down between her legs.

The midwives bring everything. Pads, cloths, towels. She has nothing except what she herself owns. Still holding the suckling baby - as if she's been doing it all her life - she grabs a small towel and holds it between her legs, pulling her pants up over the top. She gets her trousers on - too large for her already - over the top and stands, trying to avoid the blood. The placenta lurks on the floor but she notices the cord has stopped pulsing. She knows the cord has a job and she knows what it is, but the baby is breathing and crying. They don't tell birthers much, - possibly so they don't understand enough to try and keep a child - but she's worked a lot of it out. Her own navel, the cord attached to the baby (she's seen it twice, as the cloth lifted, caught on a sleeve, and she saw a glimpse of wet, shiny, tiny stomach, with the cord still attached.) She's never seen what happens next but it must come off somehow, or she's still have that thing - that large, bloody placenta, still attached even now. She shudders, and dizziness overtakes her.

The baby has stopped suckling and looks as if he's asleep. She puts him down on the bed and lays one of her t-shirts over him, tucking it in at the sides. He is very quiet. In the past, she's heard them scream. She gazes at his face, at the tiny nose, the crescents of his closed eyes, his soft cheeks. And that ache inside her comes back.

+~+

They've told her this will be her last. She's given twelve living children to the corp's families. They call her a miracle. When they died, the babies, and there were seven that did (she thinks of this differently, now, looking at this boy) there was a hush in the room, and an extra efficiency behind the green cloth.

She's treated well. Here on this new planet, she is treated better than most corp's employees. She gets a large apartment and a car, so she can drive herself to see the midwives. She is allowed quite a lot of freedom as they tell her she must stay fit, so she's allowed to walk in the 'streets', between the 'buildings'. She walks and thinks about this new world and in the past, she's felt happy that she's a part of it, happy that she's playing a part in its creation.

Lately though, she's felt mostly tired. Mentioning it to the midwives meant an increase in injections, which meant she'd feel better for a few weeks, but then it came back and back. And they said she was finished, thank you very much, and that she'd be driven to one of the outlying settlements and given a different job.

+~+

The idea arrives so fast it's as if it has always been there. First, she grabs a cooking pot and scoops the placenta into it, placing it next to the boy on her bed. Then she hefts down the bag they've given her to pack (she was meant to be leaving next week) and stumbles around the room, dizzy and sore, filling it with as many of her possessions as she can. There isn't much and there's still space in her bag when she's done. So on to she laces all the extra towels and cloths she's allocated, the pots and knives, and the gun. She always had a problem with the gun, given as extra protection - against what, she had no idea - but they insisted she learn how to use it and they insisted it stay in her apartment.

There's a beep from the tab.

ETA = 10 MIN

She rushes faster, grabs the keys to her vehicle, runs outside and throws the bag in the backseat. Then she panics: where is she going to put the baby in the car? Her gown is flapping around her shoulders and she flings it off and onto the back seat. She rummages in the bag for an outer shirt, runs back inside, thanking stars she lives on the edge of the settlement and has no near neighbours, and gently lifts the t-shirt from the baby. She puts it on and slides him inside, back close to her where he belongs. He is still quiet but she's no time to worry about this. She pulls on the outer shirts and buttons it tightly, wrapping the baby in against her skin. The cord trails out of the top of her shirt and she pushes it to the side, grabs the pot with the placenta, and leaves, getting straight in her vehicle and closing the door.

A wave of dizziness hits her and she realises she's not eaten for hours, that she's hungry, that she's forgotten to pack food.

She grabs the pot again and stumbles back inside, finds the small bag she arrived with and fills it with everything from the kitchen that she can fit in.

Surely ten minutes have gone. Her heart is hammering a frightening, off-beat rhythm and she hears the whimpering sound before she realises she's the one making it.

She gets back into the vehicle, checks the tiny face tucked against her, feels his breath, and starts the car.

Nothing happens.

She looks at the dashboard and sees the wrong colour lights:

There's no fuel.

'No no no no no,' she mutters, thoughts wild. Why is there no fuel? Unless... do the corp DO this? Do they make sure, each time she gives birth, that she is, essentially, trapped? 'WhatdoIdo, whatdoIdo?' she tried to arrange her thoughts but she's so tired, so sore. The feelings take over the thoughts inside her.

And then instinct kicks in.

+~+

The search takes five minutes.

'Sir, she's gone. Birth mother thirty-five is not here. And there's evidence of a birth.' The head midwife's voice shakes. She listens.

'No, Sir. There was a dust storm in section five. Nothing we could do.'

She listens again. She hangs her head. 'Right, Sir. I will be there in fifteen minutes.' She turns to the second midwife and the corps' employee, only on his second ever birth job. She takes a breath.

'Although not our fault, this will not go down well. We could end up in Malland. Nobody messes up like this. We should have known she would go quickly. We should have been here this morning.'

'What's Malland?' says the corp's employee.

The head midwife stares at him. 'Where were you in part two of the training? One Chance Only, that's what the lesson was called. No second chances, not up here on Earth Two. Malland is a huge, barren lump of land past the outer settlements. It's where you get sent if you fuck up. And we just fucked up. Now come on, we have to go and lead for our lives. Malland is death. No food, no water. Well, we don't know. Nobody ever comes back to tell the tales. One way flight, they drop you and that's it. Cheaper, and a good lesson, apparently.'

Caria waited until their vehicle started up and silence came back. The baby, directly below their feet, had stayed silent.

Another miracle.

She climbed out of the storm shelter, pulling the pot and her bag after her.

Now she knew where she was going. All she needed was some transport.

Malland.

'It'll be okay,' she whispered to the tiny, downy head. 'It'll be okay.'

And she started walking.

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