Subterranean

EPILOGUE

Mount Erebus, Antarctica

BEN CRAWLED INTO BED, SIGHING. WHAT A DAY! HE snuggled next to Ashley. She moaned in her sleep and rolled onto her side. He placed his hand on her belly. She was already showing. Four months along, and not a sign that she was ready to cut back on her cultural study of the mimi'swee. Knowing her, she would wait until her water broke before finally putting pen and paper down.

He smiled in the darkness and lay back with an arm propping his head, staring at the ceiling. Alpha Base had almost been put back together again. The sonic repellents that Linda had developed were succeeding in keeping the crak'an away. Her team of biologists had also made another discovery: The erosion of the mimi'swee's ring of protective fungus had not been due to the imbalance of umbo and ohna, as Mo'amba had claimed, but rather to the introduction of and competition from a modern fungus, carried here by humans. So Sin'jari had been right after all-humans were to blame. At least indirectly.

Ben let out a rattling sigh and stretched, bone-tired. As heri'huti, his responsibilities with the tribe seemed endless. No wonder Mo'amba had wanted to pass the baton on to him. Still, in memory of the old man, he felt an obligation to carry on the position. At least until the tiny mimi'swee offspring gifted with heri'huti blood grew to maturity. Ben had overseen the hatching of the child, another of his duties. The child, who had been named Tu'shama by Mo'amba before his death, was a girl, the first female heri'huti of the tribe. Her gender had shocked the community, but Ben didn't care. Male or female, here was his replacement!

Ben wiggled deeper under the blankets. He really shouldn't complain. The job did have its perks. In his spare time, he could explore the vast trails of caverns. The hunters who traveled the dark paths showed him sights so wondrous that he sometimes thought he was dreaming.

Even if it was while collecting crak'an dung.

Ben closed his eyes. Morning would come too soon. He rolled onto his side and wrapped an arm around Ashley's waist.

As he drifted into slumber, something touched his dreams. Weak and tentative. Someone calling to him.

He opened himself up, inviting, but the contact faded. Only a passing connection, like a warm breeze wafting across a cold cheek.

Then nothing.

Who?

Under his hand, he felt the baby move in Ashley's belly. And Ben remembered Mo'amba's words: "Blood runs true."

There are too many folks to thank for the production of this story. From Pesha Rubinstein, my literary agent, who saw some glimmer in the rough-cut draft; to Lyssa Keusch, my editor, who painstakingly polished this story into its current form; to my writing group, who arduously picked apart the plot and made it better (Chris Crowe, Dennis Grayson, Dave Meek, Jeffrey Moss, Jane O'Riva, Stephen and Judy Prey, Caroline Williams); and a special thanks to Carolyn McCray, for her support, criticism, love, and friendship.

And finally to two people for whom I must blame this all on: Thanks, Mom and Dad!