"She is gone, Doctor."

Dr. Juliana Harris couldn't see the female Valtarie who spoke in a lyrical alto, but the one acting as midwife gripped her with gentle hands, pulling her away from her patient.

"No!" Dr. Harris shook her head, protesting, "I can feel a pulse. I know I do." She struggled briefly before sagging into the warm comfort offered. Soft, rustling wings enfolded her, encircling her with the female Valtarie who kissed her forehead before releasing her.

Dear God, they were right. She had failed them again. Her human medical knowledge wasn't enough for the Valtarie.

But Dr. Harris hadn't wanted to admit defeat, although hours must have passed. The purple of late evening cast somber shadows through the silk-draped delivery room. The smell of birthing-blood mingled with the various perfumes of the assembled females; the cloying scent nearly choked her.

In dull resignation, the doctor disengaged the transfer equipment that had linked the living female Valtarie's blood with the one who had just died. She looped the tubes into an obscene one-handed mass. Primitive shit! Just like all her equipment. She blinked moisture from her stinging eyes. Cyclemintus, ruler of Valtar, was to blame for this, him and his dammed isolationism.

Centuries of closed borders had gained these people nothing. What did Valtar hide? Their recent admission into the Alliance of Free Worlds disclosed their blood drinking diets, and their race's decline. But Cyclemintus still enforced the ancient Law of Solitude. Only a select few were allowed into their air space. Dr. Harris was admitted only because of her offer to help the females with childbirth. Not only were they dying, the birth of new females had dwindled.

She swallowed against the rock in her throat and packed the useless gauges and tubes away, carefully avoiding looking at the still, noble features of the mother who had died under her care. Even in death, the female Valtarie reflected so much regal beauty that it nearly hurt the eye of the beholder. Such waste.

Failure again, and this time the doctor had pinned so much hope on success. At least the babe lived.

Fayella, royal daughter of Cyclemintus, ruler of Valtar, stepped into view, the scent of sweet blossoms flowing with her as gently as the lavender gown that swayed around her ankles. "You did what you could, Doctor, but Dijean was doomed--as we all are."

"Don't say that!" Dr. Harris straightened with a jerk, her knees trembling. "I will find a cure." She rubbed her eyes then massaged her forehead. "I just need more time ... and possibly more help." Her last words were spoken more to herself than to the elegant Valtarie.

"We--" Fayella swept her slim arm to include the other, pitifully few in number, female Valtarie that filled the room. Their delicate wings arched to touch each other in mutual solace. "We are running out of time." The melody of truth in Fayella's words held all the sadness of the world.

"Then, I'll get more help," Dr. Harris swore, smacking her fist against her palm. "So help me, God, no more of you will die."

Fayella dipped her head, her silver tresses hiding a tragic smile.

Unable to face the truth of her failure any longer, the doctor fled the close room, but not before catching a glimpse of the other females, tenderly wiping blood from Dijean's snowy breast where her newborn had fed for the first, and last, time. They would prepare Dijean's body, dressing it in her finest silks, for a final flight from the heights of their tower. Her grave would be the depths of the cold, black sea that thundered against the base of their rose-colored crystal castle--their prison.