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Da'an was buried deep in a long-overdue review of mission protocols when Ne'eg approached, still clad in a healer's sash. An official visit, then. Da'an paused the flow of information and looked up courteously.
"It has been confirmed," Ne'eg said without preamble.
Not an unexpected announcement, given recent indicators, but Da'an could not resist checking. "You are certain?"
Ne'eg's form held firm, with no flicker of hesitation or doubt. "Yes. Every unborn child save yours has ceased to develop. Per their parents' requests, they have been transferred to embryonic tubes."
Da'an held shape as well, practice carrying through where dismay might otherwise have overpowered will. "And in your opinion, there is no chance that this will change?"
"That they will resume developing?" Ne'eg made the familiar gesture of hope/resignation. "The children will survive in stasis indefinitely. Perhaps one day, they may yet be born."
One day. If--the if that haunted all plans for the future now--if they were to finally find a new source of core energy, and so avert their impending doom. Da'an straightened, head high. "So my child may be the last."
"Others continue to try," Ne'eg said. "Some may yet succeed."
Empty words, Da'an knew. And a true sign of how desperate the situation was, that Ne'eg of all people should resort to hope rather than reality. "And in the meantime, the embryonic tubes will continue to fill."
"Yes."
Da'an brushed a limb across the glowing spark within, suddenly grateful that the child's genes--and thus its memories--had been fixed before this news had come to light. Bad enough to be the last of one's race, to carry that weight as an adult, but to be born already knowing that? To grow up aware that you are the final renewal of your species? Knowing that generations of civilization and culture and development now rested solely on your shoulders? It was a burden not to be wished on any living being, let alone one's own child.
And for Da'an, the news meant a different burden.
It was an honour, after a fashion, to be the last parent of your race. An honour to be the one to raise the last child your people would know. For a moment, the weight of it rushed in like a wave, threatening to overwhelm, and then it passed. If Zo'or were truly the last Taelon child and Da'an the last Taelon parent, they would play their roles, and play them well. No one would ever have cause to question their right to those roles, or to wonder why they had been blessed/cursed above all others.
"I understand," Da'an said, willing Ne'eg to leave. Ne'eg went, message delivered, leaving Da'an to dive once more into the information stream, and to contemplate.
Da'an's own parent had been gentle. Kind. Firm as needed, of course, but Da'an had never required much external pressure to strive for success. Few Taelon children did. Guided by the Commonality and their own genetic memories, they grew to graceful adulthood, finding their way naturally to the role they were destined to fill. Da'an's own role was that of diplomat and leader, the latest in a long line of diplomats and leaders. This child was to have been the next, carrying on that tradition.
Now though--Da'an brushed over the spark once again--it seemed fate had decreed otherwise. Where Da'an had required skill and intelligence, this child would need strength, for it would carry with it the hopes of an entire species. This child would have to be a survivor, capable of sustaining itself in the face of dwindling numbers, and perhaps even leading their people in their final hours, if it came to that. This child would know none of the simplicity that Da'an had known in early years, when their final fate was known but still distant. This child would know the urgency of a true emergency, with little time for exploration and growth. And Da'an would somehow have to find the strength for both of them.
The news spread rapidly, echoing through the Commonality, a constant thrumming at the back of Da'an's mind. Most were kind enough to avoid increasing the pressure on Da'an directly, but a few approached with curiosity or questions or a rather disturbing reverence. All were turned away as Da'an sought space to think. And to plan.
The first step was another conversation with Ne'eg.
"I have heard that a parent's thoughts and experiences continue to influence an unborn child even after its genetic knowledge has been set."
Ne'eg stood, temporarily abandoning the embryonic tubes that filled the room. "Some believe that, yes."
"And you?"
Ne'eg hesitated. "It is a difficult thing to prove. But I do not think it unreasonable to believe that environment could have an effect. There are always interactions between genetics and environment."
"Then what I choose to do now may influence who my child becomes."
"It is possible, yes."
Da'an offered a gesture of thanks, and went to find T'than.
"But your specialty lies in diplomacy and leadership, as did your parent and their parent before them," T'than protested. "Surely you do not mean to abandon your lineage and change your entire field of specialization now?"
"No," Da'an agreed, and paused to consider how best to make the argument. "I believe that my understanding of governance and negotiations will be strengthened by increasing my knowledge of...alternative options."
"So you wish to observe, not participate."
"I will allow myself to be guided by you," Da'an said. "I have no desire to interfere with your work. Neither do I wish to burden you with teaching one who offers nothing back."
"You will find it very different from what you know," T'than warned. "You gild your force with kindness; we do not have that privilege."
"I understand," Da'an said, and wondered whether to reveal to T'than the reasons motivating this request. Would the general understand? Sympathize? Or would such a confession bring an end to this experiment before it even began?
"Very well," T'than said. "Come to my office tomorrow, and I will introduce you to our current campaign. There are elements you may find interesting."
"I appreciate the opportunity," Da'an said.
T'than glanced down, eyes finding the child who Da'an still carried. The last child. "How are you, Da'an?"
"I am well, thank you," Da'an said firmly.
"Tomorrow, then," T'than said formally. A dismissal. Da'an returned to more familiar quarters, reaching down to once again caress the child.
"I'm doing this for you," Da'an told it. "So that you may be strong and fierce and capable. I know this is not the life our ancestors laid out for us, but it is what fate has decreed for both of us." The spark seemed to glow brighter, to solidify into something that more closely resembled a child. "I promise that I will protect you with everything I have. I will always protect you."