Barton, who had always feared nothing and no one, stood rubbing his hands together and thought for a long while.
What should I call him?
He looked up at the sky.
Against the gray-white sky, the dark red sun was slowly sinking westward, and the distant towers gleamed in its light.
Then he looked down at the child, whose mouth hung slightly open as he breathed evenly, a trace of milk still clinging to the corner of his lips.
"Batu," Barton said.
"Batu?" Greta repeated. "What does it mean?"
"Before we set out, the captain showed us a star chart. There was a star called Batu, the brightest star in the night sky, brighter even than the sun. I still remember it."
Greta looked at the child in her arms, then at Barton, and smiled.
"All right. Batu it is."
Barton reached out again and touched his son's cheek with a finger. This time, Batu didn't cry. He merely wrinkled his nose and nuzzled deeper into his mother's arms.
"Batu," Barton called.
The baby didn't react.
"Batu," he called again, a little louder.
The baby's ears twitched. His eyelids lifted briefly, then closed again.
"He heard you," Greta said.
Barton broke into a broad grin.
He crouched down to meet the baby's eyes, though they were closed.
"Batu, your dad flies spaceships. I spent more than half a year drifting through the stars. Do you want to fly spaceships someday too?"
Of course, the baby couldn't answer.
"I'll take your silence as a yes," Barton said.
"When you grow up, you'll be an astronaut too. You'll roam the stars and expand the Supreme God's domain. You'll be even better than your dad!"
Greta kicked him. "He's barely born, and you already want him to go off on adventures?"
"Not now."