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Junior officers have eight minutes allocated time in the comms room every two weeks. Mon knows this as well as Perrin does, which means it’s no coincidence that she waits until seven minutes into their call to say, “By the way, we’re adopting a baby.”
“We’re what?” says Perrin blankly.
“You know how important it is to our families that we have an heir,” Mon says earnestly. “And since we’ve been—“ a self-deprecating cough “—unsuccessful in that department, well. This seemed the obvious solution.”
The next officer in line knocks on the door to the booth. Two minutes, Perrin frantically hand signals through the small window. He’ll pay for it later in the brisk, black-market economy of favor-trading aboard the ship, but he can afford that.
“We’ve been unsuccessful,” Perrin says with his most charming smile, “because I’ve barely had a month of leave over the past three years. But the war is over, now. I’m coming home. I’d hoped you might be able to spare a little time for some . . . attempts to remedy that.”
It’s impossible to tell from the blue, grainy holocall image if Mon flushes at that, but she does stutter a bit. “Yes—well. We can—yes. But Perrin, you’ve been gone for years. I was lonely.”
Perrin stares at her. It’s the most transparent lie his wife has ever told in a career built on them.
But the other officer is knocking more insistently now, and the number of favors Perrin has to trade aren’t unlimited. “You’ll be less lonely soon,” he says, and disconnects the call.
“Problems at home?” the second man in line asks as the first pushes past Perrin to talk to his presumed loved ones in the privacy of the holocall chamber.
“I have a child,” Perrin says, still feeling dazed.
“Congratulations. Son or daughter?”
Perrin laughs suddenly, because there’s really no other way to handle this situation. “You know, I have no idea.”
He walks into the door of the embassy on Coruscant to the most infernal wailing he’s ever heard. Republic—no, he reminds himself, Imperial—ship designers should hear it; it would inspire a whole new evolution in warning sirens.
“Oh, good,” says Mon—at least, it must be Mon, though he’s never seen his wife so disheveled before, not even in the morning before she’s risen from bed. Her shirt is buttoned askew and there are literal knots in her hair. “You’re home. Here, take him. Make sure you support his head. I need to find out what’s taking so long with the bottle.”
She thrusts the wailing infant into his arms, and he takes it automatically, with the same ginger grip he’d use on a grenade.
The infant—boy?—takes a deep breath, preparing for another round of warning siren auditions, meets Perrin’s gaze, and hiccoughs instead. Then he smiles, and Perrin finds he can’t help it—he’s smiling back. The boy’s eyes are the most astonishing shade of blue.
“Mon!” Perrin calls after his departing wife. “What’s his name?”
“Luke,” she shouts back, and then she’s gone, off in search of some servant or another.
“Luke,” he repeats, staring down into those blue, blue eyes. He adjusts his grip and tries an experimental bouncing motion. Luke smiles again, spit bubbling around his lips. “Hey there, Luke.” Visions flash through his head, suddenly, of games of catch and sabacc, of taking Luke home to Chandrilla and on his first hunt.
He still has no idea what’s going on, or how he’ll convince Mon to explain it to him. But—what the hell, he thinks. I did always want a son.