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Hyperspace swirled outside the viewports of the shuttle, but Mak’ro ignored it. He paced the interior of the small ship with increasing impatience; he needed to be on Naporar. “How much longer is this going to take?” he complained.
“We’re almost there, Sir.”
“You said that last time.” Mak’ro scowled at his aide; the woman paid it no mind. She was used to dealing with the Admiral and his moods.
“And I will say it next time as well. Sit down, Sir; you’re not going to miss anything.”
“You don’t know that,” he grumbled, folding his arms across his chest.
The aide looked up at him, her expression softening. “It’s normal to be nervous with your first, Sir. By the time you’re on your third, it’s routine.”
Mak’ro sat down in his chair, frowning. “I’m not nervous,” he muttered under his breath. His aide shook her head slightly at the lie and returned to her questis, smiling.
“Of course not, Sir.”
–
As soon as the ramp touched the ground, Mak’ro was rushing out of the shuttle and towards the doors of the large, state-of-the-art facility. He stopped in front of the directory, running his finger down the list of departments. Everyone in the Chiss military had spent some amount of time within the walls of this building, but Makro had never had a reason to head to the wing he was looking for until now.
He growled at the sign, unable to find what he was looking for. Amused, his aide cleared her throat then tapped just under where MATERNITY was written in large letters. Mak’ro huffed then spun on his heel, and the two headed to a nearby lift.
“Yeah, yeah. Laugh all you want,” he said as the lift doors closed, glaring at his aide as she tried her level best to hide her laughter.
“I would never, Sir.” And yet she did; great peals that rang out in the small space, so infectious that even he couldn’t help but smile.
The lift opened to a reception desk; the worker behind the counter glanced up as the pair approached. His eyes widened and he jumped to his feet. “Admiral, if you’ll follow me, please.”
“You don’t need him to check in, or anything?” Mak’ro glanced back at his aide’s question.
“Oh no - all the staff has been informed to keep an eye out for him. We don’t get many in military white here, and given his uniform..”
“What if I had come in civilian clothes?” Mak’ro asked.
“Your partner was very confident that would not be the case.” He turned to the aide. “I’m afraid you have to stay out here, Ma’am.” He gestured to a large waiting area where a number of other Chiss were seated; some in pairs, some in large clusters. She nodded, and flashed a smile at Mak’ro as he continued down the hall and into a private room.
“Congratulations, Admiral,” the attendant said as he opened the door and let Mak’ro in. Mak’ro absently thanked the man, his full attention on the figure presently shuffling around the room. Thalias was pale and worn-looking, leaning on a nurse; her eyes snapped up to Mak’ro, filled with a mix of relief and anger.
“About fucking time you got here.” She reached out for him, then froze, curling in on herself as another contraction hit.
“They’re coming close, now,” the nurse assisting Thalias said. “Do you feel like you need to push?”
Teeth bared, Thalias nodded through the pain.
“Okay. Admiral, if you would..?”
Mak’ro rushed over and helped Thalias to the birthing bed - the surface at an incline, with flat panels to push her feet against.
Thalias settled back against the bed, hair damp with sweat. She closed her eyes and exhaled. “I hate you, Mak’ro.” One eye opened, and she gave him a faint smile. "But I would hate you more if you weren't here."
Mak’ro huffed softly, then leaned down to press his forehead to hers. “I know. You’re almost through this. Just a little more, and then we get to meet our baby.”
“Easy for you to say. You’re not the one-” Thalias cut herself off as another contraction hit, a new kind of pain.
The nurse returned with a doctor, and Mak’ro busied himself with supporting Thalias as best he could while she did the work of birthing their child.
-
Half an hour later, the angry cries of their daughter filled the room. “Congratulations, Mama.” The doctor handed the tiny purple figure to Thalias. She held the newborn close, tears of joy streaming down her face.
“She has so much hair,” Thalias said, grinning up at Mak’ro. He was transfixed - here she was, right in front of him, but he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. He tentatively reached out and set his hand on his child’s back; afraid, as if just touching her might hurt her somehow. She was tiny and wrinkled, her face scrunched into an angry frown that left absolutely no doubt just who her father was.
“And she looks just like you,” Thalias murmured, before letting out a tired huff of laughter.
“You’re not quite done yet, but the hard part is over.” The nurse smiled and began to carefully clean the baby. Thalias nodded; Mak’ro looked confused, then panicked.
“There’s another one?” he asked, eyes wide.
“The placenta,” the nurse explained as gently as possible, clearly used to clarifying things for the uninitiated and the uninformed.
Once the placenta was out, and the nurse had finished cleaning Thalias up, she smiled at Mak’ro, still touching his daughter like she was crafted of glass. “You won’t break her, I promise. She’s the size of a cudemelon and came out of something the size of a peeche, so trust me when I say infants are durable.” Both women snickered softly at Mak’ro’s slightly nauseated expression. “Do you want to cut the cord?”
He blinked, then looked down - the umbilical cord was still attached to the baby. “Yes, good,” he replied, still dazed. He took the offered scissors and cut through the thick tube while Thalias drifted, purring as, after a slight bit of difficulty, their child began to nurse.
“Someone will be in shortly to check on your progress. Congratulations, the three of you.”
She exited, and some minutes later a different nurse came in to take some scans and give the newborn an injection, which set the girl crying again.
“Oh, none of that.” She put an ID tag on the infant, then wrapped her in a blanket, and offered her to Mak’ro. “Hold her a bit while Thalias rests. She’s been through a lot. And remember - your little girl won’t break.” The nurse showed Mak’ro how to hold the newborn, and Thalias laughed softly at the expression of terror on his face. “What’s her name?” the nurse asked. Thalias and Mak’ro looked at each other.
“Mitth’rala’nuru,” Thalias said. Mak’ro had absolutely refused to have any child of his with any part of Thrawn’s name when they were first thinking of what to call her, but Thalias pointed out that if not for him, they would never have met, and since it was legally her child, what she wanted was what was going to happen. Mak’ro might be in charge on his ship, but she was in charge of their household, and they both knew it.
Mak’ro could have sworn he saw an odd expression on the new nurse’s face, but then Thralan stretched, sending him into a slight panic once more. It would not do to drop his daughter within minutes of her birth.
“A wonderful name,” the nurse said, and reached for a second needle. “And this is for Mama. Just a little something to help you relax and get some rest.”
“Oh I’m fine,” Thalias protested, but the nurse wouldn’t hear it.
“Trust me, you’re going to want this when stuff starts, you know, rearranging ,” she said, gesturing at her stomach. “This is mild, I promise.”
Thalias nodded, but it was Mak’ro that winced as the needle slipped into her arm. When it was done, the nurse gave the woman a thin smile, and went about checking the other bits and bobs around the room, and turning off the now unneeded machinery.
A short time later, Mak'ro's attention was pulled from his sleeping daughter by the sound of a faint sniffle; he glanced up to see Thalias laying limp, her skin frighteningly pale. There was a soft dripping sound, and when he glanced down, Mak’ro saw blood on the floor. Frantic, he leapt to his feet; the nurse was standing there, crying, but she wasn’t doing anything. “She’s bleeding! Why… why is she bleeding?” The nurse stood still, looking at him; he stared back, incredulous.
“I’m sorry, Admiral,” the nurse whispered, her face falling into a mournful countenance. He looked from her, to Thalias, whose dim eyes were already starting to close.
“Why won’t it stop? Why aren’t you helping her?!” he bellowed, prompting a shriek of fear from his daughter.
“Sir, I…I couldn’t say no. Not to him.” A tear rolled down her cheek and she backed away as Mak’ro took a step towards her. “You don’t know what the Patriarch was going to do to my son…”
Mak’ro stared at her, uncomprehending. “Patriarch..? You mean Thurfian ?” His eyes blazed with rage. “Do something, or I’ll see both of you in chains for this!”
The woman shook her head, miserable. “I'm sorry. You won’t be able to prove this was anything other than a terrible tragedy.” She slapped the emergency alert, voice suddenly frantic. “Patient is hemorrhaging, blood pressure is critical! I need assistance!”
There was a flurry of activity as a number of medical staff rushed into the room, and rushed him and their daughter out. The next few hours were blur, punctuated by brief moments of clarity.
Thalias, taken for blood transfusions and emergency surgery.
The doctor, telling him how very sorry he was, that they did all that they could.
Trying to explain how the nurse knew, she let it happen; the sad exchanged glances of the staff, seeing nothing but a father searching for some reason, some person to blame for his loss.
A cluster of Mitth, speaking with the medical staff.
A group of nurses, taking his daughter away under the pretext of a checkup.
The same Mitth, looking down their noses at him as they informed him that he was no longer needed. Her mother had been a Mitth and he had no family, so the baby would be coming with them.
Hospital security holding him back as he launched himself at the Mitth, teeth bared and fists ready to fly.
Being escorted from the hospital, his aide rushing along behind him.
Collapsing onto a bench, his head in his hands as he openly wept.
Had he been a little more attentive, a little more aware, had he bothered to make it his business to know the steps of the whole process and the risks involved, things might have turned out different. Had he taken into account just how vicious Thurfian was, and how long he was willing to wait to get revenge on someone that had outmaneuvered him.
But he had not.
He watched, a broken man, as the Mitth took his daughter away; sick with the knowledge that his partner was dead, murdered by the man that their child would swear fealty to. Sick with the knowledge that she would never know the truth of her parents, and how much they wanted and loved her.
Sick with the knowledge that he would never see her again.