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At six months pregnant, Riyo discovered that everyone has an opinion about her unborn child.
Unfortunately, most of them are currently in her apartment.
“The naming ceremony happens on Pantora,” Vishni says.
Azen looks offended. “Why?”
“Because that is where our family conducts naming ceremonies.”
“The baby lives on Coruscant.”
“The baby is half Pantoran.”
“The baby is also half clone.”
Across the sitting room, Thorn points at Azen. “Exactly. Which means we should discuss weapons training.”
Riyo slowly lowers her tea.
“No.”
“Not immediately,” Thorn says. “Obviously.”
Thire looks up from the datapad balanced on his knee. “Define immediately.”
“Five?”
“Five years?”
Thorn hesitates.
Fox, beside Riyo on the sofa, says, “No.”
“Thank you,” Riyo murmurs.
“Seven.”
She turns to stare at her husband.
Fox keeps his face perfectly straight.
Stone leans against the wall. “Seven is reasonable for supervised blaster safety.”
“Why are we discussing this?” Riyo asks.
“Preparedness,” Hound says.
Grizzer is sprawled across his boots, blissfully unaware that she has already been volunteered as the baby’s future guardian.
Ghost stands near the nursery doorway with her arms folded. “The child should learn situational awareness first.”
Vishni blinks. “The child should learn to walk first.”
“Those can overlap.”
Riyo looks toward Scalper for help.
Scalper is eating a pastry.
Traitor.
Azen points at Thorn. “I’m going to be the favorite uncle.”
“You’re the biological uncle,” Thorn says. “That’s not the same as favorite.”
“You’re not an uncle.”
Thorn looks genuinely insulted.
Thire gestures around the room. “Legally debatable.”
“It is not legally debatable,” Riyo says.
Thire’s expression suggests he has statutes ready.
Fox quietly takes the datapad away from him.
Stone folds his arms. “I’m teaching defensive positioning.”
Hound says, “Tracking.”
Ghost says, “Stealth.”
Thorn says, “Explosives.”
Everyone looks at him.
“Eventually.”
Vishni draws herself up. “This child will also learn Pantoran history, clan traditions, formal greetings, and proper festival etiquette.”
Azen groans. “Nobody likes festival etiquette.”
“You will when you stop being fourteen.”
“I’m not fourteen.”
“Then the situation is worse than I thought.”
Riyo starts laughing.
She cannot help it.
Fox looks at her, then at the room.
There are Guardsmen arguing over emergency extraction routes. Her mother is already planning ceremonial clothes. Azen is negotiating uncle privileges with Thorn as though they are dividing territory. Hound has apparently ordered a child-safe massiff harness.
Fox’s hand settles over the curve of her stomach.
The baby kicks against his palm.
His expression softens instantly.
Riyo covers his hand with hers.
“We’re outnumbered,” she whispers.
Fox surveys both families.
“Yes.”
“Should we be worried?”
Another argument erupts over whether the baby’s first word will be Basic, Pantoran, or Mando’a.
Fox considers it.
“No,” he says. “They are.”
Riyo laughs harder.
Their child is going to grow up surrounded by two enormous, fiercely protective clans.
There is absolutely no escape.
Somewhere in the nursery, the reinforced crib sits beneath seven evacuation maps, already claimed by everyone except the baby personally yet.
Riyo thinks that might be perfect.