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Fox survives a private interview with Vishni Chuchi. Dinner may prove more dangerous.
Fox follows Vishni Chuchi back into the dining room with the distinct feeling that he's just passed an interrogation he hadn’t known was happening.
Riyo looks up so quickly that the gold charms woven through her lilac hair chime against one another.
Her younger brother, Azen, looks between Fox and Vishni with open curiosity.
“Well?” Riyo asks.
Vishni returns to her seat at the head of the table. “He’s still alive.”
Azen snorts into his drink.
Riyo closes her eyes. “Uma.”
“What? He is.”
Fox pulls out the chair beside Riyo. “I’ve had worse private meetings.”
Vishni studies him across the table. “That isn’t reassuring.”
“It wasn’t intended to be.”
Azen looks delighted. Riyo, meanwhile, looks like she’s considering whether she can crawl beneath the table and remain there until everyone leaves.
Fox sits carefully. His dress blacks aren’t designed for a family dinner. They’re designed for military ceremonies, Senate appearances, and reminding the press that the Republic has accidentally given a clone three ropes and enough legal authority to ruin everyone’s week.
The uniform is severe, formal, and completely inappropriate next to the embroidered winter silks worn by the Chuchi family.
Riyo meant to order him civilian clothes months ago.
Then the Zillo Beast escaped, the Guard HQ had to be rebuilt, Kamino was attacked, several senators tried to kill one another, and somebody attempted to assassinate Riyo.
Shopping had lost the strategic competition.
Azen points his fork at Fox’s shoulder. “Do you always wear that?”
“Azen,” Riyo warns.
“It’s a valid question.”
“No, it isn’t.”
Fox looks down at the black jacket, medal ribbons, ARC bar, and Guard-red ropes.
“Most of my clothing is military issue.”
Azen blinks. “All of it?”
“I have fatigues.”
“That’s also military?”
“Yes.”
“Armor?”
“Yes.”
“Sleep clothes?”
Fox pauses. “Technically, fatigues.”
Azen turns toward Riyo with the solemn horror of someone discovering a humanitarian crisis.
“You’re marrying a man with three outfits, and all of them come with weapons.”
Riyo’s cheeks darken.
“We haven’t announced anything.”
“You brought him home, let Uma interrogate him alone, and he’s wearing formal blacks. Either you’re getting married or you’ve committed treason.”
Fox reaches for his water.
“Those aren’t mutually exclusive.”
Azen chokes.
Vishni’s mouth twitches.
Riyo drops her forehead into one hand. “I can argue with the Senate. I can dismantle an Assembly coalition. I can stare down armed assassins. I can’t survive dinner with my own family.”
“That’s because senators have rules,” Azen says. “We know where you live.”
Vishni taps one fingernail against the table.
Both of her children straighten.
Fox notices immediately.
Interesting.
Riyo can refuse the Chancellor, the Judicial Department, and half the Core delegation without blinking.
Her mother gives one tap and she sits like a cadet under inspection.
“Now,” Vishni says, “we should discuss what comes next.”
Riyo reaches beneath the table and finds Fox’s hand.
Her fingers are cool.
Fox turns his palm upward and lets them lace through his.
The assassination attempt has left no visible injuries on her. That almost makes it worse. If the bolt had struck a fraction lower, if Hound’s ARF patrol had arrived 30 seconds later, if Riyo had taken a different route through the plaza, she might not be sitting here.
Fox spent the first hour afterward checking her for blood she insisted wasn’t there.
Riyo spent the second hour touching his face as if making sure he was real too.
They had both understood the same thing.
There might not be time later.
Vishni’s gaze lowers briefly toward their joined hands, then returns to Fox.
“The Chuchi clan doesn’t treat marriage as a private preference,” she says. “It joins families, histories, and obligations.”
Fox nods. “Understood.”
“Do you?”
“Probably not completely.”
Azen smiles. “That’s the correct answer.”
Vishni gives her son a look.
He becomes very interested in his plate.
Fox continues, “I understand that Riyo’s clan is one of Pantora’s oldest recorded lines. Marriage would make me responsible to more than her.”
“It would make us responsible to you as well,” Vishni says.
That catches him off guard.
Fox had expected duty.
He understands duty.
Protection is harder.
“You would be Chuchi,” Vishni says. “Whatever the Republic calls you, whatever number Kamino placed in its records, you would belong to this family.”
Fox’s chest tightens.
Riyo’s thumb brushes his knuckle.
Vishni watches him with the same patient sharpness she used during their private conversation.
“You don’t have to answer immediately,” she says.
“I do.”
“Fox.”
He looks at Riyo.
Her gold eyes are bright.
“I want that,” he says.
The words come out rougher than intended.
Azen looks down, suddenly polite enough not to make a joke.
Vishni inclines her head once.
“Then you should understand the ceremony.”
Riyo exhales. “We were hoping for something quiet.”
“It can be quiet and still be proper.”
“That means long,” Azen tells Fox.
“I gathered.”
“The Moon Goddess Temple ceremony is only two hours if the priest likes you.”
Riyo stares at him. “It isn’t two hours.”
“Yours will be. Uma is going to invite every elder with functional knees.”
“I am not,” Vishni says.
Azen lowers his voice. “She’s absolutely going to.”
Fox keeps his expression neutral. Years in command have prepared him for this exact tactical environment.
“Pantoran marriage rites begin before the altar of the Moon Goddess,” Vishni explains. “The priest records the joining in the temple register, the couple exchanges promises before their clans, and the marriage arches are tattooed across the nose and cheeks.”
She gestures toward the faint gold lines on an old portrait hanging nearby. A severe-looking Pantoran woman stands beside her spouse beneath a silver moon.
“The arches show that two lives have entered one path,” Vishni says. “Gold represents divine light reflected across winter snow. The pattern differs slightly by clan.”
Fox glances at Riyo’s face, imagining gold laid over blue skin.
Then he imagines the same lines crossing his own nose.
The thought settles somewhere deep.
“Are the tattoos permanent?” he asks.
Azen grins. “Planning an escape route?”
“No.”
“Yes,” Vishni says. “They’re permanent.”
“Good.”
Riyo looks at him.
Fox isn’t sure what she sees in his expression, but her fingers tighten around his.
Vishni’s face softens.
“And your tradition?” she asks. “Riyo tells me the clones consider themselves Mandalorian in spirit.”
Fox chooses his answer carefully.
“Manda, spiritually. Culturally, it’s... complicated.”
“Kamino,” Vishni says.
“Yes.”
The word contains enough that he doesn’t need to explain further.
Fox looks down at their linked hands.
“We had pieces. Language. Songs. The Resol’nare. Whatever trainers were willing to pass on, and whatever the Kaminoans didn’t remove.”
Azen’s expression loses its humor.
“Marriage vows are simple,” Fox continues. “Four lines. Both people say them together. Traditionally, there’s an exchange of armor or weapons, something that represents protection and shared responsibility.”
Riyo tilts her head. “You never told me about the armor.”
“I know very little about the formal practice.”
“You know the vows?”
“Yes.”
“Will you say them?”
“Not before the ceremony.”
Azen leans forward. “Are they classified?”
“No.”
“Then why not?”
Fox gives him a level look.
Azen sits back. “Right. Private. Emotional. Horrifying.”
“Exactly.”
Riyo laughs softly.
Vishni considers the information.
“We can include both.”
Riyo blinks. “Both?”
“The temple rite and the Mandalorian vows.”
Fox looks toward her. “Would the priest allow that?”
“The priest will allow what the head of Clan Chuchi requests.”
Azen whispers, “The Moon Goddess has a bureaucracy too.”
Vishni doesn’t look at him. “Keep speaking and you’ll find yourself volunteering to polish the temple floor.”
Azen takes a very serious bite of food.
Riyo’s shoulders finally begin to relax.
“We don’t want the Assembly to know yet,” she says. “Or the Senate.”
“I’m aware.”
“The citizenship recognition protects Fox on Pantora, but Republic law is still…”
“Barbaric?” Vishni offers.
“Complicated.”
“Barbaric with committees.”
Fox nods. “Accurate.”
Vishni reaches for the serving dish and places another portion on Fox’s plate without asking.
He looks down at it.
“You’re too thin,” she says.
Fox has no idea how to respond. He's one of the most fit clones in service. And Riyo seems to like his abs.
Riyo smiles into her glass.
Azen points at him again. “You can command the entire GAR, but you can’t stop Uma feeding you.”
“I’m assessing the threat.”
“There is no defense.”
Vishni turns her attention to Riyo. “At least this one eats what he’s given.”
Riyo groans. “Please don’t.”
Fox looks between them.
Vishni’s expression takes on a dangerous warmth.
“Riyo’s last boyfriend complained that Pantoran food was too heavily seasoned.”
Azen nearly drops his fork.
Riyo flushes purple across her cheeks and throat. “Uma.”
“He also wore his outdoor boots inside the family shrine.”
Fox frowns. “Why?”
“We never discovered an answer,” Vishni says. “He referred to temple icons as decorative antiques, argued with our archivist about clan history, and asked whether the winter fasting period could be moved because it interfered with a resort booking.”
Azen covers his face.
Riyo looks ready to crawl into the nearest ventilation shaft.
Vishni isn’t finished.
“He sent Riyo flowers she was allergic to, forgot Azen’s name twice, and attempted to explain Pantoran taxation law to me.”
Fox looks at Riyo. “Did he understand Pantoran taxation law?”
“No,” all three Chuchis say together.
Fox considers this.
“I’ve heard of less efficient assassination methods.”
Azen makes a strangled noise.
Vishni laughs, warm and startled.
Riyo stares at Fox for half a second before dissolving into helpless laughter beside him.
He feels absurdly pleased.
Vishni reaches across the table and briefly covers Fox’s free hand with hers.
“You’re better than the last one.”
Fox glances toward Riyo.
“How low is that standard?”
“Underground,” Azen says.
Riyo kicks him beneath the table.
He yelps.
Fox decides the meeting is going well.