Interludia.

I. Punctus contra Punctum.

(Coruscant, ca. 3 ABY.)

Tea, thank the Goddess. Yet it was so predictable; nothing Zevulon did surprised him anymore. This was indicative not of a gradual maturation on the part of the son, nor a greater depth of empathy on the part of the father. Instead it attested to the Human psyche's capacity to accept considerable abuse, up to and including a constant state of astonishment.

The fact, for example, that he still could not stay angry with Zev for more than minutes at a time had long since ceased to surprise. Fifteen years prior their record had been fixed at two and three quarters hours; there it would remain. On that memorable occasion—when little Zev had blazoned the sitting-room walls with wobbly reinterpretations of his favorite holovid characters, in permanent marker, just before his father's immediate superior arrived for supper—Maximilian had simmered until the Colonel and his catty wife were safely out the door. Just as he frogmarched the errant child to his room and was inhaling for a dressing-down, Maximillian had found himself fixed with a single soulful Look of Regret. As if by some supernatural means, all anger evaporated. Frogmarching instantly drew to a halt. The scolding was subjected to such severe abbreviation as to be rendered unrecognizable and somehow ended up concluding with a hug, whilst subsequent disciplinary action was limited to an afternoon's forced labor repainting said sitting room walls, and temporary confiscation of all markers found on the boy's person.

Despite the constantly decreasing sincerity and increasing pity found in the signature Look of Regret, most of Zev's high jinks—and their mutual spats—had been variants on the same model. Zevulon misbehaved; Maximilian got mad at him. Zevulon utilized the Look; Maximilian absolved him. Through an efficiency born of long practice, they had shortened this cycle to an average seven standard minutes per iteration. The motions were as familiar to both of them as anything from Basic Training.

Unfortunately, Maximilian's inability to let a family disagreement last the night had never rubbed off on his son.

They did not talk as much these days. In compensation, they had developed a vocabulary of gesture that avoided the painful specificity of speech. Zev's Look had perhaps been its starting point. The boy was the principal innovator of this language, devising ways to express such unsavory sentiments as 'I don't want to talk about this,' 'who gives a damn,' 'any subject but defensive tactics' and—a symbol to which he had of late had frequent recourse—'you disgust me.' Since Zevulon's progress in this tongue far outstripped his own, Maximilian was constantly appending new entries to his personal lexicography. The two most recent gestures exchanged, however, he had long since decrypted.

Stomping away to bed at any hour prior to 2130: 'I hate you.'

An offering of tea the morning after one has stomped away to bed at any hour prior to 2130: 'I apologize.'

The younger Veers reappeared bearing tea-bowls. The long-since-perfected Look of Regret was not long in following.

"Thank you," said the elder. He poured for both of them. It meant: 'I forgive you.' And as he passed a bowl to his son, their fingers brushed longer than was strictly necessary, and that meant: 'Always.'

They had taken six sips each by the time Zev spoke. "I guess I just don't understand how Humans could be any different, fundamentally, from non-Humans."

Oh, Mother Goddess, not again. Frankly, though, this was anything but a surprise.

"I mean, a sentient is a sentient."

Under such circumstances and for all that he loved his son, three weeks of leave spent in this household could seem like an eon. Maximilian was too tired of the game to make another gesture. "I would prefer that we not speak of this. You made your opinions perfectly clear last evening."

They finished their tea in silence.

Maximilian placed his bowl face down on the tea tray and rose. Zevulon did the same; his heels clicked as he stood.

"Do comm me, sometimes," Maximilian asked. "And please don't get yourself killed."

There were times he thought he was forgetting those aspects of her that he could not see in their child. Perhaps it saddened him a touch, but, truth be told, Zev had inherited everything that was admirable in her. He felt a sudden urge to bless his son, to place a hand on his head and ask the Goddess to favor him. It was something they had not done since before Zev's mother had died. A skeptical voice told him that it would embarrass the young man, and that, perhaps, he had forgotten how.

"Of course, sir," Zev replied.

Maximilian pulled him into a hug. He was surprised to find that he was trying not to cry. And then he was surprised to find that he had stopped trying.

...