The Star of Onderon used to be a luxurious complex about thirty years ago — well, middle-class-with-huge-ambitions luxurious. Things have changed since: it became apparent how the contractors saved credits. A junkie flew his swoop bike right into an apartment window while the family was having breakfast. Like many such towers, now The Star is affordable to cops' future ex-wives.
Alnam comes that very evening. Went to the precinct first to take a shower. A long shower. He knows he hasn't done anything too bad, but Kram Midduk's writhing face is in front of his eyes the whole time he's driving.
But as soon as he leaves the speeder at The Star parking lot (roofed and guarded, and be sure, future archeologist, costs extra), he forgets about Midduk — though he knows he will remember him later. He feels gut-punched — like always before something important and frightening: exams at the academy, or the work day after his father's manifesto. Both times he had to shoot — for real — felt the same way aiming and pressing the trigger. The only time he had to check on a downed suspect. Before proposing to Ormi. And now, visiting his family.
Disengage. Don't think about what you'll be saying, or you'll make it worse.
Alnam goes four levels up. Takes stairs instead of the elevator. Some extra minutes he doesn't have to talk. He hates himself for this — and for not thinking about it.
The stairwell door slides back in its place behind him. The thud makes Alnam jump up a little — even though he knows about the damn door. The apartment — the second door to the left opposite to the stairs. Alnam makes eight steps. Breathe calmer. He puts his hand on the panel. The tune beyond the door is some classic piece.
Ormi answers in half a minute. Her face shows up on the display above the panel. Alnam feels a pang of annoyance: he's told her a thousand times not to turn the video feed on until she knows who's calling. The Star is a safe place — relatively. Extra relatively for a woman and a child.
"Vad," she says carefully. Why carefully?
"Hi, Ormi."
She lets him in. He called her on the way to the precinct. For Ormi, the visit still counts as unexpected.
"How are you doing?" Alnam asks. Ormi nods absent-mindedly and starts saying something, but then Yalgi comes out of his room.
"Dad." Not an emotion in his voice. But he says it as he rushes to embrace Alnam.
Alnam picks him, hugs him, spins him. His stomach doesn't hurt anymore — as if an invisible fist hasn't been punching it for a few hours. What was he so afraid of? This is like getting to the surface when there's no air left in your lungs, like drinking a gallon of cool water in the desert, like getting shot at and being missed! This is better: this is like seeing your son after not having seen him in almost two weeks. Haven't even called — stuck in the precinct all the time. Alnam gets angry at himself, but Yalgi is here, at his heart, and Alnam will call him tomorrow, he will, so everything is fine, no, scratch that, he'll call him today when he gets home...
Two more spins, and Alnam puts Alnam down. Tousles his hair — fair just like his father's. Asks him: "How're you doing, buddy?"
Yalgi's been doing well. School might've got tedious, math might be going tough lately, and Mom might put on her strict face because of that, but Yalgi's doing well — how else can he be doing if his dad's here, here unexpectedly, not even on a weekend? Yalgi takes Alnam to his room — he's got to show him his new drawings and his new holotapes and his new games and to sit next to his father and to play races with him and maybe his father will even give him his blaster pistol — after unloading it and checking ten times over that it's unloaded...
Ormi says looking at them that she's got some work to do and she'll be in the kitchen. Alnam can hardly hear her. Yalgi's room is what you'd expect a ten-year-old from a relatively safe Coruscant district to have. The bed's undone, clothes piled on the floor — Mom hasn't been to his room today. The holo-terminal is barely visible under film-printed drawings. A holo-poster next to the entrance: Anakin Skywalker and Obi-Wan Kenobi stand shoulder to shoulder, lightsabers in hands. They look at some enemies coming from outside the poster. The enemies are not shown, but that doesn't matter as any ten-year-old boy from a relatively safe Coruscant district or any Republic planet knows. Whoever they're facing, Anakin and Obi-Wan are going to win. There simply aren't other options. Trillions of boys know the characteristics of their starfighters and their preferred styles of combat and even the names of their clone lieutenants, and the Jedi smile back to those trillions from their walls — the heady and cocky but so charming Anakin and the composed, modest Obi-Wan. Trillions sleep well because they know: Skywalker and Kenobi are somewhere out there, in space, no matter where but somewhere their help is needed and they'll save everybody even if all hell breaks loose.
Alnam smiles at Skywalker: you owe me one, pal.
He asks Yalgi about school and they sit down to play the racing game and Yalgi — as it must seem to him — naturally shifts the topic towards the Corellian hound pup his friend got for birthday and Alnam forgets the controls — as always — and Yalgi as always teaches him. They sit and talk and play the game and Ormi has to come twice to raise her voice at them — it's indeed late.
"Go take a shower and then it's bed time," she says the second time in the voice neither Alnam wants to argue with. "We're getting up early tomorrow."
Yalgi seems unconvinced by the argument, so Ormi adds: "Your dad also needs to get up early."
Yalgi looks at Alnam, and Alnam nods — although he's got a comp day tomorrow.
While Yalgi is taking shower, Alnam and Ormi have some tea in the kitchen.
"How's your work?"
"As well as it can be. It's war, you know." Ormi smiles and Alnam can almost see the old Ormi in this smile. "There isn't much demand for art nowadays."
"But that exposition you were organizing — it's still on the table, right?"
"It is, but in a different gallery. A smaller one, of course. The artists aren't happy, but what can you do? It's better than nothing, and some of my colleagues have it much worse. Like cancellations and all that."
"You know," he says, "they might accept me in the Domestic Security."
Ormi tosses her head up. "Why are you telling me this?"
It angers Alnam. "Why indeed? I guess we didn't live together for twelve years."
"Vad—"
"Yeah, why would I tell you that? Why? It's not like you've nagged at me for years that I was wasting my potential in the CorSec." It's not like you left because of it, he really wants to say. "And then my father with his politics... Then I didn't have a chance, a single damned chance. Now I do. Now I do, and you ask me why I'm telling you?"
Ormi chews on her upper lip. Then she says, "Vad, I... I understand your frustration. I do. Please, believe me. But this changes nothing. I didn't leave you because of what your father said. If I still owe you anything, it's this fact. I didn't leave you because of that."
Alnam is not sure he believes her. He's not sure if it makes it better or worse.
"I... I know you're in pain," she says softly. "I really do. But so am I. And I won't allow this pain to touch Yalgi."
"Good thing the divorce is not going to—" Alnam says and immediately regrets it. "No, I'm sorry. I... I don't know how I let that slip. I would never blackmail you with our son. I'm sorry."
Ormi opens her mouth. Yalgi leaves the bathroom, and she says nothing.
"Alright," says Alnam as he gets up. "Time for you to go bed — and for me too."
"Come see us at the weekend," says Ormi, and Alnam nods gratefully.
"Sure will. Okay, pilot, nose up — it's just three days. We could go to the cinema, don't you think?"
"I suppose."
"Then choose a movie. Right, and be careful around that pup. A Corellian is a serious dog. When I was in the academy, one cretin brought one into the campus. Well, that one was grown up, but still..." Alnam catches Ormi's look and coughs. "Well. Your mother's right, not the best story." He leans to his son's ear: "But I'll still tell it to you one day."
Yalgi laughs. The sound of it accompanies Alnam until his very home.
.
.
.
The money hits his account in two weeks — six thousand credits. He has kept it in mind all the time that they were supposed to pay him, but when he checks the account and sees the sum, he stares at it for five minutes straight in disbelief.
Six thousand. Six thousand now isn't what it used to be before the war, of course. It's still good money, especially if it's money for jam.
He jammed Midduk alright, he thinks. How do you like the thought your son's college is going to be paid with the money that reeks of fear?
He doesn't like it one bit. But his son will go to college, and Vad Alnam will pay for it — not his father. He likes this thought.
Alnam taps "accept the transaction" almost with an easy heart.
.
.
.
They get in contact with him in another month when he is ready to admit Swauri's promise was nothing. He's made his peace with the notion. Let it be so. Let it — if it means he doesn't have to threaten any Krams Midduks anymore.
But they do get in contact. Swauri calls him into his office one day. A dark-skinned man in plain clothes sits on his table's edge.
"Detective Alnam," the captain says, "this is Agent Onoile Ven from the Republic Domestic Security."
Onoile Ven offers Alnam his hand. Alnam shakes it.
"Glad to finally meet you, Detective," Ven says. His handshake is firm and dry.
"Likewise," says Alnam.
"You have given a good account of yourself. Captain Swauri," Ven nods slightly to the side, "has recommended you. As we know, you have asked to be transferred to the RDS twice."
This doesn't sound like a question, but Onoile Ven falls silent waiting for Alnam's reply.
"Yes, sir, and both times I was rejected on the grounds of—"
"On the grounds of the lack of experience in investigating large-scale cases. Total nonsense. The RDS is the agency that investigates large-scale cases. You were rejected—"
"Because I'm Vygo Alnam's son."
Ven furrows his brow. He doesn't seem to like being interrupted.
"You are absolutely correct," he says. "Droids handle the matters of the preliminary selection. It cuts some costs. But I can tell you, Detective: I know few people on the force who'd trust a droid with covering their asses, be it in field or in court. I don't understand why we trust the droids with selecting those who have to do that covering. Being droids, they cannot fully consider all the information. For example," Ven sticks his forefinger out, "they cannot take into account the fact that you haven't been in contact with your father for many years. You are serving in the CorSec, after all, not running a daughter company."
He gets off the table and steps towards Alnam.
"The Republic needs people like you, Detective. This need is more pressing now than ever before. I understand," Ven smiles at the captain, "that the CorSec needs you as well — not gonna argue with that. But it's wartime. We need the best of the best in the RDS. Do you want to know why it is important?"
Alnam can imagine why, but Ven is clearly waiting for a yes answer.
"I do, sir."
"The RDS works on large-scale cases, on, uh, state-scale cases, if you will. You can argue that there are other entities that also do that and you'll be right: Senate special commissions, antiterrorism squads, military police... But there's a big difference between them — and us. The RDS reports only to the Supreme Chancellor." Ven snaps his fingers unpleasantly loudly. "Maximum efficiency. No stalls, no bureaucracy. No funding issues — you saw your paycheck. And I think your talents deserve to be put to use exactly in such an environment. What do you think, Detective?"
"I—"
"Think it over. Here's my number. The sooner you call, the better," Ven's fingers flicker over the panel of his comlink. "Don't hesitate to call me any time."