Outside, the anchors clicked and locked. The umbilical extended and pressurized. The airlock beeped and opened. Then Lem took a deep breath, switched on his greaves, felt the stronger pull of gravity at his feet, and walked down the umbilical toward the terminal gate and whatever Father had up his sleeve.
It was not what Lem had expected. As he stepped through the final door and into the terminal, the cheers and applause of several hundred people and the flashing cameras of several dozen reporters assaulted him from all sides. It was a media frenzy. To his left, a group of perhaps a hundred females, some as young as ten years old and others old enough to be their mothers, screamed like rabid fans at a red-carpet event, waving signs and banners expressing their undying love for him or asking for his hand in marriage. To his right, applauding with much more restraint and yet still showing a great deal of enthusiasm, was a crowd of Juke employees, some of whom Lem had known on a casual basis before setting out, but most of whom were complete strangers to him. The press was bunched together behind a roped-off section of the terminal, their faces hidden behind their rapidly clicking cameras. And there, in the center of the whole circus, fifteen meters away, directly in front of Lem, smiling ear to ear with his arms extended in that universal invitation of an embrace, was Father.
Lem knew instantly the role he was supposed to play here. He made eye contact with Father, smiled, walked briskly toward him, and threw himself into Father’s embrace. The cameras went crazy. The crowd gave a collective Ahh, as if nothing plucked at the heartstrings more than the reunion of a father and son.
Father’s embrace was tight, pressing them hard into each other, as if Father feared something might suck Lem back out into space. They stayed that way for at least thirty seconds—not too long so as to be awkward for those watching, but long enough to erase any doubt of their absolute love and devotion for each other.
Then Father broke the embrace and stepped back, holding Lem at arm’s length, smiling and regarding his son. Lem was surprised to see tears in Father’s eyes, and for a moment Lem even thought them genuine. Then he reminded himself that Father had orchestrated all of this, including this moment, and that Father never left anything to chance. If tears were visible, then tears were meant to be seen.
Lem briefly considered conjuring up watery eyes of his own—he could do so easily and rather convincingly—but he figured Father would want him to play the role of the strong, masculine one, the son who leaves for war as a boy but who gallantly returns as a man. That was probably the plan anyway.
The cameras went into high gear again. Tears in Ukko Jukes’s eyes? Unprecedented! Click-click-click-click-click.
“It’s good to see you, Father.”
“Welcome home, son.”
Ukko put an arm around Lem, and they moved for the exit, pushing their way through the crowd. Six or seven men from Father’s security detail kept the reporters and screaming fans at bay, making a path.
“Lem, what was it like to fight the Formics?” one reporter yelled, his arm extending from the crowd, holding a recording device.
“Lem, will you assist your father in his personal fight against the invaders?” yelled another.
“Did you and your crew really take on the whole Formic ship?”
“What will you say to the families who’ve lost loved ones?”
Lem and Father were moving toward a skimmer Father had parked inside the building. There were more security guards around it. The windows were tinted.
Just before they reached it, Ukko stopped, turned back, and faced the crowd, his face still plastered with a smile, his voice loud enough to be heard over the din. “Ladies and gentlemen, please. My son just returned home from nearly two years in space. He and his crew have been through a series of traumatic events. He will be happy to answer all of your individual questions on another occasion. For now, please respect a family’s privacy. He and I have a lot of catching up to do.”
A security guard opened the skimmer door. Father ushered Lem inside and squeezed in behind him, taking the seat opposite. The door closed, and the skimmer took off. It was quiet and luxurious inside. The seats were wide, deeply cushioned, and covered in leather. Even the lap belts and shoulder straps were the height of comfort, yet another reminder that Lem was truly home. He buckled himself in so as not to be thrown about in the low gravity, then addressed his father. “You just promised those reporters personal interviews with me.”
“You’ll need to give a lot of those, Lem,” said Ukko. “People want to hear your story.”
“And what story is that?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten it already.”
“What story are they expecting, Father?” said Lem. “What did you tell them? You obviously fed them something. They were asking about my involvement with the Formics.”
“Again, good name choice there. The media loves the word ‘Formic.’ The whole world’s using it. It’s the hard K sound. You can’t argue with a hard K. Like ‘tank’ or ‘kill’ or ‘Juke.’”
“‘Formic’ was Benyawe’s idea,” said Lem.