Chubs wisely took the offered hand and shook it, uneasy.
“You may not have allowed us to prevent those deaths,” said Lem, “but you were doing what you thought was right. I commend you for that. I only pray God forgives us all.”
Chubs didn’t say a word. What could he say?
Lem launched across the room, climbed into the push tube, adjusted the polarity of his vambraces and shins, and said, “Fourteen.”
The tube whooshed him away. When he reached his quarters, he moved straight to his holodesk. “Show me the helm.”
Six video feeds appeared in the air above his desk, all taken from tiny cameras Lem had placed throughout the helm. He didn’t have audio, but he didn’t need it. He saw how some of the crew looked askance at Chubs with pure contempt.
Lem relaxed. All he had to do now was wait.
*
He didn’t have to wait too long. Benyawe came to his quarters a few hours later. “That was quite a performance,” she said. Lem was in his hammock, zipped to his waist, a box of chocolates floating in front of him. “Is that your reward to yourself?” she asked, gesturing to the chocolates.
“Nina. One of the cooks makes them for me. She brought me a box a little while ago.”
“No doubt to comfort you as you deal with your shame.” She forced a smile.
“They’re quite good,” said Lem, ignoring the jibe. “You should try one.” Without waiting for her to answer he removed one from the box and pushed it through the air to her. It floated into her outstretched hand, and she popped it into her mouth and chewed.
“Little heavy for my taste,” said Benyawe.
“The chocolate or my performance?”
“Both. When you almost cried, I thought that a bit much. Very convincing, mind you. But a bit much.”
“Everything I said was true.”
“Nearly everything,” said Benyawe. “You said those people died because of us, that we would have warned them if not for Chubs. That’s not true. Most of them we wouldn’t have reached before the Formics did. In fact, in nearly every case, there’s nothing we could have done. Had we not fled the Formic ship and come out this far, we likely would have died from the Formics venting their gamma plasma. Chubs was keeping us alive. And yet you practically tied him to the stake and set the thing aflame. That wasn’t very sporting. He has been nothing but dutiful to you.”
“Dutiful to my father, you mean.”
“He saved your life, Lem,” said Benyawe.
That was true enough, thought Lem. During the attack on the Formic ship, Chubs had acted swiftly and saved Lem from a charging Formic who seemed bent on ripping him limb from limb.
“When this is all over,” said Lem, “I will see to it that my father rewards Chubs for his service.”
“If he gives you the captainship, that is,” said Benyawe. “If he plays his part in this little theatrical production of yours.”
“Maybe you weren’t paying attention at the memorial service, Benyawe. I resigned the captainship.”
She looked annoyed. “Please, Lem. What choice does Chubs have now but to give it back to you and commit to the crew that he will never interfere with your orders again? If he doesn’t do it, there’s already talk of it being taken from him.”
Lem feigned shock. “Mutiny?”
“Don’t pretend to be appalled, Lem. That’s what you want, isn’t it?”
Now he sincerely looked surprised. “You don’t honestly think I want mutiny, do you?”
She frowned and folded her arms. “Probably not. But you might not be too quick to squelch it.”
He smiled. “That is the captain’s duty. Not mine.”
She laughed. “You know, sometimes I look at you and see a younger version of your father, and sometimes I see a better version of your father.”
“Yet you always see my father. I’m not sure how to take that.”
“You are your father’s son … whether you want to be or not.”
He was surprised by that statement. Was it that evident that he hoped to distance himself from Father? He had been careful never to disparage Father in front of anyone, especially the crew. If anything, he had always spoken of his love for Father, which was not easily expressed but which was true nonetheless. He did love Father. Not in a traditional sense, perhaps, but the respect he held for Father was, he had to admit, a love of sorts.
There was a chime, and the female voice of the computer announced, “Chief Officer Patrick Chubs.”
Benyawe smirked. “Shouldn’t that be Captain Chubs?”
Lem ignored her. “Enter,” he said.
The door slid open, and Chubs floated into the room. He looked tired and not at all surprised to see Benyawe. “So how do you want to do this exactly?” he asked Lem.
“Do what?” Lem asked.