Another message from Father appeared.
“I like the name ‘Formic,’ by the way. No one has given the species a name that sticks. Everyone keeps saying ‘aliens,’ which I’ve always thought is a ridiculous word. Formic I can get behind. A nice hard K sound at the end. And I like the connection with ants. Tell Benyawe we’re going with that. I’ll have it on the networks in the morning. As for the skirmish with the Formic ship, you did good. I’m glad you’re alive. Once again, it was astronomically stupid, but it demonstrated great courage. I’m sad it didn’t work. Had you stopped the ship, you could have prevented a lot of heartache and disaster. Thousands are dying in China. It’s surreal.”
Father was answering Lem’s message in pieces, probably responding to it as he read it. Again, it was classic Father. Give an inkling of praise and then squash it with stated disappointment. It took courage, then “had you stopped it, all these people wouldn’t have died.” As if it were Lem’s fault that the Formics were killing civilians, as if all those deaths were on Lem’s hands because he had failed in the battle.
Nobody else would probably read it that way, Lem knew, but nobody knew Father as well as he did. Pat you on the back with one hand, stab you in the back with the other.
A third message. A short one.
“Send me the names of the crewmen you lost. I want to notify their families immediately.”
It surprised Lem. A bit of humanity from Father. Lem hadn’t intended to share that information, but of course he should have. He had been the insensitive one this time. Why hadn’t he thought of that? It should have been the first thing he shared.
Lem typed in the names he remembered. Only two-thirds of them came to mind, and some of those were probably wrong. Was it O’Brien or O’Ryan? Canterglast? Or Caunterglast? He needed to get the spelling right for Father to find them in the company’s database and look up the next of kin. Lem searched through his holopad. The names weren’t there. Embarrassed, he stepped out into the hall and found Chubs, hovering by the door. Lem explained the situation.
“I’ll type them in for you,” said Chubs. He pulled himself into the room and tapped away at the keyboard, making corrections to the names Lem had put in and adding in the ones Lem had forgotten. No hesitating, no stopping to jog his memory; the names just came out of him. He knew these people. They had meant something to him.
He finished. “There you go.”
Lem didn’t meet his eye, embarrassed. “Thank you.”
“You ready for some food? You’ve been in here a few hours.”
“Please,” said Lem.
Chubs nodded and left. Lem watched him go, feeling a pang of guilt for having taken away the man’s authority. Chubs deserved to be the captain. He knew the crew. They respected him, followed him.
Lem pushed the thought away. Chubs would have his reward. When the company was Lem’s, he would need good men, and if Chubs were willing, Lem would have him at his side.
Lem closed the door and pushed send. Ten minutes later Chubs returned with a container of pasta. “Don’t expect much from this. The café is no better than the lobby.”
Lem offered his thanks and said, “What happened to the free miner? Victor and Imala?”
“They left. Their shuttle took off toward Luna or Earth. I had the ship track them for as long as we could. I figured if you had wanted me to stop them you would have said so in the lobby.”
Lem nodded, wondering what Chubs meant exactly by “stop them.” Had Chubs killed for Father before? Would he have killed for Lem if Lem had asked?
Lem ate in silence. When he finished, a final message from Father came through.
“I’ve been talking with the Board. Get to Luna in eight days. That’s a Tuesday. Come to the Juke north port at three p.m. Luna time. I’ll be waiting for you. I need your help with this Formic situation, son. We’ve got work to do.”
Lem reread the message. Father was actually asking for his help. The great Jukes was actually admitting that Lem had something to contribute, that the two of them would work as a team. He had even called Lem “son.”
For half a second Lem believed it was genuine. Then all rational thought returned. Father was intending to use him somehow. That was obvious. How, Lem wasn’t sure, but experience had taught Lem to expect the worst and be on guard. He shook his head. You laid it on too thick, Father. Calling me “son”? You’re getting sloppy in your old age.