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He had expected the worst. The coverage would no doubt be about the failed drone attack. Economic pundits would make lofty estimations about how much each drone was worth and how quickly Juke Limited would file for bankruptcy. They would call it the end of the Ukko Jukes era, the beginning of the company's decline. The market would be in a tizzy. Juke stock would drop. The Board would be in a panic. It would be chaos at headquarters.
Well, Father, you dug your own grave. Now you can sleep in it.
But the drone attack wasn't getting any coverage. Instead, a British news anchor in a tight navy suit stood in front of a giant map of southeast China like a miscast meteorologist. With stylus in hand, the anchor tapped the map, leaving blinking red dots behind. "More of the Formic reinforcements were reported to have made landfall in this area here," he said, "gassing the cities of Hezhou, Yangshan, Liannan, and Lianshan." There were blinking red lights everywhere. Southeast China was lit up like a Christmas tree.
The reporter tapped a spot slightly northeast of the others, faced the camera, and put on a grave expression. "Four other transports landed here in Lianzhou, where several thousand Chinese troops had encamped. Sources inform us that this was the camp of General Sima Jinping, who recently destroyed one of the Formic landers with the help of the Mobile Operations Police. The casualty estimates are in the thousands. Our satellites picked up these images. We warn our audience that what you are about to see may not be suitable for children."
Lem's mind was reeling. Reinforcements? He flipped through the channels to another feed and started putting the pieces together. There was mention of a secret attack on the Formic ship, but no one seemed to know what country was responsible. The investigation was ongoing. The Russians were already denying responsibility, as were the Italians, which Lem found laughable. Yes, like anyone even suspected you, Italy.
Despoina shuffled into the kitchen wearing Lem's oxford shirt from the day before and her undergarments. Lem tensed. He was not in the mood for an awkward morning-after conversation. He focused on the screen, while cabinet doors opened behind him and pots were moved around.
A hand briefly rubbed his back. "Good morning," she said groggily.
He turned and faced her, as he knew he must, and she stood on her tiptoes and gave him a brief kiss on the cheek. Then she turned back to the stovetop and started making breakfast. The casualness of it all bothered him, as if his being here was the most natural thing in the world, as if this was how every morning started: with him, focused on the news; and her
, shuffling about, hair unkempt, half dressed, making their breakfast. Just another day in paradise. The thought made him more than a little uneasy. He had not intended things to go this far, and it worried him that she didn't seem to exhibit the least bit of regret.
He couldn't let that distract him, however. He went back to the news feeds, flipping between three different reports, catching snippets here and there. They were calling it the second wave. There were no landers this time, and for that everyone was grateful, but there was little else to be happy about. The Formics had adopted far more aggressive tactics. And the transports that had descended in the second wave were not the only ones suddenly attacking cities. Several transports that had come in the first wave, and whose troops had been gassing uninhabited rural areas, abandoned those places to target populated areas.
It was worse than Lem had imagined. The drones had initiated a counterattack that the Chinese would pay for in blood. Father hadn't just failed in his drone strike, he had kicked the war into overdrive; he had made everything ten times worse.
Lem suddenly felt sick. He could see it in his mind. He could picture a Chinese family, a father, mother, two young children, already fearful of the Formics, worried that their city might be next, huddled in their living room as the mother sings a reassuring song. The father gets up, parts the curtain at the window, and sees a transport alight on his lawn. A rush of Formics disembark, sprayers in hand. The father runs to his family, pushing them toward the back door, which flies open an instant later as the Formics rush in, spraying the gas that will melt the children's faces.
A hand touched Lem's forearm, and he recoiled.
Despoina laughed. "Sorry. I didn't mean to scare you. Here." She held up a mug capped with a lid and straw. "Do you like hot cocoa? It's my mother's recipe. Well actually it's my great-great-great"--she waved a dismissive hand--"well, I don't know many greats--my super-great-grandmother's recipe. But everyone after her has claimed it as her own, so in that sense it's my mother's, too." She held the mug closer to his face, smiling.
Lem took it and forced a smile. "Thanks."
She stood there watching him in anticipation, waiting for him to try it.
He took a sip. It tasted like every other hot cocoa he had ever had. "Wow. That's great."
She brightened. "It's the chocolate bar chunks." She reached to her left and grabbed the wrapper off the counter. "You chop up these chocolate chunks, melt them down, and mix it in. It's from this chocolatier in southern France. My mother buys a box and has it shipped over every Thanksgiving so she can have it in time for her Christmas parties." She turned over the wrapper and looked at the label. "Isn't it crazy to think that people are still chocolatiers?" She broke off one of the remaining squares of chocolate and popped it in her mouth. "I mean, how does someone even decide they want to be a chocolatier?"
There was a pause, and then Lem tore his eyes away from the screen. She had asked him a question. "Chocolatiers? Uh, I'm guessing every kid in the world would want to be one if they knew such a thing was possible."
"Exactly. I know I would have. You wonder though, is there a school for chocolatiers?" She laughed. "My word, can you imagine? I would get so fat." She popped another chocolate square in her mouth. "And the curriculum. What do you minor in? Nuts?" She held up the wrapper to him and turned her head away. "Take this evil away from me. It's too delicious."
Lem had no choice but to take it.
Her hands were suddenly on his chest. "Delicious like you." Her voice was just above a whisper. She closed her eyes, head back, lips puckered.
Lem winced. How had this gone so wrong so quickly? Despoina was the most restrained of Father's secretaries, the most demure. In the office she rarely said a word.
She had been that way when he had shown up at Father's office the day before and asked her out. She was so surprised by his invitation, so taken aback, that she had assumed she had misunderstood.
"Are you saying you want me to reserve dinner for you and your father?" she had said. "Because Simona typically handles his dinner reservations."
Lem had looked at her with mild amusement, standing beside her desk, leaning on the door frame of her glass cubicle. "No. I'm asking you to come have dinner with me. The two of us. Alone. At a restaurant."
She had blinked, not sure how to respond.
Her reaction hadn't surprised him. She was not the kind of woman who drew a man's eye. Simple haircut, modest conservative wardrobe, a small frame that made her seem younger than she probably was. She was not unattractive, really, but she wasn't exactly glamorous either. Which, combined with her shyness, meant she probably wasn't getting a lot of attention from the menfolk.
Lem had come because he had needed a distraction. He had followed Father's advice and cut the communication lines to Victor and Imala's shuttle. The drones were on their way; there was nothing Lem could do.
But as he had flown around in his skimmer, waiting for the inevitable to happen, avoiding going back to the warehouse, where he would have to face Dr. Benyawe and explain his actions, the thought had occurred to him to go to Father's office. There were questions that still needed answering, after all. Why had Father met with someone from the U.S. State Department, for example? Who else was he meeting with? What was he planning?
