Su stood up politely as the feeder reached her table. “Thank you for agreeing to meet me, Ms. Cheney.”
“I should be thanking you, Ms. Yan.” She beamed the smile of those comfortable with cameras and publicity. “Normally there’s a three-month waiting list to get to speak to anyone in the U.N.”
“Yes,” agreed Su as they both sat down. “We are kept on short leashes.”
“They’ve let yours out far enough to reach Luna.”
Su smiled deprecatingly. “Ah, that took a little doing. I was officially here doing some labor negotiations…” She broke off. “But then, you would know that already.”
“I would.” Ms. Cheney nodded once. “In fact, I’ve written about it.”
“Of course.” Su frequently scanned the stream for her own name. It was partly vanity, but mostly it was to keep an eye on how she was perceived. The bad opinion of her colleagues was one thing, but public opinion turned against her could be the end of her.
Su set that thought aside. “And how was my son when you spoke to him?”
Ms. Cheney’s smile was both curious and sly. “He told you about me?”
“Was it supposed to be confidential?” returned Su.
“Oh, no.” She waved her hand, dismissing any such suggestion. “But I wasn’t aware that you two spoke much.”
Now it was Su’s turn to smile slyly. “We keep that quiet. It’s not good for either of our reputations.”
“I suppose not. To answer your question, I’m happy to tell you he was quite well.” She paused and her eyes slid up and sideways. Su had the distinct feeling some implant had just been activated. Probably a recorder. “Now, may I ask what you wanted to see me about?” asked Ms. Cheney.
Su folded her hands on the table and smoothed her thoughts out. Time to get to work. “Actually, I also came to Luna about a stream piece.”
The feeder tipped her head in polite curiosity. “One I’ve written, or one you’d like me to write?”
I see, Ms. Cheney, that you’ve had experience with politicians. “One I’d like you to write. If you’re willing to accommodate me, I am in a position to offer you access to the blast site and some of the U.N. personnel involved in the investigation.” And aren’t I going to have the time convincing Sadiq to go along with it.
Ms. Cheney’s eyes gleamed for a moment, but experience and suspicion doused the light. “A great deal would depend on what you want me to write.”
“Naturally.” Su inclined her head. “You know Edmund Waicek?”
Ms. Cheney’s eyes slid sideways again. Su was certain the feeder was looking Edmund up, fetching the pertinent details from some internally stored database to be displayed on a contact lens or spoken softly into her ear. “Not personally, but I know his political opinions better than I’d care to.”
“You know that his parents died in the Bradbury Rebellion?” Su asked, positive Ms. Cheney had the information available.
One more slide of Ms. Cheney’s eyes. Look that up. Don’t make any statement of fact unless you’re sure. “That’s been gone over several times. He’s made speeches about it.”
I have lost more than can ever be recovered, and I am only one of many. Su remembered the speech very well. He’d done it with tears in his eyes. They might even have been real.
“But did you know that they were Fullerists?” asked Su.
“What?” Ms. Cheney jerked out of her internal communion with her data implants. It was just as well. She would not find this little fact in the shallows of the stream. Edmund had made sure of that.
Su nodded slowly. “The senior Waiceks were friends and supporters of Ted Fuller. They sent their son into politics to be a friendly voice for the colonies. Then the rebellion happened, and one of Fuller’s…less reliable associates feared they’d expose his embezzlements and bundled them off on an unreliable ship with one of the last loads of U.N. sympathizers.”
Neither of them spoke for a long time. They sat there with their own thoughts, letting the world flow around them. Su couldn’t guess at Ms. Cheney’s imaginings. Her own were lost in the thought of the little tin-can ships that were Fuller’s real crime. All those ships, pulled from the repair yards when there weren’t enough sound vessels in port to exile the dissenters, or suspected dissenters. Ships with poor reactor shielding, ships with spent fuel tanks, ships with hulls already weak or pinholed, just waiting to be cut to ribbons by the random stones that flew between Earth and Mars.
No matter what his apologists said about evil counselors, it was those ships—those dead human beings—not his wish for freedom, that doomed Ted Fuller’s cause and all that might have come of it.