Chapter 8: Revelations

Dorothy Chandler sat in one of the private dining rooms of Epicurus Restaurant, a upper-class dining establishment in the mid-level of one of the wealthier of the many "suburban" domes of Luna City. It was one of her favourite haunts, specializing in Italian food. It also had a rear service entrance that allowed her to arrive and leave discreetly, while her contact du jour walked through the main entrance, completely unconnected to the famous reporter.

That this was a regular haunt of hers was no mere accident. Unknown to anyone, Dorothy Chandler, "Chandler the Handler", was a silent investor in the eatery. It was both a profitable side-line for her, and a wonderful place to sit and let the contact relax in complete privacy, away from the prying eyes of Dorothy's office at the all-too-visible main offices of Solaria News Network.

As she sipped her Copernicus Crater Vermentino wine and nibbled on a slice of Martian Caciocavallo cheese, she contemplated the latest fly to enter her web. A secretary or administration assistant of some sort was desperate to "do the right thing", and begged for a meeting – one where they could talk without risk of being observed. A small green light near the door glowed, warning her that her appointment had arrived, on time.

After a short wait, just long enough for Dorothy's lunch guest to chat with the maître d' and for the two to walk to this room from the front door, she heard two steps approaching the corridor. Dorothy pressed a hidden button and the corridor microphone ceased picking up the sounds. The room itself was deliberately sound-proofed enough that most conversations would not carry beyond the door.

Leonardo, the maître d' and brother of the majority owner of the establishment, rapped on the seemingly-flimsy door and slid it aside. Dorothy rose politely as the subject of this interview entered the cozy dining chamber, offering a plush chair to the woman who had nervously entered behind the tall, impressively-built man.

"Ah," Dorothy greeted, "welcome." She gestured to the seat opposite her, nearest the door. "I trust you found this establishment all right?"

"Yes, thank you," said the mysterious guest, as she cautiously settled herself down. Her outfit, a business-like but relatively inexpensive pantsuit, announced to the world that she wasn't the usual high-flying executive that the restaurant catered to, but a humbler administrative level worker bee.

"Wine?" Dorothy offered. The woman opposite her nodded nervously. "Leonardo, be a dear and have someone bring us a bottle of the house Vermentino, will you?" Dorothy pointed to her almost-empty wine glass.

"Yes, Madame. And may I recommend we refresh your plate with some Caciocavallo cheese for an appetizer? Oh, and our Special for the Day is a flavourful Bourtheto tomato and fish stew, with fresh steamed broccoli on the side." Leonardo stepped back through the doorway and closed the glass panel behind him. It immediately turned opaque.

"Now, Ms. Dulwich – or Mary, can I call you Mary?" Dorothy enquired. Her guest nodded rapidly, like a hunted rabbit. "Mary, then. You said you had something for me?"

Nervously, wordlessly, Mary Dulwich, the Very Reverend Matthew Calhoun's long-suffering secretary, pulled a tiny memory chip out of a pocket of her pantsuit and placed it on Dorothy's bread-and-butter plate.

As Mary and Dorothy dined on Bourtheto at Epicurus, Conservative Party Campaign Director of Media Relations Roger Wilcox was dining on a far more plebeian Reuben on rye with a side order of coleslaw, in the more Spartan comfort of the War Room, in an office tower in the Capitol Dome.

Around him, summoned to the emergency meeting that Roger himself had called, other directors were taking their places.

Sarah Miles regarded the stout Director sourly as she waited for the Party Whip to arrive. "I don't know how you can eat at a time like this."

"This sandwich?" Roger asked. "I missed my usual lunch thanks to that mysterious Bart Carver person." He pointed to the clock display at the lower right corner of the main display screen, which read 14:33. "Have to keep the old engine fuelled. It's either this, or put it into a blender and turn it into a shake."

Sarah turned up her nose at the suggestion of liquefying sauerkraut and corned beef. "That sounds revolting."

"And that's why I didn't put it into a blender and turn it into a shake."

The Party Whip chose that particular moment to enter the room. "Roger, glad you're here. Hello, Sarah. So, Roger, what have you got?"

"Indigestion," Sarah interposed. "His body just doesn't know it yet."

Roger rolled his eyes at Sarah as his fellow directors snickered, but stuck to addressing the Party Whip's question. "As we knew, Bart's been out of the public eye all his life. Apparently, he's related by marriage to the Brenner News Network's chief legal beagle."

Everyone reacted to that revelation with some alarm. "That might explain why we're no longer being backed by Brenner's goons," the Whip fretted. "They're busy tossing us under the bus while they play up the Very Reverend Calhoun's candidacy. Did you see the morning reports? They're talking up that old religious fraud like he walks on water, slamming poor old Tom all the while."

"Jesus Christ," muttered one despairing director.

"Apparently the Reverend claims a close family-type relationship with Him," Roger quipped. "Anyway, when we try to get something in a work history on old Bart here, we get almost nothing. He's some sort of consultant, mostly for Bren-Cable. We don't know, but we suspect he's doing their dirty work, gathering dirt on their enemies, that sort of thing."

"We don't say such things about our allies," Sarah admonished Roger. "They are presumed to act as decent, moral individuals."

"Sarah, they're not acting like our allies at the moment, nor in a way that I'd describe as 'decent and moral'," the Whip reminded his senior Director. "In fact, as he's now competing against us for votes, I suspect we can count the rest of the press as being closer to being our allies than anyone at Brenner News Network."

Roger picked up the thread again. "The date stamp on the election application is actually before Tom and Barbara left on their latest trip. Since that date, every word our dear leader and his family have said and every movement they've done has been recorded in Brenner papers and on the Brenner News Network in the most harshly critical light possible. Buzz is definitely no longer our ally. He's thrown his hat into Calhoun's ring."

Groans echoed around the War Room.

Roger ground on relentlessly. "Now, I'd like authorization to hire a detective. There's something about this Bart Carver that doesn't make sense. Why have they hired him? What does he do?"

The Party Whip looked around to the Finance Director, Michael "Mickey" O'Toole. "You OK with that?"

"We've got the budget for it," Mickey shrugged.

"OK, Roger, go for it."

Roger nodded, bolted back the last of the Reuben, and departed for the Media Relations offices.

Fred Lucas was having a ball ever since his sister's little secret had been revealed to the world. First, he had been allowed to go with her last weekend to that naturist resort biodome just outside of Luna City, which had proved to be a very good time, with no worries about getting clothing dirty and with lots of kids his own age. Then, after his sister's little trouble at school, he'd been given uniformed protection.