Here is a draft snippet of a work in progress:
Tears of the daughter, tears of the Sun
By Seamus Bayne
“It is wise to bring some water, when one goes out to look for water.”
– Arab proverb
“When you’re the child of a hero, or a villain for that matter, no one sees you. You’re a pane of glass, and they gaze right through you, looking into the past for the lighting and thunder that preceded you.”
“So, you resent that your mother is considered a hero?”
“My mother is a hero; that’s why I agreed to the interview.”
“So you think the allegations that have come up with the Mulrooney biography are exaggerated?”
“Mulrooney’s a liar; my mother never suggested they abandon the Nimrod lander.”
The reporter leaned in close, across the café table, “How can you prove that? Are you willing to go on the record and call him a liar? Ready for the anal exam you will get in the media if I publish your story? The guy’s a living legend.”
“He’s a liar, and I am. I’m willing to go one step further, Miss Williams; I’m going to share my private correspondence between my mother and I from the mission.”
“I’ve never heard there was any such correspondence. It would be a matter of public record, wouldn’t it?” The well-dressed reporter asked, arching her eyebrow.
“It would be if my mother had sent it over public channels, but she and I were using a private channel normally reserved for emergencies and were encrypting it. My mother was a very private woman.”
The reporter pulled out an electric cigarette and loaded a nicotine cartridge, drawing heavily on the drugged water vapor before exhaling, “You’re serious about this. You have never-seen evidence from the biggest catastrophe in the Russo-American alliance’s lunar colonization expedition and you’re just going to give it to me? Why me?”
“I’m deadly serious. I chose you because your father was Bill Williams, the war anchor killed in action in Afghanistan in 2023.”
She shifted in her chair and looked out down the boulevard into the hollow night, “So?” she asked.
“So you, if anyone, will understand.” Amelia said, searching the reporters fine boned face and green eyes through tortoise-shell frames.
“What do you think I will understand?” Williams asked.
“What it feels like to live in the shadow of your parent because it is the only thing you have left of them.”
“I think you need a therapist, Amelia, I’m a reporter.”
“Damn it, Williams, this is a legitimate story; the biggest story of your career, and a chance to help me defend my mother’s reputation, her legacy.”
“You’re asking a lot, we’ll take a ton of heat for this, I’ll take a ton of heat for this. You must tell the truth here and prove this is legitimate before I commit word one to the net.”
Amelia smiled, “Oh, I’ve all the proof you want. I’ve printed every message out with all the times and date stamps, plus transmission codes and I have the encryption key. If you know what you’re doing everything can corroborated within the communication logs from the mission.”
Deirdre Williams sighed and took another drag on her cigarette feeling the cool, moist air hit her throat as her heart-rate picked up.
“Okay, show me.”