Ghosts of Columbia

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “Tedious? In a way. On Monday, I warned a man to be careful that he did not suffer an accidental death. On Tuesday, he died in a steamer accident that I do not believe was an accident. I have this feeling that some others are going to try to prove that I created the accident.”

  “What storm is this that blows so contrary?”

  “Contrary indeed. But that doesn’t really count.” I forced a smile. “From what I hear, you should know about that.”

  “… that murdered me. I would forget it fain, but, oh, it presses to my memory like damned guilty deeds to sinners’ minds… . How shall that faith return again to earth?”

  Faith? Did I even have faith, or was I believing what I wanted? Hearing what I wanted from a demented ghost who at least seemed to listen when no one else did? When I stopped asking questions, Carolynne was gone.

  What could I do, even as the noose was tightening? Listen to a half-sentient ghost as if she were alive?

  I had enough of Branston-Hay’s letterhead to compose a couple of letters, since I could use blank second sheets from our own department’s stock; all the second sheets were the same. Sometimes paper helped.

  The first letter was to Minister Holmbek, protesting the perversion of the VSU Babbage Center research toward developing “psychic phenomena erasure technologies.” The second one was also to Holmbek, protesting the failure to extend the research contract as blackmail. I wrote it more politely than that, suggesting that “the Center’s disinclination to pursue psychically destructive technologies has resulted in withdrawal of federal funding contrary to the original letter of agreement.”

  Branston-Hay hadn’t been that courageous, but his family would rather have him a dead hero than a dead coward, and, besides, it just might keep me alive.

  I was running out of time, and at least one of the questions was how Waetjen and Warbeck intended to pin Branston-Hay’s death on me. Maybe I had nuts or something in my car barn the same size as the one that had seized poor Branston-Hay’s throttle.

  And then again, maybe I hadn’t, but did now. I set down the memos and rummaged in the desk for one of the flashes that I kept putting in safe places and never finding again. There was one behind the Babbage disk case.

  I walked out to the car barn through the freezing drizzle and studied the workbench and bolt bins under the dim overhead light and my flash. Was the bin cover at the end less dusty? I opened it. There were two different sizes of nuts in the last bin, and I never mixed sizes. The larger ones were clearly newer.

  I pulled them out and pocketed them, then dusted off all the bin covers and the top of the workbench. That way, there would be nothing to indicate that only one bin had been used. I closed the car barn and walked down the lawn in the darkness toward the tangles of black raspberry thickets. There I pocketed two of the nuts and scattered the rest, well back into the thickets where no one would find them unless they were to uproot the entire yard. If they did that … I shrugged. Nothing would save me then.

  I walked slowly back to the house. My gut reaction was to run, but that was clearly what Warbeck or Waetjen or vanBecton had in mind. Somehow I had to put the light back on them—get suspicions raised about the watch.

  I smiled grimly. Perhaps I could plant a rumor or two, get their pot boiling and force them to act hastily. In the meantime, I had a lot to wind up—one hell of a lot.

  The first thing I did was polish my prints off the two nuts and put them into the false drawer in the bedroom, the one containing miscellaneous “evidence.”

  I needed to get my geese in order, so to speak, because I doubted there was much time left before the rotten grain hit the mill wheel. Part of dealing with a problem lies in how you set things up before everything starts flying, and some of that is hard evidence, and some is how you handle the paperwork—and the truth. I decided that my approach would have to be truthful lying, so to speak.

  It was late by the time I had finished and printed all four memoranda. After flicking off the difference engine, I began to reread the copies I had printed.

  I studied the first memo. Not so polished as I would have liked, but, given the contents, and its accuracy, I doubted that the press would balk too much.

  FROM: Ralston McGuiness

  TO: WLA

  SUBJECT: Psychic Research Budget Reviews

  DATE: October 10, 1993

  Background

  The Budget Review Office has identified more than a dozen concealed university-based psychic research projects, including those which have already been compromised by some form of public disclosure, such as St. Louis …

  The majority have been funded under Babbage-related research lines within the Defense Ministry budget …

  This research has identified clear potential for implementing deghosting techniques …

  Despite public denials, Speaker Hartpence receives regular reports on major projects …

  Leaders of virtually all major religious orders, but particularly those of the Anglican-Baptists, the Roman Catholic Church, the Spirit of God, the Unified Congregation of the Holy Spirit, and the Latter Day Saints, have taken positions firmly opposing such research …

  International Considerations

  Similar psychic research is ongoing in the Austro-Hungarian Empire, as reported in both international media and by the Spazi …

  To date, Spazi reports (attached) indicate that agents of Japan, Austro-Hungary, and New France have been definitely identified in conjunction with espionage surrounding Columbian psychic research …

  Several unsolved murders, including the Vanderbraak State University incident, appear associated with such espionage … clear indications that Speaker Hartpence’s staff has begun efforts to divert inquiries onto either New French sources or even former government personnel …

  Recommendations

  Since the presidency has no power over the actual composition and disbursement of Defense Ministry funds and since the Speaker has publicly avoided any comment on psychic research, bringing the matter before the national media would probably prove counterproductive at this time. Some media favorable to the Speaker would attribute any exposure of the Speaker’s covert psychic research program to pure political motivations.

  Likewise, attempting to meet with the Speaker could also prove counterproductive …

  Recommend that you continue to use budgetary analyses and disclosure in areas where a greater public sympathy and understanding exist, and where the Speaker’s policies run counter to that public sympathy, such as the size of naval forces and the need for totally free transoceanic trade …

  Also recommend that you avoid any discussions or comments about psychic phenomena and research funding. This one is a loser!

  I grinned. While it certainly wasn’t perfect, it had just the right feel. It even sounded like Ralston, and the twist was, of course, that the disclosure of the memorandum would be totally against its contents, which would reinforce its validity with the press. Even the sensationalist videolink reporters would appreciate that.

  The second memo I had composed dealt with the upcoming presidential budget review of the Defense Ministry outlays.

  TO: GDvB

  FROM: Elrik vanFlaam

  Budget Controller

  SUBJECT: Psychic Research Budget Reviews

  DATE: October 12, 1993

  The new Babbage engines being used by the president’s budget examiners have greater integrative capabilities than the earlier models. In addition, the president’s budget task force on program funding distribution now has the capability to cross-index disbursements by program category and amount, and such analyses are proceeding.

  A leak from the black side of the budget has also been integrated, which will reveal psychic research disbursements by region. Plotting these against the institutions receiving funds will clearly outline the scope and magnitude of the program.

  In view of the Speaker’s avowed disavowal of Defense Ministry research on psychic phenomena, the publication of
any such analyses could prove somewhat difficult to reconcile.

  The budget controller’s memo was almost innocuous, except for the last line. That was the trick—to make each document as innocuous as possible, but to have the composite paint a damning picture. That way, it also gave the reporters away to claim that they had “discovered” the scandal, rather than having it handed to them.

  The third memo, to GH (Gerald Hartpence) from CA (Charles Asquith), apparently just dealt with press office support. Again, the implications were almost totally between the lines.

  TO: GH

  FROM: CA

  SUBJECT: Press Support Allocations

  DATE: October 15, 1993

  As discussed, we have reassigned another press officer to provide logistical and informational support to the psychic research issue …

  The new fact sheets showing a comparative decline in all psychic research will be ready shortly, as will a full briefing book …

  We should be ready to brief you on the initiative to assume credit for the Japanese initiative …

  “Whither goest thou?” asked Carolynne.

  “I’ll make these available to the press.”

  “Is there no pity sitting in the clouds?”

  No pity? “The time is past for pity—that is, if I want to keep my head somewhere close to my body.”

  “With treacherous revolt … this shall slay them both …”

  “Probably. Except … is a false document which brings out the truth a forgery or a fraud?”

  Carolynne looked at me, and I thought I saw tears in her ghostly eyes, and then she was gone. I wished I could have gone to bed, or held her, or something. But I couldn’t do any of those things. Instead, I began to create another false document. Because it was meant to be crude, it didn’t take that long. I even printed it up in the cheap-looking Courier style.

  WHY DO THE NEW HEATHEN RAGE AGAINST THE SPIRITS?

  The corrupt government in our federal city has conspired to destroy the spirits of our fathers and forefathers. A man is nothing without his spirit. The haughtiest and the mightiest shall find that their possessions and their worldly attributes shall be for naught, and that their wealth shall avail them nothing …

  After reading the diatribe of the “Order of Jeremiah” through, I printed ten copies on draft on my cheapest copy paper, addressed the necessary envelopes, then went up to bed and collapsed.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  On Thursday morning I awoke alone, as was definitely getting to be even more common, in a cold and silent house, with snowflakes drifting lazily in the darkness outside my window. The snowflakes were sporadic and mostly disappeared even before I started my running.

  I paused by the door, glancing down at the white enamel of the kitchen windowsills, polished virtually every day Marie came. Then I took a deep, cold breath before jogging down the drive. Running in the dark wasn’t that much fun, and I had to cut my climb to the hillcrest short of the ridge because I needed to drive to Lebanon to meet a train and return well before my eleven o’clock.

  I hurried through making breakfast, deciding to shower and shave after I ate. When I sat down to the hot rolled oats and milk and a strong pot of Russian Imperial tea, I thought about wiring Llysette, but, given her moods in the morning—especially at six o’clock—decided to hold that until later.

  After cutting an apple into sections, and slowly chewing, I thought about what else I could do to anticipate whatever disaster would hit, but there’s a time to act, and a time to respond. Unhappily, the situation still required me to respond mostly—at least until I could find a lever to unbalance vanBecton. So far, he’d kept pushing, and I hadn’t responded until now—with my upcoming distribution of the cheap-looking flier from the “Order of Jeremiah” and the letters from Gerald Branston-Hay.

  The memos would come later, and vanBecton wouldn’t know that they were from me—assuming everything went as planned, which it wouldn’t. In any case, that meant he’d have to push farther. I just hoped I could dodge the next push, or that it wasn’t fatal.

  In the meantime, delivering my hastily created fliers meant getting them to their destinations without a direct link to Vanderbraak Centre. I did know how to do that. Unfortunately, it meant driving to Lebanon, which was why I had dragged myself up so early.

  / With that cheerful thought, I rinsed the dishes and headed up for the shower. Pausing at the landing window, I watched a few lazy white flakes drift toward the partly covered lawn before shaking myself back into motion.

  I took Route Five south through the scattered flakes before I got on the Ragged Mountain Highway west. I passed Alexandria and the biomass power plant just after seven, slowing for only one hauler filled with wood chips.

  The rest of the drive to Lebanon was quiet, with only a few haulers and steamers on the road. I was standing trackside at the station a good ten minutes before the express stopped. I’d already posted the first letter from Gerald to Minister Holmbek in the box outside the station. The second would be posted from Styxx on the way back to the university.

  The conductor looked for my ticket as I stepped up.

  “No ticket. Need to mail these.” I held up the letters.

  He smiled, a knowing smile that acknowledged I wasn’t supposed to do it, but that he’d seen more than a few men or women who needed faster post service on some debit payments. “Make it quick, sir.”

  I did, smiling at the conductor on the way down the mail car steps, and resting somewhat more easily knowing that the postmark would be from New Amsterdam.

  On the drive back to Vanderbraak Centre, I thought a lot, probably too much, but I did drop the second letter from Branston-Hay into the postbox in Styxx. I doubted either would really get to Holmbek, but they might, although that wasn’t their main purpose. The copies I’d kept were the useful ones. Then I reflected and went inside, almost right after the Styxx post center opened, and bought an inordinate amount of postage, knowing that I would certainly need it. If I didn’t, the money would be immaterial. The clerk shook her head, her white bonnet bobbing as she did.

  With the sun up, I saw a handful more steamers on the way back, mostly battered older farm wagons.

  As I finally neared the square in Vanderbraak Centre, I did keep an eye out. A little paranoia never hurts, especially when you know they are out to get you, but there wasn’t a local watch steamer in sight, not even when I pulled up in front of Samaha’s.

  Louie Samaha and another white-haired man glanced briefly at me and lowered their voices—another sign promising trouble—as I retrieved my paper. Wonder of wonders: there were actually two papers in mister Derkin’s box, the first time I’d ever seen anything there. Perhaps he did exist.

  With a nod to Louie, who nodded back as I left the silver dime on the counter, I scanned the front page of the Post-Courier, but the dirigible-turbo fight dominated the ink, and even the charge that Governor vanHasten’s son had forged his father’s signature to a cheque given to a well-known Asten courtesan was but a tiny story below the fold.

  Llysette’s Reo was not yet in the car park, but again, that was not especially surprising, not since I was relatively early.

  Gilda smiled briefly from the main office.

  “Good morning, Gilda. How are you on this wonderfully warm and bright morning?”

  “Doktor Eschbach, how kind of you to inquire. Your presence brings light into all of our lives … just like a good forest fire brings warmth to the creatures of the wood and vale.”

  “I do so appreciate your kind words.”

  “I thought you would. Doktor Doniger is most unhappy, and I think it concerns you, since Dean Er Recchus called him out before he could even finish his coffee, and he was mumbling about former government officials.”

  “How absolutely cheering.” I bestowed an exaggerated smile upon her, and she responded in kind. Then I went upstairs, where my breath almost steamed in the cold of the hall that the overhead glow squares did little to relieve, a
nd unlocked my office.

  After getting settled behind my desk, I penned a short note to Llysette, wishing her well with her rehearsals and conveying more than mere affection, then slipped it into an envelope.

  By then it was still only a quarter before ten, and, not wanting to waste too much time, I reluctantly dug into the Environmental Politics 2B papers. My reluctance was indeed warranted, given the dismal quality of what I read. Why was it so hard for them to understand that, just because a politician claimed he or she was environmentalist, politicians were still politicians? After all, the subsidies for steamers and the fuel taxes weren’t enacted for environmental reasons but strategic ones. Speaker Aspinall never met a tree he didn’t think needed to be turned into lumber or a coal mine that he didn’t love—but he pushed both the subsidies and the taxes through. Why? Because Ferdinand and Maximilian—the father, not the idiot son who was deGaulle’s puppet—would have strangled Columbia if we’d ever become too dependent on foreign oil. Now, the taxes are seen as great environmental initiatives. I tried not to lose my breakfast at the soupy rhetoric asserting such nonsense, and instead contented myself with an excess of red ink.

  At ten-thirty I trotted down to the Music and Theatre Department, since I knew Llysette was teaching Diction then. After putting the envelope in her box, I turned to Martha Philips. “Don’t tell her it’s there. Just let her find it when she will.”