Ghosts of Columbia (12 page)

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Authors: L.E. Modesitt Jr.

Tags: #Science Fiction, #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Alternate History, #United States, #Literature & Fiction

BOOK: Ghosts of Columbia
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You can figure out either kind, because the way it’s structured gives it away in the first case, and the documentation in the second is certainly elaborate.
Still, it was well past midnight before I could break through, and that was as much luck as anything.
Some of the notes were especially chilling.
… headset design … multipoint electrode sensors to enhance the ambient magnetic field … A-H design overstresses basal personality …
… Heisler ignored possibility of disassociated field duplication … phased array of field sensors … duplication of field perturbations would emulate basal personality …
… personality implantation … greater density perfusion at high field strength and minimal transfer rate …
… Babbage electro-fluidics emulate field capture parameters …
That one made sense, given what I knew about ghosting. Instant death doesn’t create ghosts. It’s a stress-related, magnetic-field-enhanced personality transfer phenomenon, and Gerald had merely quantified the electronic and magnetic conditions.
The last entry in the notes was worse.
Empirical proof of capture—MM case. Theoretically, the psychic magnetonet should work in most conditions, since a new ghost is clearly the strongest … Practically the disassociator should also work … but the ethical problems preclude construction … Suspect it might not work unless the subject is in an agitated condition … No way to test at this point.
The rest of the files dealt with specifications. Two were actually schematics, and after reading the descriptions of the “basal field disassociator” and the “perturbation replicator” I realized I might need the lock picks again—if I weren’t already too late—or a good Babbage assembly shop. The third file that looked interesting was called a personality storage file, and required what looked like a modified scanner, although it didn’t look like any scanner I had ever seen.
There was also what looked to be an elaborate protocol of some sort attached to the personality storage file—again with explanations under such headings as “visual delineation file,” “image structure,” and “requirements for compression/decompression.”
I thanked Minister vanBredakoff for the two years undercover as a Babbage programmer in the Brit’s mercantile Babbage net. That and a skeptical nature helped.
Theoretically, neither the disassociator nor the replicator looked that hard to build. I began to sketch what I needed … and got colder and colder. Most of the components were almost off the shelf, although I’d have to check the specifications with Bruce as soon as I could. Then, almost as an afterthought, I sketched out the scanner I needed before I stumbled upstairs and into bed, leaving my clothes strewn across the settee under the window.
If Branston-Hay were doing what I thought, Miranda’s murder was almost inconsequential—unless she had known.
I lay in the darkness, in my cold bed under crisp cold sheets, listening to the cold sleet. Even the faint remnant of Llysette’s perfume somehow smelled cold.
B
ecause I scarcely slept well, even as late as I had collapsed on Monday night, getting up early Tuesday was almost welcome. Or it would have been if not for the headache that had come with the morning. I treated that by skipping my exercise routine and having a cup of hot chocolate and a bigger breakfast than normal—toast with raspberry preserves, one of the last fresh pears from the tree, picked on Sunday before the ice storm, and two poached eggs. I knew I’d pay later with tighter trousers or more exercise.
A long hot shower helped, and I felt less like a ghost myself when I headed out to the car barn, carrying the empty box that had contained my difference engine. After gingerly stepping down the stone walk to avoid the icy spots, I crossed the bluestone to the barn, where, after opening the door, I put the box in the Stanley’s front trunk and closed it.
I hadn’t used firearms in years, and although I had a license, the last thing I wanted to do at the moment was to appear in the watch office to register to purchase one. If I used the ones I wasn’t supposed to have, that could raise some rather confining issues. The government looks unkindly upon unregistered guns, especially those originating in government service—directly or indirectly.
Since any weapon would be better than none, particularly if I were considered unarmed, I thought about the professional slingshot I had used to keep the crows from my garden. I almost took it from the bracket in the barn and tucked it under the front seat of the Stanley. Then I had to laugh. A slingshot? If things got as bad as I thought they might, digging out what I wasn’t supposed to have would be the least of my problems.
That thought bothered me, because I kept thinking that this minor problem or
that illegality would be the least of my problems. That meant I had problems bigger than I really wanted to consider.
With all that, leather folder on the seat beside me, I was on the road south to Zuider before eight. I held my breath going down the hill on Deacon’s Lane, but after that the roads were clear of the scattered ice.
Zuider sat on the southwest end of Lochmeer, the biggest lake in New Bruges, at least the biggest one totally inside the state. The Indians had called it Winniesomething-or-other, but the Dutch settlers opted for a variation on the familiar, and Lochmeer the lake became, and remained.
I turned south on Route Five, which followed the Wijk south for almost fifteen miles. Fifteen miles of stone-fenced walls, some enclosing winter-turned fields, some enclosing stands of sugar maples, others enclosing meadows for scattered sheep.
The stone walls reflected their heritage, each stone precisely placed, and replaced almost as soon as the frost heaved it out of position. Some were more than chest high, probably for the dairy herds that fed the New Bruges cheese industry.
It took me about twenty-five minutes to reach the spot where the Wijk winds west and Route Five swings east toward Lochmeer and Zuider. The well-trimmed apple orchards before I reached the three Loon Lakes reproached me. The trees made my hasty trimming look haphazard by comparison, and I felt there was yet another task awaiting me—sometime.
Most of Route Five had been redone, with passing lanes every five miles, but I always seemed to run up behind a hauler just at the end of the passing lanes, and that morning was certainly no exception.
Past the last Loon Lake, where I actually saw a pair of loons beyond the marshes, I slowed behind a spotless white tank-hauler—vanEmsden’s Dairy, of course. From there I crawled past the fish hatchery and back southeast on Route Five until the hauler turned off for Gessen just outside of Zuider.
Even on the new road with its passing lanes, it took almost an hour from Vanderbraak Centre. I got the Stanley up to eighty once, about half its red line. I actually had it up close to the red line when I first got it. It was after Elspeth’s death, and I took it out on the closed runway at Pautuxent. I had turned the thermals on and the Stanley had almost blended into the runway cement. They never did find out who I was, but I wouldn’t recommend doing something that stupid.
Closer to Zuider, going that fast wasn’t advisable anyway, but I’ve always had a tendency to push the red line.
Unlike some places, LBI opened at nine, and what I wanted was definitely special. Bruce had helped me with the specifications of the SII fluidic difference engine and the additional modules. Besides, we went back a long way, not in a fashion that was readily available to Billy vanBecton.
Bruce’s place is about two blocks behind Union Street, where all the banks are, and there was plenty of parking in his small lot. The sign above the door was
simple enough—LBI DIFFERENCE DESIGNERS. The initials stood for Leveraal Brothers, International. I’d never met his older brother, but Bruce had certainly been helpful.
A slight bleep sounded when I opened the door and carried the box into the store. Unlike most difference engine places, nothing was on display. If you go to LBI, it’s either custom-made or custom-ordered. The SII logo was displayed, but not overpoweringly.
“Herr Doktor,” offered Bruce, emerging from the back room, looking very bearded and academic under the silver-rimmed glasses, and very unlike a Babbage technician in his cravat and vest. “Troubles already? SII won’t be happy.”
“No expletives, please. I know how you feel about excessive and overpriced degrees. And there’s no problem. The box is empty. I’ll pick it up with my next commission for you.”
“Do I really want to know what can I do for you?”
“Probably not, but I have a problem.”
“We specialize in problems. Don’t guarantee solutions, but problems we can certainly create.”
I nodded toward the paper-stacked cubicle he called an office.
“Fine. You’re paying.”
He sat down, and I opened my folder, laying out the first rough schematic I’d drawn the night before. “Can you build this?”
He studied the drawing for a while. “I may have to improvise in places, but I can get the same effect. This looks like some professor’s theory.” He pointed. “You use that much amperage there and you’ll have fused circuits here. A few other little problems like that. Nothing insurmountable.” He cleared his throat. “What in hell is it?”
“It should generate and maybe project a magnetic field. Don’t point it at anyone you like. As for what it really is—I don’t know exactly. And you don’t want to.”
“Why do I want to build it, then?”
“Three reasons. First, I’ll pay you. Second, I’m a good guy. Third, you want to be able to claim you have built the largest number of strange Babbage-related devices in the world.”
“I may pass on the third. How soon do you need this?” Bruce took off the glasses and set them beside the blank screen of his own difference engine.
“Tomorrow.”
“I can’t. I just can’t. Hoosler wants a system complete. It’s a hard contract.” He picked up the glasses and polished them with a spotless handkerchief pulled from his vest.
I sighed and laid two hundred dollars in bills on the shortest stack of papers. “That’s half the bonus.”
“Reason number one looks even better. Who’s chasing you?”
“No one—yet.”
“You think so, but you’re not sure, or you wouldn’t be carrying empty boxes around as if they were heavy.”
I pulled out the second schematic and the sketch of the file storage hardware.
“I can’t do two more—even with all the money in the world. I have to be in business next year.”
“I won’t need the second and third until Saturday.”
“That I can do. What’s this one? Or can you tell me?”
“This one I know. It’s called something like a perturbation replicator.”
“It replicates trouble? Why would you want something like that?”
“Not trouble. It’s supposed to duplicate ghosts and suck the duplicate into Babbage disks.”
“That’s trouble.” Bruce shook his head. “This is weird. No one would believe me if I told them.” He looked at me and added, “But I won’t.”
“The other is some sort of electronic file conversion system.” I pointed to my crude drawing. “I think it converts fields into a storage protocol.”
“That looks more standard—as if anything you have is really standard.”
“I like you, too.” I nodded. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Mornings like this, it feels just like ten years ago, and you know how I feel about that.” Bruce’s comments reflected the fact that he had never been that thrilled about being a technician for the Spazi.
“I know. Let’s hope it’s not.”
“It really is that bad, isn’t it?”
“If you don’t hear anything, don’t ask.”
“It’s that bad. You need some firepower?”
I considered. “No.”
“You can ask tomorrow.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“I take it you want this first thing portable? How much power? How long do you want it to operate?”
“A spring trigger switch, I think, and as much power as will fit.”
“It’s not going to fit under your coat. I can tell you that.”
“I suspected.” I rose. “Just like old times?”
“God, I hope not. Good luck, Johan.”
“I don’t know as I can rely on luck now.”
“You never had the best.”
I straightened up and left the drawings on his piled papers. “Tell me about it, Bruce.”
“I’m sorry. That’s not what I meant.”
“I know. But it still hurts.” I forced a smile. “I’ll be back in the morning. Eight o’clock all right? I know it’s before you open, but …”
“It’ll be done then or not at all.”
“Let me buy some spare disks.”
“The highest-density ones, I assume.”
“Of course.”
He bowed, and I paid and carried the case of disks back to the steamer, not noting anyone strange. That didn’t mean much, although Bruce had been a techie, and no one paid attention to the techies in government, and they generally paid less attention to them out of government. After all, what harm could a technician do? Didn’t they just do what they were told?
The pair of loons had taken night—or something—by the time I passed the Loon Lakes, and I got stuck behind another vanEmsden tanker, also spotless but puffing gray smoke, a sign that the boiler burners were out of trim.
I got back to the university by quarter to ten, later than I had hoped because I stopped by the New Bruges Bank to deposit the International Import cheque, which wouldn’t compensate for what I was spending on hardware but might help. Then I rushed to the office, picking up my messages in a quick sweep.
“My, you’d think something important was about to happen,” Gilda observed acerbically.
“I’m sorry. Good morning, Gilda.”
“Good morning, Herr Doktor Eschbach”.
“I did say I was sorry.”
“Just like all men. You think a few sweet words make up for everything.”
I caught the grin, and answered. “Of course. That’s what women want, isn’t it? Sweet words of deception?”
“You are impossible.” She arched an eyebrow.
“No. Merely difficult.”
“Better Doktor duBoise than me.”
I smiled.
“You may go now, Herr Doktor.”
“I can see that I stand dismissed.” With a nod, I made my way upstairs and unlocked my office.
“At last, he’s actually late,” said Grimaldi as he hurried past me for his ten o’clock. “Will wonders never cease?”
“Not these days.”
After I unloaded my folder, I picked up the papers I had left and finished grading the last handful, then recorded the generally abysmal marks. I swallowed hard and looked at the tests that needed to be graded.
After a moment, I picked up the handset and dialed Llysette’s office/studio.
“Hello. A student I have …”
“This is Johan. I had to go to Zuider this morning to get some work done on my difference engine. I just got back.”
“I will call you in a few minutes.”
“Fine.”
Click
Preoccupied or angry? She had been the one who had been busy the night before.
I started in on the tests, which were, unfortunately, worse than the papers, and I had read perhaps a dozen when the wireset rang.
“Johan Eschbach.”
“Johan. I am sorry, but the student … oh, I was so angry! My fault, she said it was. My fault that the music she had not learned. My fault that she had not listened.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Oh, I cannot stand it! It is my fault? They have no … no responsibility to learn? I should beat notes into their thick little Dutch heads.”
“You do sound angry.”
“Johan! I am not a child.”

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