Ghosts of Columbia (24 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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So I took a break and decided to finish something I’d started over a week earlier—a transitional identity.
It’s amazing what you can do with the right Babbage programs and a decent printer. A laminator helps, too, but you can get the same effect with an iron and certain plastics.
I created Vic Nuustrom—lift operator at the mills down in Waarstrom, in season. The real Nuustrom, of course, had moved out to Deseret, but he looked roughly like me, except he had been heavier. When you’ve been in the business, you always keep a bolthole open. I already had a complete alternate identity as one Peter Hloddn, a ledgerman who was only marginally successful at the wholesale purveying of office supplies. He had a bank account and a few bills, a credit history, and a driver’s permit issued in New Ostend—all real. The depth wasn’t that great, but since it predated vanBecton, and I’d never let Minister Wattson know about it either, it was relatively safe, as such things went.
Nuustrom was a transitional identity—you never go straight from one to another. There’s a way to phase into a new identity.
After trimming the heavy stock, the seal printed on a transparent overlay, and setting the picture in place, I studied it, then used the tweezers for fine adjustments before setting the plastic down and lifting the iron.
I held my breath, but the lamination worked, as did the pictures taken more than a year earlier in a red plaid lumberjack shirt. They were just overexposed enough to be convincing as a vehicle operator’s license. Nuustrom, of course, had a hauler’s endorsement, which was no problem since I’d done that for a year in London. You drive a lorry on those roads, and you can drive anywhere.
I reburied the files in the difference engine and totally erased the actual identity section. They’d expect me to have some way of creating an alternate identity. I just didn’t want them to know what it was. I also didn’t know when I’d need the card, but it looked like it was going to be soon, and when I did, I probably wouldn’t have time to create it.
The whole process took less than an hour, and I had something besides lines of code that didn’t work. That’s a trick I learned a long time ago. When you get stuck on a big project, do something smaller and concrete. It helps your sense of accomplishment and a lot more.
Then I went back to the kitchen, looked longingly at the remaining bottles of Grolsch, and fixed a pot of that excessively strong Russian Imperial blend tea. If anything would keep me going, that would.
Sometime in the early hours of the morning, I got an image, the man with the scales in his hand, who immediately rumbled out, “Justice must be done. Justice must be done.”
Those were the words I associated with old Goodman Hunsler—that stern and righteous dourness that makes you feel like your whole life has been one unending sin. For a moment, I shivered. The image was definitely far too strong. But it was worse than that, because it wasn’t a ghost, just a hollow projection. So why was I so upset? Because I didn’t want to deal with the issue of justice?
I really didn’t feel up to thinking about that, so I sucked him into storage with the ghost-collecting hardware and turned off the machines and the lights.
“Such weeds are memories of those worser hours; put them off.” Carolynne perched on the banister halfway up the stairs. She was wearing a high-necked dress of some sort. I guess the aura of righteousness had gotten to her as well.
“No. I suppose not. But it’s hard to take all that righteousness.”
“O you kind gods, cure this great breach …”
“I know. I know. I’ve created a lot of mistakes.”
“Alack, alack! ‘Tis wonder that thy life and wits at once had not concluded all.” She was gone, and I looked stupidly into the darkness before walking back into the study and through the kitchen.
“Carolynne?” I called several times, but she didn’t reappear. “Carolynne?”
Finally I went up to a cold bed and collapsed, still dreaming about how to make my justice ghost more merciful. Pure justice, I just couldn’t take. Who could?
“Cure this great breach?” Who could do that, either?
W
ednesday didn’t start much better than Tuesday, and even the feeling of partial success I’d felt four hours before dissolved under the barrage of the alarm’s chimes. I finally dug myself out of sleep and pulled on exercise clothes. I even managed to run over the top of the hill and to the end of the ridge, despite the cold mist that pricked my face like fine needles. Each foot hit the ground like an anvil on the way back.
Breakfast wasn’t much, not with the state of my larder, but I managed with Russian Imperial tea, the rest of the biscuits, and a pear I reclaimed from the cellar. After leaving the dishes in the sink, I showered and dressed, deciding that I was going to be late. The hell with office hours. I needed to add mercy to justice.
I was standing in the foyer when Marie rapped on the door.
“Good morning, Doctor Eschbach. Have you had the chance to—” Marie had her coat off before I had closed the door.
“Good morning, Marie. No, but I will shop this afternoon. Unhappily, the dishes are merely rinsed.”
“A few dishes, that’s not much. You leave me too little to earn my pay. But you had best lay in a goodly supply of staples, Doktor. Do you think that you could run down to town for food in a snowstorm anytime?” Her expression was somewhere between a sniff and a snort.
“I will lay in significant supplies. I promise. But this morning I’ll be working in the study for an hour or two. I hope that doesn’t disturb you.”
“Since I cannot bake or prepare food, there being nothing to prepare, I will finish the kitchen and then, if you do not mind, I will reorder the fruit cellar. It has needed cleaning—a good cleaning—for a long time.” She looked at me and added, “A very long time.” She rolled up the cuffs of her gray long-sleeved blouse. I went into the study and turned on the difference engine.
Adding mercy to justice was far easier said than done, especially with Babbage codes, but when I left at ten-thirty, I had a projected ghost image that felt somewhat softer, with a sense of justice. That had to do, even though it still gave me a chill, knowing that I scarcely measured up to the ideal I’d created. I also wondered if what I felt was merely my imagination or something another person could feel, but I wasn’t about to call Marie in for an opinion.
I almost felt guilty when I disassociated the ghost construct, but how could I fill my study with ghosts of justice in various stages of sensibility? And the ethical issues? I just shook my head, imagining that Carolynne was probably doing worse
than that, were she even watching. Or
did
she think, or merely quote halfremembered dialogue at me?
When I left for the university, Marie was still in the cellar, mumbling about my various failures. I guess I wasn’t quite Dutch enough for her, or perhaps the cleanliness was the feminine aspect of Dutch culture.
Gray and cold—that was still the weather as I drove down Deacon’s Lane and into Vanderbraak Centre to pick up the paper at Samaha’s. It was more like December than early November, and I hoped that didn’t mean a really long winter.
David—Herr Professor Doktor Doniger—was on me as soon as I reached my box. “Johan, I know you’ve been working hard, but do you suppose you could let Gilda know if you won’t make office hours?”
“No. I haven’t missed a damned office hour all term.”
David swallowed. “It is the policy.”
“Bother the policy.” I left him standing there even as I realized he would probably be scheming to get me back under control. David liked everything under control, and the results would probably be nasty. At that point I didn’t care, but half realized that I would later.
I went up to my office to collect the tests I’d graded so that I could return them.
The wind was blowing again as I walked over to Smythe, although the sky was clearing and showing a coldly cheerful blue. I didn’t feel cheerful.
At eleven o’clock I practically threw the greenbooks at the Environmental Economics class. “Someday, ladies and gentlemen, and I use those terms merely as a courtesy, you will come to understand that there are too many unanticipated crises in life for you to postpone what you can do now until the last possible moment. Life often does not give you those moments. Call this a dress rehearsal for life.”
Of course, they didn’t understand a word of what I meant.
“Sir, how much will this count on our final grade?”
“Is there anyway to obtain some additional credit?”
“Life doesn’t provide extra credit,” I snapped, “and neither do I.” I shouldn’t have snapped, but they didn’t have the Spazi hanging over their heads. Probably half of them didn’t even know who or what the Spazi was.
Somehow I managed to get through the lecture and discussion without snapping or yelling again. That was fine, except Gilda and Constable Gerhardt were both waiting for me back at the department office.
“Constable Gerhardt, this is Doktor Eschbach.”
“Thank you.” He tipped his hat to her and turned to me. “If I could speak with you …”
“Let’s go up to my office,” I suggested.
He nodded, and up we went. I set aside the still-ungraded Environmental Politics papers.
“This business about professor Branston-Hay …”
“What business?”
“His accident, of course.”
“I’m sorry, Constable, but I didn’t know he’d been in an accident. When did it happen?”
The worthy watch functionary gave me one of those looks that tends to signify disbelief before explaining. “His steamer piled into a tree on Hoecht’s Hill late yesterday afternoon. He died before they could get him to the hospital.”
“I didn’t know.”
“The throttle valve jammed open.” Constable Gerhardt spread the fingers of his right hand about a half-centimeter apart. “A bolt about this big jammed in the assembly.”
“Why didn’t he turn the bypass valve?”
“He hit the brakes first, and they failed, corroded lines. By then it was too late. He was probably going too fast and bouncing around too much to reach it. He was driving a Ford, not a Stanley, and on the older models, you have quite a reach.”
My father had always said to buy quality, and Branston-Hay’s example certainly confirmed that wisdom.
Poor Branston-Hay. He’d had to throttle the old black steamer all the way up to climb Hoecht’s Hill, and then the throttle had jammed on the downside. Except it hadn’t been an accident.
“Who was chasing him?” I asked, since it was clear the constable was there to deliver a message from Chief Waetjen.
“Chasing him?”
“Professor Branston-Hay was a careful and methodical man. He was headed home, or at least in the direction of home. Why would he be going so fast?”
“I don’t know, sir. I only know that Chief Waetjen told me to tell you what happened.”
I’d done it for sure. Good stolid Constable Gerhardt would tell Waetjen of my question and, sure as the sun rose, Officer Warbeck would know, and so would vanBecton.
“Thank you.” I rose. “I appreciate the courtesy and the information.”
“I was just letting you know, sir. The chief said you should be told.” The constable rose as he spoke, having done his duty and his inadvertent best to roast my gander.
After that, I wasn’t hungry. So I graded papers for almost two hours, not the smartest thing to do, especially on an empty stomach. And I probably shouldn’t have bothered with my two o’clock, but … you take on obligations, and you become reluctant not to carry them out.
When I dispersed the corrected greenbooks and a sermon similar to the one I had delivered at eleven o’clock, there was just silence, the appalled silence of an entire class that has just realized that Kris Kringle is a myth and that Mother and Father filled the wooden shoes with coal, and they meant it for real.
After class I left the pile of Environmental Politics 2B papers and went shopping at McArdles’, since, as Marie had pointed out, there was nothing to fix, not even for the most industrious and resourceful of Dutch ladies.
Two women in white-trimmed bonnets looked blankly at me as I left the meat counter, but I heard the whispers after I turned toward the flour and corn and oatmeal.
“Doktor Eschbach … say he was once a spy …”
“Once a spy, always a spy—that’s what I say.”
“You know, the foreign woman and him
I didn’t like the term “spy,” but “intelligence agent” was even worse, and as for the other terms … I took a deep breath and put the flour in the cart.
Once I got home, it took five trips to unload. Marie had actually been so resourceful that, when I walked into the kitchen, there was some type of tart-strudel and a pot of barley soup waiting. I didn’t know how she had done it. After the chill of unloading all those packages—they’d filled the trunk and the back seat of the steamer, since I’m sometimes an extremist—I ladled out a bowlful and sat at the kitchen table, letting the spicy steam wreathe my face before each spoonful, trying not to think about vanBecton, Miranda, and poor Gerald. The soup was so good that I almost managed it.
After supper, I sat for awhile in the dimness before I had company.
“At some hours in the night spirits resort … alack, is it not like that I … Oh, look, methinks I saw my cousin’s ghost …” Carolynne made an effort to sit on the corner stool, even if she had a tendency to drift around and through it.
“Your cousin’s ghost. Probably not. Or did you mean the one I created this morning? I felt badly about disassociating him, though.”
“Thou couldst give no help?”
“How can one help something that was not quite alive?”
“And bid me go and hide me with a dead man in his shroud …”
“Wonderful. If I make a better ghost, I’ll then qualify for murder.”
“… that did spit his body upon a rapier’s point … is it not like the horrible conceit of death and night?”
That was another good question—one I really didn’t have a good answer for. Was sleep a form of death? Was Babbage storage of a synthetic ghost sleep or death? “I don’t know. I feel it’s more like sleep, but I couldn’t say why.”
Unlike most people, who, when you say that you “feel” something, pester you to give rational and logical reasons, Carolynne did not. She just gave a faint nod before speaking. “So tedious is this day …”
“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.

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