Ghosts of Columbia

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  “She likes me now, and she did not,” observed Llysette as I waited for the Stanley’s flash boiler to heat.

  “She didn’t know you.”

  “Different this is. I know, Johan.”

  I wasn’t about to get into that argument. We were both different people from those we’d been a year earlier—far different—and I wasn’t certain I had yet learned how different. Every so often, I still recalled a memory image that had to have been Carolynne’s or had a shivery feeling about justice that hadn’t come from me. How long would I continue to process such additions to my soul? Forever? Sometimes I wondered how I’d managed to add two ghosts to my soul and still survive, but I tried not to dwell on it.

  “You are thinking. C’est vrai, n’est-ce pas?”

  “Oui,” I finally admitted.

  She leaned over and kissed my cheek, and I eased the Stanley down the drive toward Deacon’s Lane. Despite the clear winter blue sky, there was a crust of skim ice on the Wijk, and a chill wind gusted around the steamer as we crossed the river bridge into Vanderbraak Centre.

  As I usually did, I followed my morning routine, dropping off Llysette and then getting my paper from Samaha’s before heading back to my office and holding office hours, of which few-enough students availed themselves. While I waited for their infrequent appearances, I corrected papers or worked on various lectures.

  Still, when I looked at my desk and the stack of quizzes remaining from the natural resources intro class, I had to repress a sigh. I knew that they would be depressing. So I looked out the window, toward the Music and Theatre building, and that wasn’t terribly encouraging either.

  Sometimes I do get premonitions, and I was definitely getting one about Llysette’s concert engagement. After five years of relative obscurity, why was she being offered the same fees as Dame Brightman? Or ones that were in the same general area, at least? And why were the Saints making the offer?

  That line of speculation didn’t go far, because the wireset chimed, and after another deep breath I answered. “Professor Eschbach.”

  “Professor Eschbach. Chief Waetjen here.”

  “Yes, Chief. Have you found out anything more?”

  “Not much. Have you found anything out of place—or anything that your would-be killer might have left?”

  “Might have left? I can’t say that I’ve really looked, Chief. I could search if you want.”

  “The zombie died this morning—delayed sympathetic bloc, Doktor Jynkstra thinks. But he had mentioned a box of chocolates.”

  “Chocolates?”

  “That’s what he said.” .

  “I haven’t seen anything like that around lately. I mean I gave Llysette a box after the concert, and there were several she got from admirers, but he couldn’t have meant that.”

  “Eschbach—I know what your real background is, even if no one ever told me. I don’t like this sort of thing happening to Vanderbraak Centre.”

  “I don’t either. I give you my word that I don’t have the faintest idea what this is all about or even why. I was unconditionally released from all … past obligations by the highest possible authority.” I paused. “If I learn of anything that will help you, I’ll certainly let you know.”

  “Please do. And I’d appreciate it if you would let me be the judge of whether it is helpful.”

  “I understand, Chief.” My understanding did not mean my agreement, not when two of his Watch officers had previously been suborned into trying to kill me.

  Another of my lifelong friends—the chief. I stood and looked out, wondering which was worse, facing the chief or my upcoming intro course in natural resources. Or the ungraded quizzes.

  I settled on the quizzes and eased myself behind the desk and took out the pen with the red ink. I needed it. About half of them still hadn’t the faintest idea of why food/life complexity distribution was a pyramid or why ancient cities were invariably located on waterways or even of the total extent of the impact of natural resources on the development of human culture.

  I groaned after the eleventh quiz. I shouldn’t have, because when things get bad, they invariably get even worse. The wireset chimed again.

  “Yes?”

  “Doktor Eschbach,” announced Gilda, “a Harlaan Oakes for you.”

  My stomach turned at the name—Ralston McGuiness’s successor—in essence, the de facto chief of intelligence for President Armstrong, not that the president had too much more than a token operation, but it could be deadly enough, as I had already discovered once before. Had he sent the clippings I’d received on Saturday? Wouldn’t Jerome have used the Spazi cover firm?

  “Johan here.”

  “It’s good to hear your voice, Johan. The president is having a reception for the arts next week, Wednesday, in fact, and you and your charming wife will be getting a formal invitation. I wanted to let you have some advance warning. He’d like very much to see you both there, and I’d hoped, since you will be in the Federal District, that perhaps we could get together for a few minutes.”

  “That might be possible,” I answered warily.

  “The president also wondered if Fraulein duBoise—she still is using that as her performing name, isn’t she?—if she might be willing to sing one or two songs.”

  “I would have to ask her, but I wouldn’t see any objection to it … so long as she can sing something already in her repertoire. A week’s too short notice for something new.”

  “Anything she would like.”

  “Should I let you know? She’ll need an accompanist and a run-through.”

  “We can arrange that for the morning of the reception. I can guarantee a good accompanist, perhaps Hatchet or Stewart or even Spillman. We could chat then.”

  That wasn’t a request. I swallowed silently. “I’ll wire you later today or in the morning and let you know what she’ll sing.”

  “Good, Johan. Very good. The president would very much like that on the formal program.”

  “I’ll let you know.”

  “Good. I look forward to seeing you on Wednesday next, Johan.”

  “I’ll be there.” As if I had any choice. When the head of government, ceremonial or not, wanted something, it usually meant trouble, especially now that President Armstrong was trying to re-create the stronger Executive Branch once envisioned by Hamilton and using more than a few questionable tactics in his struggle with Speaker Hartpence. Having dealt with the Speaker before, though, I liked his tactics and supporters even less than the president’s.

  I looked at the wireset. Problems had this way of compounding. If we were to be ready on Wednesday morning, that meant leaving the day before and staying in the Federal District Tuesday night. That brought to the fore another problem that I’d avoided. There are some things you don’t want to think about—such as how to deal with former in-laws. But Judith and Eric had been good to me and stuck by me when no one else had. So … that was another thing I had to ask and work out with Llysette, and I wasn’t exactly looking forward to that either.

  With a deep breath and a glance at my watch—ten-fifteen—I picked up the wireset again and tapped out Llysette’s extension.

  “Is this the charming Llysette duBoise Eschbach? One Herr Doktor Eschbach would like to request your presence at luncheon. He would also like to inform you that word of your talent has spread far and wide.”

  “Johan … I beat notes today. Do not mock me.”

  “I’m not. You will be receiving an invitation to the big fall arts dinner at the Presidential Palace next week—a week from tomorrow. The president—President Armstrong—has requested that you sing two pieces of your choice at the annual Presidential Arts Awards dinner.”

  “I do not understand …,” she murmured.

  “A friend called me. He thought you would like as much advance notice as possible.”

  “But … a week? Impossible! I cannot do that.”

  “I told them it would have to be from your current repertoire. They agreed.�
�

  “One year … they would forget me. Now, I am to perform before the president?”

  “We can talk about it at lunch, but I thought you would like to know. I just got off the wireset.”

  “Johan … what is happening?”

  I wished I knew. “You’ve been rediscovered. That’s what. Enjoy it—you’ve suffered in obscurity all too long.” That was all true, and certainly the way I felt, but my guts were still tight.

  “Much you have to explain at … when we eat. I must beat more notes.”

  “I love you.”

  “You are sweet. Au’voir.”

  Sweet? That wasn’t a word I’d have applied to myself. Devoted, responsible, even hardworking, but not sweet.

  Next, I needed to find my hardworking and scheming chair, but Herr Doktor Doniger was out. Gilda promised to let him know I was looking for him. That meant I’d still have to run him down after lunch or after my two o’clock class.

  Eleven o’clock came and, with it, Natural Resources 1A, and Mister Ferris.

  “Professor Eschbach, will we have to know all of this material about the water cycle for the test?”

  “No. About half, but I’m not telling you which half.” I turned to the redhead in the third row. “Miss Zand, would you please explain the environmental rationale for avoiding the use of internal combustion vehicles?”

  Miss Zand looked blank.

  “Mister deRollen … why do we use steamers?”

  “Professor, that’s because when you use a burner, an external combustion engine, you can adjust it so it doesn’t pollute, and you get mostly carbon dioxide and water, instead of carbon monoxide. That’s really high for a petroleum-fueled internal combustion engine…”

  I tried not to smile too broadly, but you have to take your successes and the thoughtful students when you can.

  Because of all the questions about the quizzes I handed back at the end of class to avoid too many questions, Llysette actually made it to Delft’s before I did and was sipping chocolate.

  “You look wonderful, Fräulein duBoise, or Frau Eschbach.” And she did, in the gray suit and pale green blouse that she’d found in Asten in August.

  “Frau Eschbach … in some ways, that I like.”

  She waited until we had ordered before she finally asked, “This performance … at the Presidential Palace … you were not joking?”

  “No. Harlaan Oakes called me. He said you would be getting a formal invitation. I’ll check the post centre after lunch.”

  “An accompanist … I know no one, and Johanna … on such short notice—”

  “They promised either Hatchet, Spillman, or Stewart.”

  Llysette’s mouth did open at that. “They … are …”

  “The best, I’m sure. You’ll have a rehearsal and run-through that morning. Ten o’clock. I’m supposed to give them the pieces, the arrangement details, this afternoon or tomorrow morning.”

  “Tomorrow morning.” Llysette was back to sounding like a diva, if with the softer tone I associated with the overtones from Carolynne. She shook her head slowly. “So strange this is.”

  “Very strange,” I agreed. “I have another problem.” And I did—my former wife’s sister and her husband.

  “A problem?”

  “Judith and Eric.”

  “And?” Llysette raised those dark and fine eyebrows. Was there a twinkle in them?

  I wasn’t sure, but I’d promised myself—and LIysette—to try not to hide anything. So I didn’t. “I normally stay with them in the Federal District … but … Judith …”

  “Elspeth’s sister she was.”

  I nodded. “We could stay elsewhere.”

  Llysette frowned. “Strange it is…” She shook her head. “With that we have no difficulties.”

  “You don’t?” I wasn’t sure I wouldn’t have.

  “Johan, we will stay with them, if they will have us. You are a dear man, and you asked, and that says much.”

  It said that I was probably stupid, but if I were going to be and stay honest with Llysette, I didn’t have many choices, especially since I had a tendency to be so selfdeceptive that there remained too many things I didn’t catch.

  My soup arrived, as did Llysette’s croissant sandwich, and we ate quickly, with scattered bits of conversation.

  “The dean … now she has declared that we will expand the graduate strings program … but we may have no more faculty positions.”

  “What about voice?”

  “The voice area, that remains to be seen. Barton, he has returned from his …”

  “Sabbatical,” I supplied.

  “And now he talks about a baritone and a contralto we should have.” Llysette took a last sip of her chocolate.

  “What does Dierk think?”

  “Dr. Geoffries, he is of the opinion that there are no funds.”

  “He’s probably got that right.”

  She glanced from the woodstove to the post centre clock, and I paid Victor.

  After walking Llysette back to the Music Building and her waiting student, I doubled back to the post centre to find three bills and, as promised, a heavy embossed envelope with the presidential seal. I decided to save it for Llysette to open, although it bore both our names.

  Gertrude the zombie was raking the leaves away from the walk as I marched back to the department.

  “Hello, Gertrude.”

  “Hello, sir. It’s a pleasant day.”

  For her, it always was, but I still remembered her sobbing her eyes out at Llysette’s opera the spring before. A zombie, feeling that much emotion? Perhaps … could song rebuild a removed soul or spirit? I didn’t know, but that confirmed my decision not to mix music and ghosting equipment.

  I’d had the idea of using the equipment I’d developed to create “ghost angels” to influence people, but the more I’d thought about it, the more I’d turned from it. Trying to cope with the internalized ghosts of Carolynne and the abstract ghost of justice and mercy I’d created had often left me on the brink of sanity—and I knew what I’d done and faced.

  I did catch Herr Doktor Doniger in the corridor as he was heading out.

  “David … you recall that you and the dean have insisted that I maintain certain political connections?”

  “Why, yes, Johan. It does benefit the university.” He still had a wary look.

  “Llysette and I have been requested to attend an arts dinner at the Presidential Palace next week. She has been asked to perform, and …” I shrugged. “I’ll work out something for my classes.”

  David beamed. “I was going over to the Administration building, and I’m sure the dean will be pleased.”

  “It hasn’t been announced yet,” I said. “Probably tomorrow.” That would make the honorable Dean Er Recchus even happier—that she knew in advance.

  “That will be another achievement she can use in presenting the budget to the state legislature in January.” David inclined his head. “Funds are looking tight, and that will help.”

  “Good.”

  He went off smiling, and I vaguely wanted to smash his kneecaps, but I didn’t feel like I wanted to play any more academic politics.

  The less I thought about my two o’clock the better, even afterward. Halfway through the semester was a bad time. The students had realized that they were in trouble, that material was piling up faster than they could or wanted to read it because they hadn’t read any of it until right before the midterm. You can’t assimilate the type of material I provided in midnight cram sessions, and that meant most of the class had received grades of less than a B. For a Dutch burgher’s child, even a B was unacceptable, especially with grade inflation.

  So the questions became more and more desperate.

  “… would you please explain, Doktor Eschbach, the relationship of the Escalante Massacre on the Deseret synthetic fuels development … ?”

  “… I don’t understand how the River Compact. …”

  “… still n
ot clear on why Speaker Roosevelt rejected the Green River compromise proposed by Deseret…”

  “… I just don’t understand… .”

  “… don’t understand…”

  All the questions translated into either desperate attempts to stall the class or equally desperate attempts to avoid in-depth reading and thinking. I suppose that’s always been the effort of young adults, except in the past those who felt that way either never got to college or quickly flunked out. Higher-level technology has created a dubious boon of removing much of the old manual labor and requiring more positions where judgment and some thinking are required. People want the jobs, but not the effort required to hold them. Oh, they say they do, but when it gets right down to it, the average student would rather use the university’s difference engines for games than number crunching and the library for assignations than assignments.

  “Enough!” I thundered, and you would have thought that I’d whipped them. “I am not here to explain every little thing that you find slightly difficult. You are here to learn. That requires thinking. Thinking means working hard. Your questions show that you stop the minute something gets difficult and requires thinking … the minute the answer is not written on the page. And who will be there to answer such questions once you graduate?” Assuming that they did.

  I wasn’t patient, and I felt as though I were getting less so. When you first start teaching, it’s flattering to be looked up to and asked, but after a time, you realize that all too many questions are asked out of thoughtlessness and laziness.

  Still, I had to remind myself that there was a thoughtful minority in the class who felt, and looked, as appalled as I did at the desperate questions and the failure to try to learn something. That handful was the group I called on when I needed an answer.

  Because of them, I’d almost managed to get over being cross when I picked up Llysette.

  “You are angry?”

  “I’m getting over it. My day was like some of yours. ‘I don’t understand… . I just don’t see how … Can’t you make it simpler? … Why do we have to read so much?’”