Ghost Talkers

by Mary Robinette Kowal

  They passed into the kitchen and heard the murmur of voices from a room to the side. Cpl. Patel stepped through the door first and she followed, then staggered back. Six people sat in chairs arranged in a familiar circle, with Helen in the middle. Auras pulsed with the frantic effort being put forth to break Helen.

  What would breaking the circle do at this point? She had no idea, but she could not let them continue. “We must take them alive. All of them.”

  Cpl. Patel raised the butt of his rifle and brought it down hard on the shoulder of the nearest, a medium. He crumpled off his chair, and the efforts of the circle wavered and broke. One of the mundanes stood and launched himself at Cpl. Patel.

  Ginger took another step toward Helen, feet leaden with exhaustion. Helen had been bound to the chair in the centre of the circle, and she looked on the edge of collapse. Shouts came from behind her. More Indian soldiers poured into the farmhouse. Familiar voices behind her as well. Edna?

  She couldn’t worry about that. In front of her, Schmitt, the false prisoner of war, sat on the far side of the circle. He was still working, holding tight to the anchors on either side of him. His eyes fluttered with effort. Helen fought him still.

  Ginger’s arm rose without much conscious thought. The pistol was primed, the hammer cocked back. Her finger caressed the trigger and the gun went off, the booming crash of the shot filling the farmhouse dining room. Schmitt jerked back, his shoulder appearing to explode in crimson, pulling away from the others as he fell.

  Ginger slumped to her knees beside Helen, and then across her lap. Indian soldiers swarmed in, grabbing the others in the circle. Someone with warm, brown hands pried the pistol from her grip, and conscious thought left her.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Everything was heavy. Gravity pulled her down into the embrace of sleep. Only a gentle murmuring slipped past the pressure of darkness to tug at her consciousness. She knew the voice. A man’s. It wasn’t Ben’s, but it had a similar timbre.

  Reginald Harford.

  Ginger dragged her lids open. Sensation seemed to rush back in as she woke. Her throat scratched as she swallowed, and she coughed. The voices stopped.

  Another cough tickled, and she tried to lift her hand to cover her mouth. It would not move. Someone held it. Someone held both hands, in fact. She rolled her head to the side.

  Mr. Haden gave her a little smile. “Well. Look who’s decided to rejoin the living.”

  “Sorry to trouble you.” Her voice was hoarse with disuse. Ginger cleared her throat again. “Might I have some water?”

  “Of course! Oh, my poor dear, you must be parched. We’ve been using ice cubes, of course, but that isn’t the same as a nice drink of water.” Lady Penfold bustled up on her other side, leaning in past Edna to hold a glass of water for Ginger. Some of the water slopped out of the glass, leaving a cold spot on the fabric of her gown, but Edna did not let go of Ginger’s hand.

  She lifted her head, and it throbbed with the motion. She was in the guest bedroom in her aunt’s apartment. The damask wallpaper stood in stark contrast to the dull blue uniforms of her circle. They sat around the bed, hands linked together. Joanne, Mr. Haden, Edna, Lt. Plumber, and … Ginger let out a sigh of relief when she saw Helen in her familiar spot. “Oh, thank God.”

  “Eh. I think the thanks belongs closer to home.” Helen pursed her lips, but could not hide the twinkle in her eyes.

  Ginger gave Mr. Haden’s and Edna’s hands a squeeze. “You can let go. I promise I won’t venture out of my body.”

  Helen snorted and exchanged a look with Lady Penfold. “Let’s not test that just yet.”

  “Truly—”

  “The fact is, dear…” Lady Penfold ducked under the joined hands of Lt. Plumber and Edna, holding her skirt off the floor. She settled on Ginger’s bed. “I’m afraid we have some business to attend to, and … well. I think it’s best if you stay linked for it.”

  “That … that sounds ominous.”

  From the door, a man cleared his throat. Reginald Harford stepped fully into the room. “More ominous for me than you, I think.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “My one good deed.” He set his hat on the dresser by the door.

  She was too tired to be polite. “Are you certain you can manage even one?”

  He winced. “I was trying to keep you safe.”

  “By setting your men on me?”

  “I don’t expect you to believe me, but I didn’t know what Johnson was up to. If it makes you feel any better, he’s been … dealt with.”

  “I am not disposed to be pleased by vagueness.”

  Reginald sighed. “He’s been arrested and will likely be shot for treason. Does that satisfy you?”

  “I—” Did the death of another man matter at all in this endless bloody war? It did nothing to bring Ben back, and gave her no satisfaction.

  Reginald turned to her aunt and swept a hand over his brilliantined hair. “Can we get this over with? I’m not who she wants to talk to.”

  Aunt Edie compressed her lips and gave a little sniff. “I’m sorry to keep you waiting, Captain.” She rested a hand on Ginger’s arm. “My dear … Ben has not yet crossed over.”

  “What?” Ginger struggled to sit up. This time, though neither Mr. Haden nor Edna let go, her aunt helped her. “But we know who killed him.” She glanced across the circle to Helen, to reassure herself that the other medium was really safe. “And we’ve stopped the immediate threat from the Germans. Haven’t we?”

  “So it appears. We have Schmitt and the others.” Lady Penfold beckoned Reginald forward. “But he is still here, and he wants to talk to you.”

  Ben wanted to talk to her. What did that have to do with Reginald Harford? Too slowly, Ginger’s mind put the pieces together. His one good deed. “You’re going to channel Ben?”

  He took in a single breath and gave a nod. “I am.”

  “That seems … why?”

  “I told you. It’s my one good deed.”

  “But why you? Why not a medium?”

  Reginald frowned, and the line between his brows seemed at odds with his usually careless ease. Lady Penfold cut in. “Ben is quite unstable. Helen and I believe that using the body of someone with whom he has shared experiences will help him.”

  “And we did grow up together.”

  A scrap of memory from when she had channelled Ben turned her stomach. He had loathed this man. No common memory was going to override that, surely. “But—surely there is someone else who—”

  “Whom he liked?” The corner of Reginald’s mouth turned up in a sardonic smile. “Yes. As the younger, poorer child, I had to take what attention was offered. Ben wanted little to do with me, but we had to maintain good relations, didn’t we? Under those circumstances, I found it better to pretend that I didn’t know how he felt.”

  Ginger stared at Reginald, mouth slightly agape. He could not mean … Ben had said he didn’t have a sensitive bone in his body. She tried to stretch out of her body to see his aura, but her circle flexed their collective will, holding her firmly inside her skin.

  Reginald’s eyes unfocused a little, and he sighed. “Our maternal grandmother fled Germany with her family when her father was almost burned at the stake for being a medium. Acknowledgment of the Sight was not encouraged. So.

  “I will not pretend I am anyone that you should like to associate with, but I was fond of Ben, despite everything, and if this helps him to rest…” He spread his hands and turned his head to look at Ginger’s right shoulder, where a cool breeze lingered. “Shall we get to it, old man?”

  The breeze stirred Ginger’s hair, rushing past her with a sigh. She stiffened on the bed, and tightened her grip on Mr. Haden and Edna. The fabric of Reginald’s lapel lifted for a moment. A strand of his blond hair blew free of its pomade. With a grunt, he staggered and dropped to his knees.

  Lady Penfold sprang from the bed. “Oh, dear—”

  “Sorry. That wa
s a little more melodramatic that I would have liked.” Ben raised Reginald’s head. He smiled, lopsided and full of dimples. “You keep telling me that I don’t need to worry about you, and then winding up in hospital.”

  “Only once.”

  “Twice. But who’s counting?” He winked, and pushed up to stand. It was Reginald’s body, but the posture was Ben’s. His shoulders sat at a slight angle, as though he would lean against a wall if it were offered.

  “Apparently you’re counting.” Ginger fought to breathe. “Is it really gentlemanly to keep score?”

  Ben cocked his head and looked at her sideways, through lashes that were too light to be his. “Only when you owe a debt.”

  “And do you? I didn’t think you were the type to let a debt go unpaid.”

  He took three familiar steps, then sat on the bed at her side. “I owe you a debt.”

  “Ben … darling. Please. You owe me nothing.” She tried to reach for him, but Edna held her hand. Ginger closed her eyes, clenching her jaw against tears. “Please, please believe that you have more than fulfilled your duty. You have no unfinished business.”

  His hand brushed a tear from her cheek. With her eyes shut, she could imagine that the weight shifting on the bed really did belong to Ben. “But I do.”

  She gave a desperate laugh. “Finding your murderer, stopping a traitor, and uncovering a plot by the Germans isn’t enough? And don’t you dare say that your duty is to keep me safe. Because I refuse to accept being haunted just so we can keep having the same argument.”

  He chuckled. “No. It has become abundantly clear to me over the past several … however long it’s been … not only that you are resourceful, but that your circle is a force to be reckoned with. I mean, Lady—your aunt alone is more protection than I could ever have been.”

  “Ben—” She opened her eyes to look at Reginald’s form and reminded herself that her love was not here. But his eyes—she had not noticed that they had the same eyes. Or perhaps it was merely the steadiness of his gaze and the way he watched her with his head canted a little to the side.

  “I am sorry that I doubted your abilities.”

  Her breath caught in her throat, and she thought she might tear in two. “I shall miss you. So very much.”

  “Just remember that you’ve promised to grow old.”

  “People will quake before me as I brandish my cane at them.”

  “They will quake even before that.” His dimples flashed again. “And then you will charm them. Or maybe you’ll charm them first. Probably you’ll do both, just to keep people on their toes.”

  Ginger could not raise her hands to wipe her eyes, but the tears streaming down her cheeks seemed almost a relief. She did not want Ben to go, but she could not keep him. Ginger swallowed and leaned on her training with the Spirit Corps in order to be able to speak at all. “Have you any final messages?”

  “Thank Reg for me. Tell him I’m sorry I was a blighter to him.”

  “I will.”

  “Thank you.”

  She tried to smile for him. “Is there anything else?”

  “Apparently I owe you a kiss.” Ben took a breath and looked as nervous as he had when he proposed. “May I?”

  She nodded, words completely beyond her power. Ben leaned forward, and Ginger closed her eyes to meet him. Unfamiliar cologne clung to him. The contours of his lips were new, but the warmth and passion that came through them broke her heart with familiarity.

  His breath was rough, and tears dampened his cheek where it pressed against hers. “I love you very much, Ginger Stuyvesant.”

  “I love you too.”

  He pulled back, and she opened her eyes as his hands cradled her face. Ben gave a tentative smile, dimple flashing for a brief moment, and then he tilted his head to the side. “Oh. That’s the light. It’s—”

  Reginald slumped on the bed, sliding off of it and landing on the floor with a thump.

  Lady Penfold dropped the handkerchief that she had been blotting her eyes with and knelt by him. “Are you all right, Captain?”

  His eyes blinked open, still red from Ben’s tears. Ginger expected him to complain about being on the floor, but he brought his hands up over his eyes, and his breath shuddered in his chest.

  “I’m fine.” His voice was hoarse, and he wiped fiercely at his eyes before shoving himself to his feet. Reginald tugged at his uniform, all familiar traces of physicality gone. “Good deed is done.”

  The tears continued to stream down his cheeks, and his hands shook as he ducked out of the circle. He would not remember what they had talked about while Ben had had control of his body.

  Ginger cleared her throat, but her own voice shook. “Ben wanted me to thank you. He said he was sorry he was such a blighter to you.”

  Reginald stopped at the door, his back still to them. He grabbed his hat from the dresser. “If he’d really meant it, he wouldn’t have given me a glimpse of—” Glancing over his shoulder at Ginger, his face was stricken. “He loved you very much. You have my sincere condolences for your loss.”

  And then he was gone.

  And Ben was gone.

  But Ginger was not alone. Her circle rose from their chairs, still linked, and wrapped her in their embrace as she wept.

  SEPTEMBER 1916

  Ginger waited at the checkpoint as the guard considered her papers. The loose end of the turban wrapped around his helmet flapped in the early autumn breeze. Another guard watched, his rifle held in a casually ready position. Her aunt’s car idled behind her, in case she needed to be taken back to Le Havre. She kept her soul in her skin and tried to rely on watching the guard’s face to guess his response.

  He grunted and folded the papers to hand back to her. “All in order, Cpl. Stuyvesant. First time to Graveside?”

  “Yes. Thank you.” She took her documents and stared past the checkpoint to the bunker built into a French hillside. “But I was at Potter’s Field in Le Havre.”

  “Well, then you know what you’re getting into more than I do, I suspect.” He turned and gestured to the bunker. “Just down the steps and turn right to go to the command centre. The left will take you to Potter’s Field.”

  She nodded and walked to the bunker door. It opened onto a steep stair lined with hastily poured concrete. As she went down, the air chilled quickly. Now that they were no longer trying to hide the fact that the Spirit Corps existed, the intelligence department had opted for safety as the first consideration. They had buried the mediums deep in the earth, far from the front lines. They hadn’t been able to move the nexus, but with Ginger’s ghost army, Helen had devised a system whereby volunteer ghosts redirected the incoming souls.

  At the bottom of the stairs, Ginger glanced to the left, but the long hallway to Potter’s Field curved away under the earth. She wasn’t back on duty yet. Taking a breath of the cold, earthy air, Ginger turned to her right. She passed other young women moving with purpose through the narrow halls.

  Rough timbers supported the ceiling, with bare bulbs suspended from them. Green doors stood at intervals along the corridors, and everywhere she walked, pockets of uncanny cold air brushed against her, whispering. At an intersection, Ginger paused and got directions from a young West Indian soldier who pointed her to the brigadier-general’s office.

  She swallowed and stared at the door, then raised her hand to knock.

  “Enter!”

  Ginger opened the door on a meeting in progress. Brigadier-General Davies looked over his glasses and nodded a greeting. “Miss Stu—Cpl. Stuyvesant, your timing is excellent. We were just discussing poltergeist training.” He gestured to his right. “There’s a seat by Sgt. Patel.”

  Sgt. Patel sat next to Capt. Lethbridge-Stewart. Across the table from them, Capt. Keatley had his usual sheaf of papers. Capt. Axtell leaned back in his chair, twirling a cigarette between his fingers. His hair had returned to its usual blond. It turned out that the brigadier-general had sent him to investigate the Baker Street
trench because a leak was stemming from there. He thought it might have been Ben.

  And beside him, Helen—Capt. Jackson—slid a paper across the table to Ginger’s seat.

  Before sitting, Ginger hesitated for a moment. “I—I haven’t officially been returned to duty.”

  “Eh? What?” The brigadier-general pushed his chair back and stood. “My dear gir—my dear woman, if you are still recovering, you should have sent word you could not attend. We would have understood, of course.”

  She shook her head, aware that her uniform was too loose, despite the efforts of her aunt’s chef. “No—it’s not that. It’s just that I need to be formally reinstated. Do I have permission to return to active duty?”

  “Of course—that’s why I asked you to come today. We need your expertise.”

  “I meant as a medium.”

  “Ah. That’s up to your superior officer.” The brigadier-general turned to Helen. “Well, Capt. Jackson?”

  Helen tilted her head, and her gaze went distant. Ginger swallowed as the other woman read her soul. “I really am much better.”

  “You have lied to me before about your health.”

  Ginger blushed and ducked her head. “Yes.”

  “Will you again?”

  “Probably.” She looked back up and unexpectedly met Axtell’s gaze. His genial mask had slipped, and his fatigue was clear from his features. “I think we all do, just to keep going.”

  Axtell nodded, then gave a huge laugh, slapping his knee as the mask slipped back into place. “That’s true enough. If you wanted every soldier to be honest about their health, we’d all be home.”

  Capt. Jackson nodded at the chair. “Well then, sit down. We have work to do.”

  Ginger let out a sigh of relief and sank into the chair next to Sgt. Patel. He leaned over and whispered, “I am very glad you are better. Indeed, I am.”

  “Likewise.” Ginger pulled Capt. Jackson’s report closer and listened to the conversation about how to work with their volunteer ghost army. The Great War was far from over, and duty called.