Ghost of the White Nights

by L. E. Modesitt Jr.

  We walked back to the parlor. I added another two logs to the woodstove for the night, before going back to the study, where I turned off the SII difference engine, whose keyboard I'd never even touched because of all the fiddling with the boxes and manuals.

  Llysette lifted the top manual and began to leaf through it. Then, her brows crinkled, and she looked at me. “It is as you said.”

  “They're rather special manuals. They're the best judgment of some of the best scientists in Columbia as to how the Russians can clean up the Dnepyr River.”

  “Why can the Russians not discover these answers themselves?”

  “It's a matter of money. Russia is only a partly capitalistic nation. It has no agricultural surplus to speak of, and the tzars have spent billions of roubles over the last century trying to modernize and industrialize. Studying the environment and how to keep it clean costs money to begin with. Over time, you can save money, but the tzars have never had enough money to keep a large enough military to hold off Ferdinand and the Swedes, industrialize, and study the environment in depth.” I didn't mention the millions or billions they'd also poured into the rathole of rocket development.

  “Always the money, n'est-ce-pas?”

  “Usually,” I admitted.

  Llysette looked at the manuals. “You must learn all this?”

  “Most of it.”

  She shook her head. “Do not stay up too late.”

  “I don't intend to.” I smiled, not quite licentiously.

  We laughed together, and it was a moment of warmth we both enjoyed.

  20

  I STUDIED THE materials on environmental reclamation, practiced some on ghost creation technology, taught my classes, held office hours, and read the newspapers and wondered how long it would be before someone made a mistake and a shooting war erupted. It didn't, and before long, the next week had gone by without much new occurring, except for cold rain and more long practice sessions by Llysette—until Wednesday, when it snowed, a foot of wet snow that turned into a wet slushy mess by mid-afternoon under a warm south wind and a bright sun.

  So after my honors environmental studies class, I slogged down to the post centre, every step of my boots spraying slush. From behind his wicket, Maurice greeted me with a broad smile. “Another box, Doktor. Not as heavy as the last one, but it feels like books.”

  “Thank you.” I took the box from him. The label held the seal and address of the Ministry of the Interior.

  “Don't forget your circulars,” Maurice said, extending a handful of envelopes.

  “How could I?” With a laugh, I stuffed them into my inside jacket pocket and trudged back up the hill to the Stanley.

  Llysette was alone when I picked her up from the music and theatre building, and she looked tired.

  “A long day?” I asked.

  “We practiced much of the afternoon. I must preview two students tonight.”

  “Tonight?”

  “On Sunday we leave. For the rest of the week, Johanna must be in Asten.” Llysette shrugged. “Dierk has not heard their literature.”

  “He waited until now?” I shouldn't have asked that question, I realized, almost as the words were out of my mouth.

  “Nothing I do is so important as does he. He could not sing his path from a . . . closet with a grand orchestra. Complain he always does, but he does nothing. More faculty we need, but does he ask for such? New pianos we need . . . but he says nothing. For weeks he knows I go . . . and today . . . today, he says he must hear Elfreda and Caron. Cochon! Non! Too kind is that.”

  There was more steam coming from Llysette than probably was in the flash boiler of the Stanley. “An incompetent imbecile?”

  “Imbeciles, they have some brains! Le grand professeur . . . he has none.”

  I didn't ask more for a time. As we crossed the Wijk River bridge, I continued to listen, listen and watch the road, because there were sections where the slush had packed into grease-ice. I could see one steamer in a ditch ahead on the east side of the river, although it looked to have been there for a time, because there was still snow melting across the windscreens.

  “What did he say?” I finally asked.

  “He was sorry, but he had been too busy. He sits and little does, but he was too busy.”

  I nodded, then eased the Stanley around a hauler half parked, half stuck on the right side of the road just before the turn-off up Deacon's Lane.

  “I am sorry. Already, you did not look pleased. I did not mean to speak harshly to you.”

  “That's all right. I can see why you were upset. Dierk hasn't been exactly the best chair the department could have had.”

  “Nights I have worked to make sure the students, they get their lessons . . . and he is too busy. Letters he writes about the need to write papers and to go to meetings. I need to go to meetings to sing and to teach singers?”

  “I hardly think so.” The steam issuing from Llysette was beginning to subside as the Stanley sloshed through the driveway I needed to shovel before it got cold and froze into solid ice.

  Abruptly, as I stopped the Stanley near the door, Llysette turned and looked at me. “Something was upsetting you, was it not?”

  “It will keep until I get the drive clear. I don't want to slide out of here in the morning.”

  “You are sure?” She raised her eyebrows.

  “I'm certain.”

  “I am sorry,” she said again as she got out of the Stanley.

  Llysette carried in her case, and I left mine in the Stanley and got to work. It took nearly an hour, and I was soaked in sweat by the time I finished. Then I had to put the Stanley in the car barn and carry in my own papers, and the package from the Interior Ministry.

  Llysette had set the kitchen table, fired up the parlor stove, and had gotten herself a glass of wine that she sipped as she sat in the parlor reading through a stack of university memoranda and papers. She looked up. “Are you all right, Johan?”

  “I'm fine.” I blotted more sweat off my forehead. “I should have changed, but I wanted to get it off the drive so that some of it could dry before it gets cold enough to turn it to black ice.”

  I shifted the box to my other arm.

  “That? Qu'est-que-c'est?”

  “Oh. I got another package. This one is supposed to contain information about improved petroleum drilling and reclamation technologies.”

  “Johan . . . I am not a scientist. I am a singer. Even I know one does not give away such.”

  “They aren't giving it away. I'm supposed to be the one offering it as a trade.”

  “And if the tzar takes the information and does not trade?”

  “Then we go home, and I don't get my consulting fee, but you still get your concert fee.”

  “That simple? I do not think so.”

  Neither did I, but I went into the study and opened the box. There was a letter, short and to the point.

  Dear Minister Eschbach:

  Enclosed is a compilation of the latest publicly available technology dealing with both oil recovery and reclamation techniques . . . Of particular interest might be the cold weather techniques . . .

  We wish you the best and trust you will find the information of use.

  The signature was that of a subminister of whom I'd never heard.

  In short, the Interior Ministry had had its arm twisted—hard—and they were cooperating reluctantly. Even I could tell that some of the newer proprietary techniques weren't there, but what was there was probably years ahead of what PetroRus was using.

  I frowned. Quite a contrast to the Ministry of Environment. Was that because the Interior Ministry was older, and more of a captive of the petroleum industry and its lobbyists? Or for some other reason? I just didn't know, and I didn't really have any contacts in that quarter.

  But . . . I still had to get dinner and start thinking about what I was going to pack to take to St. Petersburg. Llysette had dresses, suits, and two performing gowns laid out in the upstai
rs guest room. I hadn't even thought about it, except to make sure my formal wear had been cleaned.

  With a sigh, I headed to the kitchen. Dinner would be far easier than packing, especially since I had no idea what “ special” equipment I should or could take besides Bruce's gadgets. Given my past experience, whatever I took wouldn't be quite what I needed, and I'd wish I'd chosen differently. But that was life, also.

  In any case, I'd have time, since Llysette would be doing her previews.

  21

  I DID FINISH packing most items, except for toiletries, by Friday, a good day before we were to leave. In the end, I took Bruce's gadgets, although the hair dryer went in Llysette's valise, a flexible plastic knife that fit inside my belt, a small coil of synthetic line, the Spazi vest made of plastique, and the vest liner that was relatively proof against sharp objects, such as knives and against most handguns—if not fired at point-blank range, or at one's head—or an arm or exposed shoulder. I still had the scars from Llysette's luger, although I'd never seen the weapon since that wonderful and terrible night during which she had shot me, and during which my meddling with ghosting technology had merged the soul of Carolynne, the family ghost, with both my soul and Llysette's. I still didn't want to think too long about the implications of all of that, and whatever Llysette had done with the luger—that was her business.

  I also had to use one case for all the documents and bring my briefcase as well, which held official looking papers, as well as a number of concealed ghosting and de-ghosting codes. I didn't expect to use the latter, but they wouldn't do me much good in St. Petersburg if I left them home in Vanderbraak Centre.

  While we didn't have to worry about tickets as such, we did have to make sure we had our passports, and I was grateful, again, that not only had I been allowed to keep my diplomatic passport, but that the government had granted one to Llysette when she had gone to Deseret. In most places, the diplomatic passports eased matters.

  Saturday afternoon was gray, with thick clouds boiling in from the north, promising snow, but not before we were in Asten, I hoped. It was a good two and a half hour drive to the Asten Aerodrome, and I hated to be late or pushed. Also, we had to stop in Zuider to pick up Terese, and who knew whether that would be a ten-minute stop or an hour? So we left at three. Rather, I had the Stanley packed at three. It was quarter past before we backed out onto Deacon's Lane. I did note that the Spazi vehicle wasn't there.

  Traffic on the road to Zuider was light, as it usually was on weekends, except in early October when the tourists from Asten came up to look at the colors of the turning leaves.

  After a time, when we had passed the Three Loon Lakes, Llysette looked back again, then at me. “Johan . . . are there not two steamers following us?”

  “Three . . . if you count the one in front.”

  “There is one before us?”

  “Front tail. You can do it if you have a good idea where someone is going, and I'm sure Harlaan's boys know where we're headed.”

  “This . . . this I had not expected.”

  Neither had I, not an escort of three, exactly, although it made sense. “They want you to get to St. Petersburg safely.”

  “Moi?”

  I could feel the raised eyebrows and sense the Gallic cynicism. “You.” If Llysette didn't get there to sing, there was nothing I'd be able to do. Nothing at all, and Harlaan's boys knew that better than anyone. That was one reason why a dead body had shown up in the Wijk River. I wasn't sure that was the only reason.

  “You are sweet, mon cher, but much rests on you. I am but to sing so that you will be in St. Petersburg.”

  “I'm glad I love you for your terrible honesty,” I returned with a laugh.

  Her laugh was another kind of music.

  Route 5 heading into Zuider was quiet, and just after we passed the sign announcing the town border, I turned off on Island Road, following the directions Terese had written out earlier for us. One of the Spazi tails followed. The other pulled off and waited on the shoulder, and that meant they knew the area, because Island Road was a dead end—a long and curved one, but a dead end all the same.

  Terese's sister lived on South Isle Lane, which was about a mile farther, but the house was easy enough to find even in the growing twilight because it was the only white frame house on the lane, sandwiched between two ancient brick structures.

  As we pulled into the graveled drive, Terese started down the wooden steps from the open but covered front porch—a southern architectural style not exactly suited to New Bruges except for two months out of the year.

  “Quarter past four, just like the man said,” the pianist offered as I stepped out of the Stanley.

  Unlike Llysette, Terese had but one valise, and a battered brown leather briefcase.

  “Music?” I gestured to the case.

  “Music, and some books I haven't had a chance to read.”

  I managed to squeeze the valise into the Stanley's boot, but it was a good thing that it was built with capacious space for luggage, or I never would have managed. Then, we were off, back out Island Road, and onto Route 5 for about a mile before turning onto Route 10, which headed southeast to Asten.

  “What are military turbos like?” The pianist laughed. “I should be asking about any kind of turbos. I've never been able to afford to fly even a commercial turbo.”

  “They're much smaller than trains or dirigibles,” I replied. “You're sacrificing space for speed. It took us a little less than five hours on a turbo from Deseret to the federal district. That's more than two days by dirigible or train.”

  “The seats, they were comfortable,” Llysette added, “but all one could do was stand up, and walk down a space, and then walk back to one's seat. Also, one sees nothing.”

  There was silence for a moment as Terese turned in the rear seat and looked behind us. She said nothing for a moment, then leaned forward. “Llysette, have you found out more about the piano in the Mariinsky?”

  “No,” I answered for my diva. “I'd guess it would be good, since the Mariinsky Theatre is the home of the Imperial Russian Opera, but the Ministry of State didn't know.”

  Terese turned in the seat again, looking into the dimness of twilight, deepened earlier by the heavy clouds. She cleared her throat. “Johan . . . would you mind telling me something?”

  “If I can.”

  “Is it my imagination, or was there a steel-gray steamer watching my sister's house? And is there one tailing us?”

  “Your imagination it was not,” Llysette said. “Johan tells me this concert is most important.”

  “There are two following us, and one somewhere in front of us,” I added.

  “Do I want to know why?” questioned the accompanist.

  “Llysette said it best,” I allowed myself a resigned sigh. “Relations with Russia have been touchy, not because of problems between Columbia and the tzar, but because Russia can't afford a war with Ferdinand. The tzar sent the Ballets Russes to Philadelphia and the federal district last year. The tzar expects Columbia's best classical talent. If anything were to happen to Llysette, it would prove that Columbia couldn't even protect an artist, and would weaken Columbia's negotiating position with Russia.”

  “That assumes we need something from Russia,” pointed out the accompanist.

  “At the very least, we need Russia not to become allied with Ferdinand,” I replied.

  “There's more there.”

  “Very probably,” I admitted. “But they don't tell retired ministers. They just use them and their talented spouses.”

  “You two are going along with . . . this?”

  “What are the real options for professors and artists?” I asked before Llysette could reply. “Llysette gets paid, and she gets exposure. She didn't get any exposure until the friends of the first speaker of Deseret wanted her to perform in Salt Lake. She got a handful of offers in Columbia after that, but nothing new has been offered in four months.”

  The laugh from th
e rear seat was harsh and knowing. “You think it's different when you play for a big-name artist, but it isn't, is it?”

  “Non.” Llysette said. “And I am not a singer that well known in Columbia. No one in Columbia wanted me to perform until someone else asked. That changes not.”

  “I suppose it doesn't,” Terese agreed.

  We were still in the midlands of New Bruges, and, once away from Zuider, into the hilly and half-wooded country that separated the lake area from the flatter farming areas north and west of Asten. Although there was no oncoming traffic, even before the Stanley crested a low hill, the glow of taillights ahead warned me, and I eased back on the power, ready for whatever had caused the slowdown.

  In a moment, even in the dim light just before full night, I could see the tableau on the highway before me. The Spazi front tail steamer had skidded to a stop, just past a long drive-way that wound out of a dark wooded area. The rearmost axle was clearly broken, and most of the tires were flat. There were dark blotches all over the concrete of the road, triangular tire spikes—the modern equivalent of caltrops.

  “There is an accident, Johan!” Llysette snapped.

  From the side road lumbered a huge petro hauler, except that it had turned onto the shoulder of the road—the shoulder on our side—as it accelerated toward us.

  One man jumped away from the wrecked Spazi vehicle as the hauler brushed it aside like a pile of rubbish. But the Spazi agent made it clear of the wreckage and began to fire at the hauler. I couldn't see the weapon, only the briefest of muzzle flares and what seemed to be sparks flashing from the side of the big hauler that loomed ever nearer to us.

  Slowing down would have been suicidal. We just would have suffered the fate of the Spazi steamer. So I kept the Stanley headed straight down the road toward the hauler and poured on full power, wishing at that moment for the near-instant response of an old-fashioned internal combustion engine. I had less than a hundred yards before we reached the spikes strewn across the road for what I needed, and hoped that what I was about to try would work.