Ghosts of Columbia (52 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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F
riday’s ice storm turned to snow, more than a foot, which was followed by rain and then a hard freeze that turned everything to ice on Monday. Tuesday, the wind changed, and by Wednesday morning the temperature was springlike again, not at all like the last days of October, and foggy, but not bad for running. I went all the way to the top of the hill and out into the old woods a ways, my boots crunching through the crusty snow.
After breakfast, a shower, and dressing, I made my way to the car barn to light off the Stanley. Although the day had gotten foggy with the sunlight and warm, moist air, the glare was intense even through the intermittent fog.
Standing outside the car barn, I glanced to the south, across the glittering iced snow and through the leafless trees of the orchard. Between the drifting patches of white, I could see a gray Spazi steamer on the back road. Jerome was certainly keeping his promise about surveillance.
I shook my head and opened the car barn door, then unplugged the heater, before starting the steamer and backing out. I’d closed up the barn, turned the steamer—avoiding Marie’s old black deSoto—and even had the Stanley warm inside before Llysette struggled out of the house and into the seat beside me, clutching her bags of music and books.
“Winter, for this I am not prepared.” Llysette shivered.
“It’s warmer than yesterday.” I eased the Stanley onto Deacon’s Lane and headed downhill toward the river and Vanderbraak Centre.
“That is like comparing the icebox and the freezer.”
“Wait until it really gets cold.”
“I cannot believe I leave the stove to beat notes to dunderheads.” Llysette halfsniffed, half-shivered in her heavy coat. “Even to the good ones.”
“You will. You’ll just complain more.” I laughed.
“You mock me.”
I could feel the pout. “I wasn’t mocking you, just stating what I thought would happen.” When I stopped at the bridge, I bent sideways and kissed her cheek.
She raised her eyebrows, and I knew what she was thinking.
How did I get out of being condescending when I had been? By not opening my mouth in the first place. “Lunch?”
“Mais non
… auditions we have for the festival. Did I not tell you?”
“You did. I didn’t remember that was today.”
“Johan… .” She shook her head but then spoiled it by smiling shyly, as if to ask how I ever could have been anything other than an absentminded professor. Maybe she was right.
After dropping Llysette off at the Music Building I made my morning pilgrimage to Samaha’s for the paper, before heading back to my office to scan it and prepare for my classes. There was little enough in the
Asten Post-Courier
, except a tiny blurb about the Austrian ambassador being recalled to Vienna for consultations. I wondered why, but the story was just a wire blurb without details.
The big story was the latest revelation about the Asten midtrupp ring and the turbo-dirigible controversy. One of the trupp chiefs had invested heavily in the governor’s brother’s construction business, and lo and behold, the business had been awarded the contract to extend the obsolete aeroplane runways to accommodate turbojets.
After shaking my head, I surveyed the environmental economics papers I had to hand back—not really terrible, but methodically mediocre. They’d all realized that I wanted facts and analysis, and most had gone through the exercise, but without either insight or inspiration. I picked up one.
“… taxes raise the price payed for fuels, like steamer kerosene so when Speaker Aspinall pushed through the excuse taxes …” I couldn’t read any farther again after “excuse taxes,” not without wanting to add comments about proofreading, assuming Miss Lyyker knew the difference. So I set it aside before I lowered her grade more.
Eleven o’clock came and went, and environmental economics was about as I feared—multiple hidden groans over the grades, followed by sullen glances when they thought I wasn’t looking.
The class discussion was subdued, because it had begun to dawn on them that they weren’t getting As or, in many cases even Bs—clearly my fault, in their
minds. After all, I was there to teach them, to spoon-feed them what they needed to know, if necessary, so that they could obtain the magic diploma and entrance to the occupation or graduate school of their choice.
Did I feel cynical?
The frightening part was that I believed my analyses were objective. So I plunged into trying to ignite some interest.
“Mister Deventer, would you rather be a north woods logger or a New Bruges fishing boat captain?”
“Ah … sir?”
“You heard me. A north woods logger or a fishing boat captain?”
“But, sir … I would prefer not—”
“To be either? I can understand that. Humor me, Mister Deventer. If you
only
had those choices, which would you choose?” I smiled and waited, ignoring the sigh. If you don’t ignore such sighs, you go slightly mad.
Mister Deventer surprised me. “If I had to choose, Doktor, I’d try to be a fishing boat captain… .” He went on to explain in logical terms how he could invest more in equipment to seek out fish while as a logger he would be limited in what he could log and where.
“Very good. Now what about the impact of the Blue Water Laws?”
Mister Deventer knew that, too, explaining how the combination of the water and wetlands laws retained the quality and quantity of marshland breeding areas for various species in the food chain and thus increased his putative profitability as a fishing captain.
Somehow, ignoring the handful of sighs and focusing on those students who appeared interested, I struggled through the examples of how environmental issues and changes impact basic economics and even society’s structures.
Water from the melting ice and snow covered the stone walks outside Smythe by noon. Given New Bruges’s variable weather, the water would probably freeze at night, leaving a death trap for the early-morning classes. I pushed aside that thought.
Instead of lunching with my spouse, since she was otherwise occupied, I went to the post centre. When I opened the postbox, I wished I hadn’t, but not totally. Besides a letter from my mother, there was a manila envelope, thicker than any of those I had received earlier. I swallowed and carried it and the letter from my mother back up the hill to my office, stopping to get a sawdust sandwich and powdered chocolate that wasn’t quite a uniform solution from the student center.
Between sandwich bites and sips of cool and dusty-tasting chocolate, I read the friendly letter first, not that it said much except that life went on for Anna and my mother and asked, again, when Llysette and I would next visit Schenectady.
I could have worked out some times before semester break, but Llysette couldn’t, not with the load and schedule she carried and not with the time she was taking off to sing in Deseret.
Outside my window, I could hear the post centre clock chime the half hour. Twenty-five minutes before I had to go another round. I finally choked down the sandwich before opening the manila envelope:
NEWPORT (FNS). Defense Minister Holmbek represented Speaker Hartpence at the keel-laying ceremony for the
Hudson
. Holmbek’s remarks were brief, but he did state that the
Hudson
would provide the first step “to ensure freedom of trade and freedom of passage.”
The
Hudson
and the
Washington
will be the first nuclear-electro-submersibles in the Columbian navy and are projected to be launched nearly simultaneously with the second Japanese electrosubmersible, as yet unnamed… .
The first Japanese nuclear submersible,
Dragon of the Sea,
completed her maiden voyage more than a year ago, but the three newer ships will incorporate updated technologies from both Columbia and Japan.
The second clip put the first in proper perspective, even if I didn’t care for that perspective:
VIENNA (WNS). Minister of State Franz Stepan announced that Ambassador Schikelgruber is being recalled “for consultation” with the emperor and his government… .
Sources close to the State Ministry have reported “dissatisfaction” with the Japanese-American technology sharing that resulted in the development of nuclear-electrosubmersibles… .
In a related development, the Austro-Hungarian Southern Fleet has closed the Arabian peninsula to non-Austrian-flag shipping “indefinitely” in the wake of Islamic fundamentalist riots in Makkah and Madinah… .
The closure was protested violently by the Indian Mogul Shaharrez, who suspended iron and textile exports to Europe “indefinitely.”
I rubbed my forehead, not that I could do anything about a world situation that seemed to be getting worse and worse, and slowly studied the next clipping:
CITIE DE TENOCHTITLAN (NFWS). “In time of trouble, we of mid-America must help each other.” Those were the first words of Marshal deGaulle in announcing a loan of 300 million new pesos to Venezuela for the refurbishing and repair of the fire-ravaged Lagunillas oil depot.
DeGaulle went on to pledge continued New French support for embattled President de Sanches’s
efforts to strengthen Venezuela’s industrial base and trade balance, noting that “we must decide our own destinies, based on the needs of our people, not upon transatlantic agendas.”
Reports from the Bolivar naval yard indicate that two New French cruisers and the carrier
Buonaparte
are already on station “somewhere in the vicinity of Aruba.”
Great—deGaulle was protecting the South American oil fields, while Ferdinand was exerting complete control over the Middle East and Columbia and Japan were racing to build and deploy technology that would make obsolete conventional miltary vessels, presumably to give them the ability to interrupt oil shipments, among other things. I picked up the last clipping:
FEDERAL DISTRICT (RPI). “The recall of Ambassador Schikelgruber confirms Ferdinand’s effort to make Columbia an Austrian dependency,” stated Congresslady Alexander (L-MI)… .
Alexander, known for her outspoken opposition to any form of accommodation or compromise with Austro-Hungary, also released the text of a purported communiqué from the Ministry of State in Vienna. The alleged communiqué orders the ambassador to “take all steps necessary to convince the Columbia government of the severity of the decision to implement a nuclear-powered armaments race.” Alexander’s revelation was dismissed by Ambassador Schikelgruber as “a political ploy designed to disrupt efforts at peaceful resolution of difficult issues.”
I noticed that captivating, charming, and cultured Schikelgruber hadn’t actually denied the communiqué. It was an interesting situation, since Alexander and the president were of the same party and these clips had come from Jerome, who was a Reformed Tory to the heart.
At least, there weren’t any clips from Deseret … this time.
With a look at my watch, I began to gather my notes for my next two classes.
B
y Saturday, we’d had both another freeze and another thaw, but the driveway was clear, and so was Deacon’s Lane when I headed down to McArdles’ and the post centre. That gave Llysette time to practice by herself. She continued to fret about the Perkins pieces, probably more than she would have otherwise, because Perkins would be playing for her in Great Salt Lake City.
With the square crowded, I tried the post centre first, using one of the shorttime parking slots for the Stanley. Getting out, I slipped on a patch of ice and almost tripped over the raised stone curb.
The postbox contained a few bills and advertising circulars, no more manila envelopes from the Federal District, and a flat package wrapped in brown paper—addressed only to “J. Eschbach, Vanderbraak Centre, New Bruges,” with no postbox or other identifier. The post cancellation was from the Federal District. The return address on the package stated: “International Import Supply, 1440 K Street, Federal District, Columbia,” and both address and return labels were plain white with standard-difference printer typefaces. Was this a new Spazi cover firm? The paper wrapping was similar.
I put it in the rear trunk—uneasily, especially since it was heavier than it looked. After that, I had to circle the square twice before there was a space behind McArdles’ in the small car park lot.
“Professor Eschbach,” said a young woman carrying a baby, someone I should have known but didn’t recall.
“Good morning. How are you doing these days?”
“I was going to come back for my master’s work.” She shrugged and looked down. “But one of us in school is about all we can afford right now. Terrence should finish his premed courses by spring.”
“It’s hard with children.” The reference to Terrence jogged my memory. Terrence Maanstra had undergraduate degrees in music, engineering, and political science. Rachel had been a promising pianist—until she met the intelligent, charming, and totally unfocused Terrence. “But don’t wait too long. Professor duBoise thought you could have a good career as a coach-accompanist.”
Rachel smiled, almost sadly, as she shifted her weight to catch the child, who had suddenly lurched awake. “We’ll see.”
“You take care,” I told her as I headed into McArdles’.
Her smile faded slightly as she turned away.
Why did so many of them think marriage solved problems or that they could
avoid facing themselves by getting married? In my life, at least, marriage had just made facing myself more imperative—and simultaneously harder. Much as I loved and had come to love Llysette more and more, facing up to myself, that part wasn’t getting that much easier.
I’d decided to fix flan for dessert for Bruce—and for myself, I admitted, since I was trying to be less self-deceptive—but flan required more in the way of heavy cream and eggs than we had. Picking up a basket, I walked to the back corner of the store. As I lifted the quart of cream and two dozen eggs—not that I needed that many, but better too many than too few for a cook who liked things too rich—I couldn’t help overhearing fragments of conversation from two women an aisle over.
“… that Professor Eschbach … the one who was a spy …”
“… you think she was a spy, too … why she was imprisoned?”
“… Delia heard her sing … must have been a spy … too good for here … say she was the mistress of the Japanese emperor once… .”
“Patrice said she was doing a big international tour now that she’s a citizen …”
“… maybe I’ll go the next time she sings.”
I tried not to wince as I walked back to the checkout stands. The truth was bad enough without gossipy elaboration.
After I parked the Stanley in the car barn, eased the suspicious package into the empty storage locker on the side of the car barn, and put the cream and eggs into the refrigerator, I pondered what to make for lunch to the strains from the Haaren’s keyboard and Llysette’s throat. I also wondered if I were being paranoid about the package. Still … better paranoid than injured or dead, and I wanted to let my subconscious chew on the problem.
Llysette was still practicing as I puttered around the kitchen—the Perkins piece I thought. It wasn’t Latin. That meant it couldn’t be the Mozart, and it was an art song in English.
Deciding on a mushroom quiche—dinner would be the lamb that had been marinating for two days—I tried not to clank as I got out a baking dish and the eggs and cheeses. The crust came first, and I was in such a hurry that it was probably going to be too thick and not flaky enough. Once it was in the baking dish, I blotted my forehead with the back of my arm.
The white enamel sills of the kitchen didn’t seem quite so sparkling. I’d probably have to get around to repainting them once the spring semester was over. Like my mother, and all the Dutch, much as I muttered about the endless cleaning and painting, I still started squirming at chipped paint and hints of grime.
Instead of worrying about spring cleaning, I threw together a small green salad for each of us, then quickly sliced and sautéed the mushrooms while the oven heated.
Everything took longer, and it was well past one o’clock before I could announce,
“Mademoiselle la chanteuse
… your midday repast …
c’est pret.
”
The piano stopped. “In a moment, Johan … but a moment.” Then her fingers went back to the Haaren’s keyboard.
I wondered whether to turn the oven on low to hold her lunch. When she practiced, a moment might be a half hour, but that was one of the traits I respected and—sometimes—loved.
Then she bustled into the kitchen.
“The other Perkins… .” She shook her head as she sat.
“Tous les annotations
… he is less … conventional …”
From what little I’d heard, the esteemed Doktor Perkins was less than the perfectly conventional Saint. He’d waited to get a doctorate before undertaking his mission, then been asked to leave Finlandia during that mission because he insisted on playing music rather than trying to convert locals. From Vyborg he’d gone to the Netherlands, where he’d dug Vondel’s plays out of the depths of the libraries and started turning them into operas, again ignoring the preaching business. After receiving an award and some solid cash from Hendrik—one of the last such grants before Ferdinand and his jackbooted troops arrived, the good Doktor Perkins had trundled home to Deseret, where he had married his childhood sweetheart—and only his childhood sweetheart. He’d been periodically quoted, from what I’d been able to dig out of the Vanderbraak State University library, as saying that music was his mission.
“Did he write anything conventional?”
“Mais oui
… but no longer. The more recent … they are better, but
tres difficile.”
I cut her a healthy wedge of quiche, a second for me, and then opened a bottle—table-grade Sebastopol, but better than tea or chocolate with quiche. I set the glass before her and seated myself.
“A chef you should have been,” Llysette said after her first bite.
“I don’t know about that. It’s hard for me to handle more than a few dishes at once, and chefs have to oversee dozens.”
“
Une petite brasserie… .”
“Very
petite
. Such as the size of our kitchen here.”
The quiche was good—even if I
had
cooked it.
While I did the dishes and thought, she wandered back into the music room. I wondered what to do about the package. I was 90 percent sure it was trouble, but with the strange mailings I’d had … who knew? And if it happened to be trouble, was it an amateur effort or a professional one? Also, did the package contain anything of value if it weren’t trouble? There was no way of knowing without opening the package.
Finally, I went out to the car barn and began to fiddle with tools until I had what I wanted.
It took me a long time, but using a mirror and a razor knife fastened to a cross arm attached to a rake, I had a tool I could use around the corner of the stone-walled car barn.
Then, trying to open the package carefully was tricky. I’m one of those people who has trouble directing actions in a mirror. It must have taken me a dozen attempts to make the first cut in the heavy package tape and almost as many for the second.
I only started the third attempt.
Crummtt!
The explosion ripped my rake-tool out of my hands.
There were only fragments of confettilike cardboard and shards of paper-thin metal—those and a depression next to the car-barn wall.
“Johan!” Llysette came running from the house.
“I’m fine. Just stand back.”
She didn’t.
“The ground explodes, and you are here, and I should stand back?”
“Yes.”
“Johan.” Her green eyes flashed.
“I didn’t want to worry you.”
“You still are
impossible
.”
“You’re right.” I had to smile sheepishly. I hadn’t been careless, but stupid, and I didn’t feel like admitting that totally openly. “I do need to clean up the mess.”
“The … mess … will it explode?”
“There’s nothing big enough left to explode.”
She shook her head.
She was right about that, too.
After Llysette went back into the house, I searched the area but found little except for a larger assortment of shreds of the thin metal and what looked to be the remnants of some form of pressure sensor. Basically, the idea had been to shred me with the metal, had I been stupid enough to open it. Well, I had been stupid enough, just not in direct range, and I suspected I’d hear from someone, sooner or later.
But I just collected the mess and tucked it into the rubbish bin. There wouldn’t be anything traceable, scientific forensic work or not.
Then I went back to the house.
“Johan.” Llysette put her arms around me almost before I closed the door. “I did not mean—”
“I know. You were worried, but I was trying to keep the Watch out of this. What would Chief Waetjen say if I’d handed him a bomb?”
“You could have been killed.”
“If I’d opened it in the normal way … but if it were a professional job, the chances were less, assuming I took precautions.” I shrugged. “I did. If there’s a next one, we call in someone else.” I knew there wouldn’t be. There might be something else, but not another bomb. The bomb was almost an admission that Jerome’s people in the gray steamers were doing their job very effectively.
“That you promise?”
“I promise.”
She kissed me, and the kiss was warm enough that one thing led to another and that Llysette didn’t get back to practicing.
As a result, I was still struggling to catch up on dinner when Bruce’s ancient Olds convertible whistled through the darkness and up the drive to the side door. I had extracted a promise from Llysette not to mention the explosive nature of the afternoon, the explosive nature of either the early or later afternoon.
Bruce stepped up to the door at six-fifty-eight, with two bottles of wine in a basket. The wind had picked up and was swirling snowflakes across the drive, the light kind of flurries that wouldn’t stick.
“Greetings, Johan.” He handed me the basket. “And Llysette.” He turned his head and smiled.
Standing by the foot of the stairs, she returned the smile. “Good it is to see you.”
“Greetings and thank you.” I glanced at the wine. “Yountville. You’re definitely spoiling us.”
“I am not spoiling you, Johan,” he said with a grin as I took his coat.
“I wondered about that.”
“New Bruges has too few cultural adornments to risk losing one.” He inclined his head to Llysette. “This is part of my small effort to persuade her to remain.”
The shy smile that crossed her face was part Llysette, part Carolynne, and an expression I treasured.
“Business?” he asked briskly.
“Strictly social.” I shook my head. There was no way I was going to tell Bruce about the bomb—no sense in ruining his evening. “Except I’m running a little behind.”
They followed me into the kitchen while I checked the pepper-roasted potatoes and the steamed mixed squash and tasted the mint-apple-plum sauce for the lamb.
Somehow, I got it all together, and we sat down at the table by seven-thirty.
Bruce took one bite of the marinated rack of lamb, then a second. “Very good, Johan. Very good.”
“Thank you.”
After a sip of the Yountville, he tried the potatoes and nodded. “Tasty.”
“They are good also,” Llysette offered. “In France, Johan, he could have been a chef.”
“I don’t question his cooking, dear lady.” Bruce paused. “Then again, the best chefs have also been known to be handy with knives and other weapons. Perhaps he would have been a well-known chef.”

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