Authors: L.E. Modesitt Jr.

Tags: #Science Fiction, #Science Fiction & Fantasy, #Alternate History, #United States, #Literature & Fiction

Ghosts of Columbia (16 page)

BOOK: Ghosts of Columbia

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“Even from up in the wilds I’ve gotten that impression.”

President Armstrong entered the East Room to the sounds of the
Presidential March
, the Sousa piece commissioned to complement
Hail to the Speaker
. He stepped up before the microphones on the low platform with a Japanese in a wellcut Western suit.

“Enough of that. Welcome, Ambassador Takayama.” He bowed, and Takayama bowed. “I don’t have a full speech, for which I know you are all grateful. I just have a few remarks.”

Sighs greeted his comments, since his remarks were known to be often less than brief.

“Truly, you understand me. But I only have a few remarks this evening …”

That did get a gentle laugh.

“Thirty-three years ago almost exactly, in 1960, a great and terrible event occurred with the detonation of the first nuclear device at Birel Aswad by the Austro-Hungarian scientific team following the equations developed by their mentor, Albert Einstein. We, of course, followed in 1965 at White Sands, and Chung Kuo in 1970. To date, no one has used the nuclear bomb, even in 1985. With the theoretically great power of the atom to create mass death and possibly millions of terrorized ghosts, the spectre of nuclear weapons has made them too terrible to use.

“The Imperial Republic of Japan has continued to eschew the development of the atom for weapons, a courageous prohibition. Japan has pioneered the development of atomic power plants for the peaceful use of the nuclear genie.

“We share, of course, with the Japanese, a concern that the oceans of the world remain open and free to trade. Therefore, I am pleased to announce that Emperor Akihito and I have reached a general agreement in principle that Japan and Columbia will pool their expertise in peaceful uses of the atom, including the development of oceangoing power plants …”

The president smiled broadly into the silence.

“… a development which I truly hope Speaker Hartpence and the Congress will follow with the necessary implementing treaty. Now … enjoy the evening.”

As the humming rose to a near-babble, nearly half a dozen figures scurried from the room. I was surprised there weren’t more. The president had clearly outmaneuvered the Speaker again, and the Hartpencers would be looking for blood.

Martin raised his glass to me, nodded, and slipped away toward the corner. His warning bothered me—was Ralston getting as bad as the Spazi?

“What do you suppose he meant by that?” asked a graying man, older and considerably heavier than I, accompanied by a slender and well-endowed younger blond woman who smiled at me as her escort asked the question.

“I believe he has obtained the agreement of the Japanese to provide us with plans and specifications to build a nuclear-powered submersible, in return for our expertise in other areas.” I bowed. “That, at least, is what I heard. One must be careful in reading too much into political statements.”

“I agree,” said the older man.

“Why would the Japanese do that?” asked the young woman.

“Because,” I answered, “we need that technology more than either Chung Kuo or Austro-Hungary, and because we can outbid Maximilian.”

“You make it sound so … sordid.”

“It is.” I laughed softly. “All politics is sordid.”

She made a face, and her escort tugged her in another direction.

The reception part of the dinner concluded with “Columbia,” sung by a
mezzo-soprano—almost good enough to be in Llysette’s class—accompanied by the Marine Corps band.

“Our God, we place our trust in thee
For Columbia, gem of freedom’s sea.
As humbled souls we pray to be
Upholding those who make us free …”

I still wasn’t sure about the humbled souls part. After milling around with the others, I let myself follow the flow into the state dining room, as we were discreetly escorted by a number of dark-clad aides to seats bearing engraved place cards.

I was seated near the end of one of the side tables, about as close to the side door as possible, next to a couple slightly younger than me. Their place cards read Doktor and Madame Velski, but we exchanged pleasantries in perfect Columbian English until the main course was being cleared.

“Excuse me, if you would.” I inclined my head to Madame Velski, and eased from the chair and through the doorway, heading toward the gentlemen’s facilities.

I paused by the wireset, then picked up the receiver and dialed three digits.

“The Special Assistant’s office. May I help you?” ,

“This is Johan Eschbach.”

“Thank you, Doktor.”

I nodded to the marine guard by the doorway to the staircase downstairs and proceeded to the men’s room. When I came out, a nervous-looking young fellow raised his hand.

“Doktor …”

“Yes, I’m Doktor Eschbach.”

He led me past the sentry and downstairs. Ralston McGuiness was waiting for me in the anteroom, the one off the oval office used for the president’s ceremonial meetings, not the office where he did actual work.

“Greetings, Ralston.”

“Read this, Johan. Then we’ll talk.” He handed me a thin sheaf of papers and walked out, closing the door behind him.

Since I’ve never believed in futile protests, I began to read. After a while I could skim through it, because the minutiae of the technical details were not all that relevant, and because much of the material was recently familiar to me.

Dr. Joachim Heisler, head of psychic research at the University of Vienna … arrived in Paris to review … experiments in targeted psychological stress.

… theorized that psychic disassociation is not necessarily unitary, based on investigations of battlefield ghosting and investigations of European homicides …

… marked attempts to conceal Heisler’s research and movements … significantly increased workloads occurring at GRI military difference engine centers … special helmets assembled in Bavaria … increased numbers of zombies processed at Imperial reeducation centers …

What was happening in Europe seemed almost as bad as what was happening in Columbia. I shook my head as I completed skimming through the material.

“Finished?” asked Ralston from the door to the Oval Office. He closed it behind him.

“Enough to get the gist of it all.”

“What do you think?” He pulled out the chair on the far side of the small, circular conference table.

“We’ve got trouble.”

“Tell me why?”

“You know perfectly well why, Ralston. That’s not why you summoned me.”

“Johan, it’s been a long week. Humor me. The president lost four men getting that information. Canfield went part ghost, and he’s babbling about disasters and catastrophe.”

“Why not run it by Spazi research? That’s more their line than mine.”

“Very humorous, Johan. Perhaps we will, if we can’t figure it out, and we’ll attribute it to you. Or to Doktor duBoise.” He smiled a smile I didn’t like at all.

I cleared my throat. Just what did he want? A reason to put me in one of the dark cells in the subsubcellar of the budget building? Or was it an intelligence test of some sort, to see how obvious the not-so-obvious was? “It seems as though Ferdinand’s tame psychic wizards have figured out how to create exactly the kind of ghosts they want. That part doesn’t bother me nearly so much as it would bother the Anglican-Baptists or Speaker Hartpence. The other part does.”

“The other part?” prompted Ralston, with only a slight delay to my cue.

“What do they have left when they’ve created a ghost?”

“A happy zombie, usually.”

“Humor me this time. What if you could stick someone under one of Doktor Heisler’s helmets and just target a few aspects of their brain? You know, facets dealing with integrity, or fear, or conscience?”

“You pass,” answered Ralston.

I kept my mouth shut. Ralston hadn’t blinked an eye, had been almost matter-of-fact. Despite the dates on the papers, he had already known. I asked, “Is Ferdinand creating ghost-immune troops?”

“There’s at least one battalion, but the process isn’t foolproof. It only works about fifty percent of the time.”

“So we have the ghost-research war?”

“What do you mean, Johan?”

Did I play dumb, still treading between two payrolls? Did I have any choice? If Ralston knew what I actually knew, I’d likely have a heart attack on the spot, a fatal one. VanBecton was playing to set me up, and so was Ralston. I knew why vanBecton was, but not Ralston, unless he had exactly the same idea as vanBecton, which was certainly possible. And I hadn’t liked the reference to turning Llysette over to the Spazi.

“You send me clippings that show destruction of psychic research facilities, but earlier this week I read a few clippings of my own, about the fires and explosions in the Munich Babbage center. I’m supposed to believe that’s accidental, especially after what you’ve just shown me?”

“There is that. What if I said we didn’t have anything to do with Munich?”

“We meaning the president, or we meaning Columbia?”

“Either.”

“Then it looks like someone else is playing. The Turks can’t afford to, and that leaves the Far East or deGaulle.”

“We think deGaulle. What did vanBecton tell you?”

“Not much. He says that Llysette duBoise is an agent of Takaynishu, and he wants me to look into Miranda Miller’s murder.”

“I assume you have. What have you reported?”

“It appears as though Professor Miller was co-opted by New France. Her son was arrested on a trumped-up importing charge last year.” I shrugged.

“Then who owns Doktor duBoise?”

“Does anyone?” I asked.

“You do, apparently, or she owns you, but I’m interested in the unsubordinated share.”

“I don’t know. The Japanese ambassador intervened to have her released from prison, and she was tortured by Ferdinand, but … I don’t see any signs there, and that bothers me.”

“It bothers me, too, Johan, and it bothers the president a lot. Right now, we have the Speaker on the run, but one false step and it could all unravel. VanBecton wants you to take that false step.”

“But,” I smiled, “if I disappeared at a Presidential Palace function, that would also unravel things.”

“Yes, it would.” Ralston McGuiness did not smile.

“So what do you need?”

“We need to know who Doktor duBoise works for, and we need to have a scandal involving vanBecton, one without your fingerprints on it. So please just keep to your assignment with Doktor duBoise, and report to vanBecton. If you
solve the Miller murder, so much the better. Just keep things quiet, the way we like them.”

“And if vanBecton falls flat on his face that would be fine—provided no one is within a hundred miles of him.”

“That’s too close. So don’t do it.” Ralston glanced toward the door. “You need to get back upstairs. One last thing. Was there any link between Miller and the Babbage center?”

“She had a lot of conversations with Branston-Hay.”

“Does vanBecton know this?”

“Yes.”

“I wish he didn’t.” Ralston stood. “Just keep things quiet.”

“I’ll do what I can, but it isn’t going to be easy. VanBecton wants a mess, preferably with me in it.”

“We know. We think you can handle it.”

“What’s vanBecton’s clout?”

“You didn’t know?” Ralston grinned. “Besides being the number two in the Spazi, vanBecton is Defense Minister Holmbek’s son-in-law.”

I wiped my forehead on the cotton handkerchief, wishing I weren’t sweating, but your body can betray you more quickly than your mind. “Holmbek’s not the Speaker, and he gave up his seniority to take Defense,” I pointed out.

“He and Speaker Hartpence both belong to Smoke Hill and bowl together twice a week.” Ralston nodded sagely, as if that explained everything. Lawn bowling certainly gave time for exchanging confidences, but that didn’t mean that the Speaker would automatically do what Holmbek or vanBecton wanted. It did mean that what they did was probably what the Speaker wanted. At that I did shiver.

“You see?” asked Ralston.

“Thanks.” I left and went back upstairs, just in time to finish a sloppy peach melba and to listen to a whole round of toasts that said even less than normal, as if the toasters had been carefully instructed by the president—or his budget examiners. Even for the ceremonial head of state, money talks, just less directly.

After the evening ended I walked up Sixteenth a bit and hailed a cab.

It was past eleven when Eric opened the door for me.

“Judith’s gone to bed. Do you want to talk?”

“Just for a bit.”

We walked into his study.

BOOK: Ghosts of Columbia

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