Ghosts of Columbia by L. E. Modesitt Jr

Author:L. E. Modesitt, Jr.
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Tom Doherty Associates
Published: 2011-02-08T05:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Things don’t ever end quite the way you thought.

Llysette and I are getting married. In the Dutch Reformed Church in Vanderbraak Centre. Klaus Esterhoos deserves that much, at least. Eric and Judith will be here. So will my mother and Anna, and, of course, Carolynne will be with both Llysette and me, in a way, and there’s no way either one of us can repay her … except maybe by trying to do it right this time.

We aren’t inviting David or the dean, and we’ve avoided the trap David set, because I just told Llysette first—like she asked me—and we laughed.

“Such a small man he is. He and the dean, they deserve each other.”

“Of course they do.”

“Their own happiness, that will be hard for them.” But her voice was thoughtful, not hard, and she bent over and kissed me.

“And our happiness?”

“Best we keep it, dear man. The price for all, it was high.”

I squeezed her hand, and she squeezed mine. “But they don’t know that.”

“Non. They, they will live where we once did, in a shallow sea.”

And they will, in a sea of illusion, where they believe, as I did, that everything I did was for a good cause. People like that always do, and despite my best efforts with Babbage code, there was really no way to create a ghost of justice and mercy. What I had gotten was only a caricature of justice. Then, that’s what most people want—caricatures.

We’d thought about moving back to the Federal District of Columbia, with all of Bruce’s gadgets, and giving lots and lots of dinner parties, small intimate ones where Llysette sang. Despite Judith’s words about honesty, there was still one problem—my “insurance” policies would probably have been invalidated if our profiles got too high.

So … if Mahomet can’t go to the mountain, the mountain has to come to Mahomet. Even all the way to New Bruges.

Llysette’s singing is a key part, of course. She can really bring tears to people’s eyes now, especially to mine, and I’m sure that, between the two of us, we can actually raise money for a new performing arts hall.

Bruce and I have refined his gadgets so that we can now project small voices—call them angels. It’s not possession, not by a long shot. It just gets their attention. And then Llysette sings. Music—the right music to receptive ears—can do much more than soothe the savage beast. I didn’t even have to twist Bruce’s arms, not too much, anyway. But I think he really wishes we were moving.

You ask, is it ethical? I can only say that if I survived two ghostly possessions, then they can handle a few voices in concert. Call it an examination of conscience. Are we playing gods? Of course, but people always have, and refused to admit it. For the first time in my life, I’m being honest. So is Llysette.

She sings, and I teach. After all, what else can two academics do in up-country New Bruges?

Our daughter will be

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