Of Tangible Ghosts by L. E. Modesitt Jr

Author:L. E. Modesitt, Jr. [Modesitt, Jr., L. E.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780312857202
Published: 2010-12-06T05:00:00+00:00

Wasn’t it just possible that the slow progress of conquest was due in part to the inability of soldiers to accept ghosts on a massive basis? Supposedly the horrors of Hastings almost undid the armies of William the Unfortunate, so much so that it was three generations before his heir fully grasped even England.

Firearms had helped dispel that ghostly influence, especially for those armies with sharpshooters, like the assassin regiments of Ferdinand VI. But sometimes a good general can use horrors, as the New French general Santa Anna did at the Alamo. He was really a Mexican then, but that’s not what the New French histories state. On balance, it seemed as though modern technology and medicine were slowly destroying ghosts, except in warfare, which is barbarous by nature.

But all the ghost-related projects were being fired and/or having difficulty—and that went for projects in Europe as well as in Columbia. Except there was something wrong with my logic, and I couldn’t put my finger on it.

I leaned back in the hard seat of the local and tried to fall asleep in the dim light, with the click, clicketly, click of the rails in one ear and the snoring of the heavyset woman two seats back in the other.

In the end, I neither slept nor thought, but sat there in a semidaze until I reached Lebanon.

In the station parking lot, the dowager-sleek lines of the ‘ t Stanley waited for me, half concealed in the mist created by ] the cold rain that had fallen on warmer pavement.

Even after two days the Stanley lit off easily, and I drove eastward through the darkness, alert for moose. The big animals had been making a comeback, and any collision between one and a steamer would favor the moose.

The rain had been warm enough that it had not formed ice on the roads, and steady enough that few were out, even on a late Friday evening.

The only real signs of life were at the Dutch Reformed Church in Alexandria, where a handful of hardy souls were leaving a lecture on “The Growth and Heritage of the Leisure Class” by some doktor.

At least, that’s what I thought the rain-damped poster stated. A leisure class of Dutch heritage? I almost laughed.

Marie, bless her Dutch soul, had not only left on the light, but had left a small beef pie in the refrigerator. I wolfed down all of it cold, even before I carried my garment bag up to the bedroom.

I knew I couldn’t sleep until I rechecked Branston-Hay’s files, the ones I had pirated, but I did change into dry exercise sweats before I returned to the study to fire up the difference engine.

Carolynne hovered by the desk.

I bowed to her. “Good evening, Carolynne.”

“Good evening, sweet prince.”

“My mother was surprised that you were still around.”

“No more but so?”

“Were you in love with my father?” I asked, hoping her words, twisted as they might be, would prove illuminating.

“Rich gifts wax poor when givers prove unkind.”

“My father, unkind?”

“O, help him, sweet heavens!”

I tried not to shake my head.

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