Ghosts of Columbia by L.E. Modesitt Jr. Page A

in Columbia.” He glanced toward the window and the gray clouds before continuing. “Sometimes, Johan …” He offered a self-deprecating grin. “It would be easier to forget the past.”
    I understood, although I didn’t know that he knew that. “Sometimes … but without the past we wouldn’t be who we are.”
    “I suppose. And I suppose that things could be worse.”
    “There is always the issue of progress,” I offered.
    He frowned. “Do you really think the world is a better place now? That progress in technology has meant anything more than better ways to kill?”
    “Medicine is better. Women don’t die in childbirth, and that makes for happier homes with fewer tormented ghosts.”
    “It also makes for bigger battles with fewer ghosts to remind us of the horrors of war.”
    “That’s true enough. On the other hand, we don’t see civil wars in the Balkans. There aren’t any pogroms in the Polish and German parts of the Empire. The Greeks stopped killing the Turks generations ago—”
    “That’s probably because Ferdinand’s father killed most of the Greeks, like his grandfather killed off most of the Serbs.” Grimaldi snorted. “And that left the Croats with all the land.”
    I shrugged. “Some rivalries only end when one group is exterminated.”
    “You approve of genocide?”
    “I didn’t say that.” I forced a laugh. “I have noticed, however, that peace among human beings tends to exist only as a condition of some sort of force, and some groups seem destined to fight forever—like the Irish and the Brits, or the Copts and the Muslims.”
    “Or Japan and Chung Kuo? That could get nasty—maybe nastier than Ferdinand’s March to the Sea—although I don’t see how.”
    “Don’t say that. From what Llysette has told me, it was pretty horrible.” I paused. “Still, things can be horrible anywhere. DeGaulle’s efforts to push New France’s boundaries right up to the Panama Canal haven’t been exactly bloodless, and the Panamanian Protectorate is effectively a Spazi police state.”
    At the mention of the Spazi, Grimaldi glanced toward the open door.
    “I’ve said far worse.” Still, I changed the subject. “You said that the story about the casino upset you.”
    “I don’t know,” Grimaldi mused. “The story about the casino—I can recall running for the dirigible, and hearing the roar of the panzerwagens. My father never opposed Ferdinand. He even offered to accept an Austro-Hungarian protectorate. Ferdinand didn’t even bother to respond. The armored divisions just poured out of San Remo. What could President Bourbon-Philippe do? The Spanish had already caved in, and Columbia …” Grimaldi shook his head.
    “I’m sorry.”
    He laughed harshly. “There’s not much you can do, Johan. Not more than fifteen years later. At least they had to wait almost twenty years for my father’s ghost to fade.”
    There wasn’t too much I could say about that. So I nodded.
    “Everything’s so quiet—here or in what remains of France. So clean, so efficient. Even Ferdinand’s gas ovens are environmentally safe—except to the Gypsies and the outspoken Jews. Everyone just goes to sleep and doesn’t wake up. It’s a hell of a quietly efficient and environmentally sound world, Johan.” He looked at me. “Why did you leave the government?”
    “It got harder and harder to do my job. Let’s leave it at that.”
    “I think I understand.” He shook his head and stood up. “Time to face the well-groomed and empty-minded masses.”
    “All young in any culture tend to be empty-minded,” I pointed out. “I suspect” we were.
    “We were probably happier then.” He gestured from the door and was gone.
    I looked at the test for a while, made some corrections, and packed up my leather folder for my first class.
    As I walked across the green, absently waving to Hector, bagging leaves in a dun-gray canvas bag, I wondered how many people like Grimaldi and Llysette were tucked away