Ghost in the Machine (Steam and Cyber Series Book 1) Read online

  This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, re-sold, duplicated, hired out, or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

  This is a work of fiction. All characters and events portrayed in this novel are fictitious and are products of the author’s imagination and any resemblance to actual events, or locales or persons, living or dead are entirely coincidental.

  Cover by Rue Volley

  Edited by Catherine Stovall

  Formatting by Inkstain Interior Book Designing

  Text Copyright © 2015 SJ Davis

  All rights reserved.

  Published by

  Crushing Hearts and Black Butterfly Publishing, LLC.

  London

  April 1865

  Bodhi rubbed his chin as if the scruff along his jaw line was a full-grown beard. He paced around the quiet clock shop, from one table to the next, searching for the correctly sized instrument to link the image magnifier to his goggles. The storefront boasted huge windows pointed at the top like a church’s with iron railings along the bottom half. Five tables lined the back wall, all strewn with brass tacks, glass tubes, metal scraps and tools, and cogs and oils. Each table held lamps with magnifying attachments. Dirty aprons hung from a hook by the front door and the hardwood floor was scratched, exposed down to the grain, from age and overuse.

  The front door shook in its frame as someone rapped loudly on the door. It swung open as a filthy messenger boy came dashing in, covered in sweat and muck. His unwashed and wind-blown hair sprung about in wild angles; he appeared much too undersized to have made the clamorous battering sound on the door, but the boy’s speed made up for his strength. Bodhi dropped his tool belt on the steel worktable to greet the young boy.

  “Are you quite all right?” he asked the young boy with concern. “Can I help you?”

  “Yes, the Prime Minister has a job request for you. His grandfather clock, at #10 Downing Street, is completely out of order. He needs you to make a house call most urgently, if you please.”

  “I usually do all my repair work here, in the store. All of my supplies and tools are here.”

  “He will compensate you according to your inconvenience, sir. Here, I have a note.”

  Bodhi held up his hands, showing his black and oily palms. “Just a moment, let me wipe off the grease.” The boy nodded, bending over to catch his breath, as Bodhi jogged to the back. The back of his store was dimly lit but housed a small and serviceable kitchen and washroom area. The washbasin was wiped clean, but was still smeared with smudged grime along its sides, the smell of coal, carbon, and dust lingered in the room.

  Bodhi remembered Prime Minister Ratcliffe, vaguely, from his childhood. Bodhi’s foster father was a peer of Lord Ratcliffe’s, and his foster sister, Josephine, occasionally played with Ratcliffe’s daughter, Lady Caroline. His childhood felt a like someone else’s life, far away from his present life now in his store, with his gadgets and inventions.

  Bodhi removed his black goggles and work coat and returned to the boy. Bodhi towered over the messenger, his height blocked out all light from the back window. He wore a grey work vest, with small side pockets for tools. The sides of his heavy canvas trouser legs were covered in multiple utility pockets where various sized wrenches and screwdrivers peeked out.

  “Thank you for bringing the note. Please excuse the dust and grime, but it is a place of work of course.” The boy raced to the door and flung it open. “Wait!” called Bodhi. “Why wasn’t the note simply sent via the Royal Mail?”

  “I was told it was to be directly handed to you, in person, and to no one else. That’s all I know, sir.”

  “Well done then, lad,” said Bodhi as he dug for a coin, his pockets jiggled with loose metal parts. “Here you go.”

  “Thank you,” said the boy as he caught a coin from Bodhi.

  Bodhi looked at the outside of the note, addressed and handwritten in a seemingly foreign hand. Each letter ran together in lines and dashes unlike the normative British cursive, yet was still readable. The wax seal crumbled to the floor revealing the dark blue penmanship of its contents: The Office of the Prime Minister requests your services regarding the servicing of a Grandfather clock at #10 Downing Street. Please make arrangements for repair at your convenience.

  Bodhi’s rubbed his brow as he rested uncomfortably against the table. He tried to remain calm, but his nervousness bled through. He picked up his teacup, halfway filled with now lukewarm orange pekoe, nearly dropping it back to the saucer with a loud clatter. Why would the Prime Minister request his services? Bodhi’s business was less than a year old and how did Lord Ratcliffe become aware of him? No matter, business was business he decided, making a note on his calendar to visit the Prime Minister’s residence in the morning.

  He organized his scuffed leather utility bag, filling it with cogs, levers, pull strings, chains, lubricants, and brass gears. The far table held a vast array of instruments and dials, all organized according to size and function. A padded chair, wingback with broken side arms, was pushed against the wall, between the cluttered tables. Two battery-powered lighting devices were clamped on either side of the chair backs. Wires snaked from the metal base of the lights, each attached to a pedal for power.

  Bodhi dusted his hands and pulled a brass lever, flipping a switch into the on position. The rushing sound of steam hissed and powered the lights as he pushed on the pedal at the base of the chair. After a few seconds of hissing, the released steam caused a brief high-pitched whine and the room became brightly illuminated.

  A side room to the left of the back housed Bodhi’s reconditioned airship project. Polished brass beams curved around the room like the ribs inside a giant. A worn spiral staircase leaned against the wall, splintered but waiting to be refinishing. Behind the stairs, a heavy navy jacket hung, complete with high collar, roped arms, with thin scarlet stripes running down the sides. The hull of a cockpit area peaked from beneath a tarp cover while a dashboard, with navigation controls and weapon management controls, sat on a table surrounded by two burgundy leather seats. Red, green, and yellow light switches decorated the walnut control panel.

  Charts and dials scattered across the floor, alongside rolled up sketches of engine plans and steam works. A small rusted propeller held open the door, behind which hung a brown leather cap, completed by green tinted goggles. The bell of the front door interrupted his tinkering.

  “Just a moment,” he yelled from the back.

  “It’s me,” answered Josephine. “Can I come in?”

  “Yes, I’m in the back room. I’ll make some fresh tea.”

  Bodhi greeted Josephine with a familial kiss on the cheek as she crossed his path in the doorway. She pulled her skirts into her as she walked around the rusted propeller. “Bodhi,” she called back to him, “when will this airship of yours be complete? It’s unbearable to walk around all this junk. And I’m certain it’s hazardous.”

  “Soon,” said Bodhi from across the back hall. “No one sees this but me, so it’s hardly bothersome.”

  “I see it. Do I not count?”

  “No, you do not, actually.” He chuckled a quick laugh, a rare sound in his shop. “And all of these items are perfectly organized and in order. They are neither junk nor hazardous, my dear.”

  Bodhi re-entered holding a silver plated tray of tea. A poppy colored tea cozy insulated the teapot, while two mismatched teacups balanced on either side of th
e tiny tray.

  “Bodhi, I shall bring you some proper coordinating china. These are remnants, cast-offs from the old house.”

  “They work quite well and I am most attached to them. But thank you.”

  “They are chipped, unstable, and uncoordinated.”

  “They hold my tea quite well. I see no need to replace them.”

  “Bodhi,” she said firmly. “Just because you are a bachelor...”

  “Lovely of you to visit, Josephine,” he said, cutting her off. “How are your students?” He stood to pour her tea, putting in two cubes of sugar, as she has always preferred. He glanced down where she sat, in the light of the window.

  “Good God, Josephine. Were you attacked? What happened?” he said before she could answer his first question. Never had he seen such colors on her skin before. Her right cheek, from her ear down through her jaw, was imperceptibly swollen and a mixture of black, blue and yellow was smeared over the slightly distended area where her neck met her jaw. The contusion appeared painful and he leaned in to assess the damage.

  “I don’t know what happened,” she said calmly. “I woke with this quite remarkable bruising. Completely unexplainable and inexplicable.” Without thinking, her hand touched the swelling. She pushed into the puffed up area and flinched. “It’s as if I had surgery in the night. Ouch,” she said as her upper jaw vibrated with pain from her hand’s slight pressure.

  “I was going to let you try my new goggles, but I’m afraid they may hurt your injury.”

  “Oh, let me see them anyway!”

  He passed to her a custom version of his latest ocular invention. The magnification of the new goggles could be extended to twenty times the normal field of vision. A slight curve of the lens kept the goggles more flush to the face, more intuitive, with an adjustable refraction; a tiny round crystal bulb was attached to the upper right for added illumination, the power switch was located on the chinstrap attached by a thin wire.

  Josephine ran her hands across the smooth chin strap and stretched the goggles around her head, elongating the area that would normally touch the right side of her face, avoiding her bruise.

  “Bodhi! These are simply amazing!” The left lens lay so close to her eye, it was as if the goggles were a natural extension of her own field of vision. “The magnification is quite extreme.” She looked about the room, tiny dust particles and strands of hair appeared enormous.

  “Remarkable. I am quite stunned at the clarity.”

  “Next thing you know, we’ll see the future through your goggles,” she joked.

  “The idea has crossed my mine; but the execution eludes me.”

  “Bodhi, I was joking. Such a thing is impossible.”

  “The greatest ideas and inventions come from impossibility, Josephine.”

  She scanned the room, the goggles magnifying every crack and pore in the wall. “I can read a note with these, across the hall. Let’s see…” she squinted and adjusted the lenses by rotating the magnification.

  “Don’t be so curiously meddlesome, Josephine. They aren’t for spying.”

  “Oh but these could be,” she said, reading his note. “Bodhi! You are going to the Prime Minister’s to repair his clock? Is not someone appointed by Her Majesty to handle such repairs?”

  “One would think so.”

  “Well, I remember him as a lovely man, in spite of raising a rather spoiled daughter,” said Josephine as memories rushed upon her. She looked into the grief stricken face of Bodhi, a tall man than most, more of a Londoner now than a refugee from India. He picked up scattered papers and straightened the edges on the table.

  “We were children. People change. You are quite a different person from when you were a child.”

  “My childhood was robbed from me, of course I would change.”

  “Yes. Well,” said Bodhi uncomfortably, clearing his throat, “life can be difficult.”

  “Life can be most unfair,” she added with stiffness in her usually soft voice. They sat comfortably in silence until Josephine stood to return Bodhi’s goggles. “Now, back to this summons for a house call, don’t make a nuisance of yourself or break anything. And I expect to hear exactly what it’s like inside #10.” She smiled as she stood to leave.

  “Of course.”

  “And tell me all about Caroline, too,” she added. “It has been a lifetime.”

  Kent, England

  April 1865

  The place and the hour usually gave Caroline comfort; it was early evening and the sun was only faintly visible as she strolled the perimeter of her gardens. The sky, golden and pink, peeked through the low hanging mist while the sunset reflected on the damp grass. Stone benches, long sunken in front of the landscaped bushes were chipped along the edges and wet with rain, yet she chose to sit for a moment.

  A broad swathe of uncolored brightness filled the valley alongside her father’s manor. The rest of the world laid still, neither shadows nor sound seemed to exist beyond these hills. Stretching behind her, a long black road led to the house. The path dipped and curved between two rows of perfectly planted trees, all evenly spaced and matched in height. The disrupted turf exposed the natural darkness of the land. Horse hoofs and carriage wheels burrowed into the much and peat, excavating deep patterns and disrupting any semblance of smooth travel.

  Caroline turned towards the main house and caught the stern figure of her marching father coming down the hillside through the fog. His black coat and tails flapped behind him while his tight black satin vest mirrored the small amount of light left from the sun. He wore lace at his cuffs but his overly elevated top hat and frowning scowl lent him the appearance of a grim reaper.

  “Caroline,” her father, England’s Prime Minister, said with a disapproving brow. “I must insist that you return to the house immediately. Leaving our guests, in the middle of our dinner engagement, is scathingly unbecoming. It’s as if you’ve forgotten yourself entirely.” His hands flew in the air yet his voice remained in control. “I can hardly understand your behavior.” He turned away and looked up into the trees. “Here I am, responsible for securing all of Great Britain and for maintaining Order! But in my own house? Utter anarchy reigns!”

  “Indeed, I must have forgotten myself,” she answered without expression. “I am quite aware of the expectations of me, as the lady of your house.”

  “It has been difficult for me also, Caroline,” he cleared his throat, “all of these years, since your mother passed.”

  “Of course it has,” she said in a softer tone, his statement stung. She rose to hold her father’s hand. “I apologize for my selfishness. I must also tell you, I cannot find Mother’s cameo.”

  “Your mother’s cameo? It is always locked up. It is quite impossible that it’s missing.”

  “I’m afraid it is.” The air sounded empty around them, devoid of life.

  “First things first. Come back in immediately and we shall invent an excuse for your odd behavior,” he said, trying to mollify her. “We shall explain how your outburst was most out of character.” Her father had brought her cloak and draped it around her shoulders. “We shall say you were suddenly confounded by a blinding headache,” he whispered gently. “You were in dire need of fresh air without delay.” He patted her back and awkwardly kissed the top of her head. “Then we will find the missing cameo.”

  “Whatever you wish.” She shrugged.

  “Please, darling. It is not whatever I wish.” He put his hand under her chin. “Everything I wish is for you and for your benefit.”

  “Your hard work has served our family and England well,” she answered. “We are most fortunate and I do not mean to appear ungrateful, but I feel like there should be more. I don’t mean more material acquisitions, but something utterly intangible yet unquestionably more than what exists now. For me, anyway.” Caroline walked with her father, her arm tucked firmly under his. “I wish I had better talents in conveying how I feel.” She no longer wore the pouty face of a child; her pale
hair showed beneath the hood of her cloak, placed carefully to not agitate her chapeau, and was as fine and silken as a young girl’s. Her eyes, usually as lively as a brilliant cloudless sky, were unexcited and dulled; her outfit, with ornate laces and ribbons knotted about the waist and hips, strangled each of her steps. Her skirt clung tightly to her body and sported a bustle and violet train while a floral lavender top was fitted over a suffocating hourglass-shaped corset.

  “I feel as if I am going to faint. I feel like I am in a coffin.” She tried to stretch her lungs and ribcage but was a prisoner of her clothing.

  “Do you need a new wardrobe?”

  “It’s not the clothes. It’s my life! I can hardly breathe!” She reached up to her head, adjusting her flared, but miniaturized top hat under her cloak, which featured shiny purple velvet stripes with a coordinating grosgrain ribbon band. An attached headband with satin ribbons tied behind her ears to keep her hat and hair in proper place. “Well, it all looks so silly to me right now. I feel irrelevant.”

  “You’ve always loved beautiful things, Caroline. Your love of fine art, designs, and fashion are inherent to your very being. I don’t understand your sudden change.”

  “I do like beautiful things. Really, I do. But tonight, listening to the men discussing topics of unemployment, factory conditions and child labor, and knowing that I am an unwelcome participant, made me feel like a piece of fancy nonsense. And when Lord West completely dismissed granting woman the vote, I could stand not a moment more. And no one takes someone seriously who wears a hat like this.”

  “It isn’t your clothes and accessories, Caroline. It is the nature of your gender. It is a general consensus that female thought processes and especially political opinions must be shaped and determined by a trusted male figure. Ideally, your conversations should be kept to appropriate topics of housekeeping and the arts with others members of your gender. How you look isn’t the issue. It is the gender you were born to.”