The Ghost Engine Read online

  The Ghost Engine

  Theresa Fuller

  Dedicated to my family, in particular my son, Tim.

  Sincere thanks and deepest appreciation to my mentors:

  Jess Granger

  JG Faherty

  Jennifer Fallon

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  This work is copyright. Apart from any use permitted under the Copyright Act 1968, no part may be reproduced by any process, nor may any other exclusive right be exercised, without the permission of Theresa Fuller P.O. Box 7021 Mt Annan, NSW 2567, Australia

  Copyright © 2017 by Theresa Fuller

  Bare Bear Media

  Cover by Ravven Kitsune

  ISBN: 978-1-925748-00-0

  ISBN: 978-1-925748-01-7

  ISBN: 978-1-925748-02-4

  ISBN: 978-1-925748-03-1

  Praise for THE GHOST ENGINE

  "Theresa Fuller primes The Ghost Engine with vivid description to transport readers on a steam punk journey into a dangerous world with her defiant heroine in this audacious challenge to Victorian oppression laced with historical insight." - Gregory Lamberson, author of Johnny Gruesome and Black Creek

  “The Ghost Engine is a non-stop thrill ride fueled by adventure and suspense. Readers will find themselves captured by a magical world where the concepts of humanity and AI become blurred and reality loses its meaning. This one will have you turning the pages faster and faster to keep up.” – JG Faherty, author of The Cure, Ghosts of Coronado Bay, and The Burning Time.

  The Ghost Engine is a sharp and intriguing re-imagining of the Ada Lovelace/Charles Babbage Analytical Engine. The writer takes us on a fantastical journey into the heart of the Engine, and the societal struggles of women at that time. - Amanda J Spedding, two-time Australian Shadows Award winner (short fiction; graphic novel).

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Author’s Notes

  Acknowledgements

  Dear Reader

  Description

  Chapter One

  London 1880

  THERE WERE TIMES Berd wished she could speak with the dead. Today was one of them.

  Light from the ormolu chandelier set in the domed ceiling of the auction house foyer fell upon the sign ‘Auction: Deceased Estate’ written in black type that crouched like spider’s legs.

  Berd blinked. The letters gleamed straight back at her, bold and black and outlined in gold. Ordinary calligraphy. Certainly not like spiders.

  This is no time for second thoughts.

  She tightened her grip on her silk reticule and quickened her pace, inhaling the odour of pipe weed and newsprint, as she crossed the foyer’s wide expanse of black and white tiles. Her maid followed.

  It was a fallacy, Berd knew, for the world to believe that if one chose to work on machines one also knew everything about them. Grandmother was a good case in point; while she was proficient at instructing a machine to carry out a set of orders – programming, she called it – she had not the slightest notion as to how to assemble such a device. Thank goodness for the late Mr Babbage and his Difference Engine; he had compensated for her deficiencies.

  If only Berd had a Mr Babbage.

  If only Berd still had her grandmother.

  The old woman had been a member of the nobility. She was the sole offspring of that wastrel prodigy known as Byron, and a brilliant mathematician, but none of that had made any difference to the physician who treated her for cancer. When Grandmother inquired about a second opinion, the physician had impressed upon her that if she, a woman, proceeded to do so, he would wash his hands of her. Grandmother spent her last months in agony.

  Nobody deserved to die like that. Nobody.

  Berd stepped up to the registration desk and came under the scrutiny of the black-suited clerk. “We are here to attend the auction.”

  “My lady.” The clerk handed her a form. His gaze lingered on the black netting of her veil.

  Let him believe she was hiding eyes red and swollen from weeping. Believing her to be a widow meant, by default, that she must be of age, which would satisfy auction house requirements. Her pen-nib scratched over the papers as she signed a fictitious name in black India ink. She handed back the forms for the clerk to blot, cleared her throat then spoke down to him in the same imperious tone her late mother, the Countess of Lovelace, employed with recalcitrant servants. “Is my registration complete?”

  Weak-kneed with relief, Berd knew her disguise worked when the clerk swallowed hard then held up a wooden paddle with a red number painted on the rounded end. “Number Thirteen. The only remaining.”

  Little wonder no one had taken it. She nodded toward Rose, and he presented the paddle to her.

  “Room Two, down the corridor, my lady. Bidding should already have begun,” he said.

  Begun? Oh blast! That was the reason the auction house appeared so empty. A greater fear settled deep in Berd’s stomach: what if it had already been auctioned? “Come, Rose.” Forcing herself to appear composed, Berd’s heels clicked rapidly against the marble passageway.

  “My lady, your catalogue!” the clerk called out.

  She waved his words away. “It isn’t needed.”

  She was here for one item only.

  A year ago, the owner of that one precious item had declined her written offer. Shortly after, the papers had announced the man’s passing. Now his estate was being settled. This was her last chance to obtain the object she believed would have saved Grandmother’s life.

  Rose trotted behind, her face pale in the gloom of the unlit passageway. Doorways were open either side of the hallway. Which was Room Two? The one to the right brimmed with people, and Berd caught sight of the gold number two on the oak-panelled door just as Rose pointed to it.

  Berd’s heart sank at the size of the crowd. Two hundred people or more in dark suits and fine hats had their backs to her as they sat in red-velvet chairs that looked up to a podium far to the room’s front. More people meant a higher price; maybe more than Berd could afford. Once again, she squeezed the drawstring neck of her reticule, the contents of which seemed strangely lighter.

  The men standing at the doorway in the House’s livery led her down the main aisle to two seats in the back section, not more than three rows into the room. Yet even from this distance Berd smelt the paraffin. Her knees softened, as there, at the front of the auction room, was the object of her desire. Around her, voices whispered, “Let the lady sit. Please, let the lady sit.”

  They were ushered to two red padded chairs. Rose leaned close. Whether it was out of fear or to provide comfort, Berd could not tell; she was too busy staring across the crowd at the massive structure of copper and brass enthroned upon the entire dais.

  Through the hazy pipe sm
oke, the structure resembled a miniature mechanical city, and just fitted against the length of the wall. Deadly carriage spires pierced the air. Her arms tingled.

  The Ghost Engine.

  Grandmother was right in her description. It made Berd feel as if God Almighty was in the room Himself. Grandmother referred to the giant calculating machine as a computer in her writings, but the term engine seemed so much more appropriate.

  Berd’s mind raced as she attempted to determine the purpose of each polished cog, wheel, and cam. What function did those small copper platters serve? Input? No, no, storage! And where was the punch-card reader? Row after row of vacuum tubes glistened under the yellow glare of gas lamps. What an elegant method of switching! That brass outlet… was that…? And those dials—

  “My lady?”

  Someone tugged at her sleeve. Berd started breathing again as she recognised Rose’s voice. The buzz of conversation in the room swelled over them both, but then everything was drowned out by the tap of staccato footsteps up the passageway.

  All heads turned to the back of the room as a lady, dressed like Berd in the black silk of widow’s weeds, proceeded down the centre aisle. Her distinct lack of crepe denoted she was coming out of mourning, yet no jet jewellery adorned her garments. And the black was unrelieved by other colours, which should not be the case, not in this late stage. That meant she deliberately wished to remain in mourning. She, too, was also followed by a lady’s maid.

  All in the room sat straighter, Berd included.

  The black-suited auctioneer bowed. His thinning red hair combed to one side, threatened to slide back to the middle. “Her Grace, the Duchess herself...” He pressed one finger against his mouth, as if to prevent the secret of her identity escaping. “I realised you were missing and held the auction for you.”

  “Proceed, Barnaby.” Without pausing, the duchess made her way up to the front of the room where several preeminent seats had been left unoccupied.

  So that explained why the auction had not yet commenced. Beneath her veil, Berd licked her dry lips. How could her measly allowance compete against the wealth of a duchess?

  She squeezed her reticule, but neither the feel of her favourite pomander, the orange studded with cloves, nor the bundle of pound notes she had packed with such enthusiasm this morning, brought any comfort.

  The auctioneer bowed first to the duchess and then to the audience. “Ladies and gentlemen, it is my sincerest pleasure to welcome you to Bingley’s, where quality takes precedence over price. We are most sad to have to inform you of the passing of the late Mr Robert Fotheringay, Esquire, of Marylebone, one of the great inventors of our Industrial Age. But we are also proud to have been selected to handle the auctioning of his estate. There are many items of great interest in the catalogue today, but we have decided to start the show with the most storied – and some say the most cursed – of all Mr Fotheringay’s possessions: The Ghost Engine.

  “The history behind this Engine is mysterious. A rare item. Mr Fotheringay spent the last ten years bringing it to life. As you can see, it is a contraption composed of cogs and wheels, a miniature city of brass and oak. Did it ever work?” He cocked his head at the crowd like an experienced showman. “The Devil himself only knows.”

  An expectant hush settled upon the room.

  “Apparently, the inventor was great friends with the illustrious Charles Babbage. Both men tried to foster life into their creations. In the case of Mr Fotheringay, however, it was taken one step further.”

  The crowd leaned forward, as if by doing so they could come closer to its secrets.

  Through half-lidded eyes, the auctioneer continued, “Mr Fotheringay made a pact with Lucifer himself. He sacrificed the life of his only son. Just as the Bible tells Abraham did of Isaac.”

  The silence in the room was so deep, Berd could not move. She could only stare at the white face of the auctioneer. His words had infected his movements, making them more graceful than a bird’s as if he, too, was coming under his own spell.

  “It is said the heart of the young man beats within the engine. And when the engine speaks, it speaks with his voice.”

  The crowd gasped. The temperature in the room fell noticeably as he said the words. One woman fainted and had to be carried out. Berd rubbed her lace-covered arms, trying to warm the chill as Rose clutched her elbow. Rose’s grip was strong, but that was to be expected: she always fell for stories. Any story. Yet Berd felt herself trembling, too. Normally she never succumbed to such nonsense.

  Over the heads of the crowd, the shining Engine gleamed through the smokers’ haze. When the crowd settled, the auctioneer took a moment of silence at the podium to collect their attention then spoke in a deeper voice, “Ladies and gentlemen, this diabolical Engine cost a man his only son. Murder, it was said, though they could never prove it. And in a father’s grief and sorrow and regret, Mr Fotheringay met his demise a year later.”

  The auctioneer gazed at the silent faces. “We cannot, therefore, start the auction at anything less than the sum of a hundred pounds. And throw in an extra hundred, for the ghostly tale!”

  Laughter tittered around the room.

  Then one man flung his hand up, paddle raised. “Two hundred!”

  “Two hundred and fifty!”

  “Two hundred, sixty!”

  If only there was a method to determine if these were genuine bidders or fakes. Berd had heard of auction houses planting their own people in the crowd to deliberately increase the final price.

  She took a deep breath, but before she could open her mouth, a female voice cut through the noise.

  “Three hundred.”

  The duchess had started to bid.

  A heavy silence descended upon the room as the bidding abruptly halted.

  Nobody spoke. None moved. And if nobody did anything, the Engine would be in the possession of the duchess within the hour.

  As if this was the cue the auctioneer waited, he raised his hammer. “Three hundred going once! Three hundred go—”

  “And one.” Berd lifted her right hand, realised there was no numbered paddle in it, turned in a panic to Rose, seized the paddle Rose held out to her and waved it.

  All stared, all except the duchess, who sat stiff-backed, still facing front.

  No doubt the woman was annoyed at her. Or maybe she was just waiting? Either way, Berd did not like to think what the repercussions would be should she thwart the duchess.

  Startled, the auctioneer snapped his mouth shut and then cocked his head at Berd. “Another bid, from the back,” he said, his words clipped. He rolled the hammer in lazy circles like a toy, as he appraised her.

  He was probably trying to ascertain if she could afford the Engine.

  Berd gave one stiff nod, her hand held high.

  “Very well then, three hundred and...” he prompted.

  “One,” she said, afraid her voice sounded far too childish. The less she spoke the better, in case someone recognised her. Three hundred and one she could manage. Pray it didn’t go much higher.

  “Four hundred.” The duchess bid once more.

  Berd swallowed.

  “Four hundred will do nicely, Your Grace.” The auctioneer bowed. “Four hundred going once! Four hundred going twice! S—”

  “And one,” Berd squeaked.

  This time the gasp around the room was audible. Worse, the duchess turned to see who was attempting to outbid her. She scanned the room, finally fixing her eyes on Berd.

  “A protégée of yours?” the auctioneer asked.

  They must have seemed strikingly similar, Berd realised, both being all in black silk. Both accompanied by a lady’s maid.

  The duchess shook her head. “I would not wish such a fate on anyone. But come, my dear, let me see your face.”

  Berd froze. If she unveiled herself, the gossip would spread around the ton, and her brother would eventually find out. So, she stood her ground and sat still. It was perfectly allowed to have secret bidders
and proxy bidders at an auction, after all.

  To her horror, the duchess rose. The entire crowd was motionless as the woman glided, wraithlike, toward the back of the room. As the duchess reached the row, Rose, poor Rose, bless her heart gave up her seat to the duchess.

  But the duchess remained standing at the edge like a ghost.

  Through the black gauze of her veil, Berd saw the woman’s watery blue eyes.

  “I bid because I would contact the spirit of my late husband. You are young. Are you sure you want the company of the dead in your home?”

  The temperature in the room dropped again, and all the hair on Berd’s body prickled. Spectral fingers seemed to lace her throat, and once again she could not speak.

  But the macabre words burned in Berd’s mind like brown paper cut-out dolls, lifting as they danced above orange flames.

  The company of the dead.

  Would Berd wish to speak to her grandmother if she could?

  Something of that pain, that longing, must have shadowed Berd’s face through her own veil, because the duchess laughed then faltered. “Let her have it if she dares.” And without another word, the duchess and her maid swept from the room.

  The auctioneer stared in disbelief at the duchess’s back then at Berd, his eyes wide. "Four hundred and one, my lady?" he asked, his voice cracking.

  Four hundred and one pounds, Berd cringed. Much more than she'd expected to spend; an amount she'd never be able to hide.

  But she had to have it.

  "Four hundred and one," she breathed out. It was everything she had, everything for the future.

  It struck her then that perchance the duchess was a kindred spirit. Perchance she herself recognised some of that longing in Berd, for the more highborn the woman, the lonelier her upbringing.

  “Four hundred and one going once! Four hundred and one going twice! Sold to the young lady at the back. Number thirteen. Lucky for some. Unlucky for others.”

  Chapter Two

  “WHY WON’T YOU work!”