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

by SJ Davis

  Minnow stayed with Charley as his breathing slowed and his heart rate dropped. He barely inhaled, drawing occasional shallow and gurgled breaths while drool dribbled from the sides of his mouth. She knew that soon his system would shut down.

  “Hurry up, Jo! Are you looking in the right cabinet? The black one?”

  Josephine ears pounded and she started to hyperventilate in the back room as she fumbled through Charley’s cabinets. “The black cabinet is on the left! Which one is it in?”

  “Look in the black!” yelled Minnow.

  Josephine could hardly see in the dim lighting. Different sizes and colors of hypodermic needles were in small boxes labeled in a man’s quick and messy scrawl. Her eyes blurred trying to find the correct box as she dug through the pile. Finally, in spite of her trembling fingers, she saw the box labeled Narcan. Running back, she saw Minnow rolling up Charley’s sleeve and pushing his wet hair back from his immobile face. His blank eyes started to close, then suddenly opened with a jolt when Josephine entered.

  “Grab a trashcan too. And paper towels and wet washcloths from the bathroom. He’s going to be super sick after this injection.” Charley’s jaw went slack. His cheekbones were taut and angled, and his dulled eyes caught glints of the sun like a sapphire. His skin, which was tanned, was fading as beads of sweat sat above his lip.

  Holding Charley’s head in her lap, Minnow remembered exactly what it was like. Pricking the skin, jacking it, mainlining it. The explosive rush that followed in about six or seven seconds. She thought of the heat as it rose from backs of her legs and how it spread like a warm wave up her spine and around her stomach, landing at the back of her neck. She could still taste it in the edges of her throat. She wanted to suck the drug from Charley, back into her.

  “Minnow! Here!” said an agitated Josephine to Minnow, “Take it!”

  Minnow grabbed the syringe from Josephine, shaking off her distraction. She peeled back the hermetic seal of the hypodermic needle’s box and remembered how god-awful this opioid receptor antagonist felt. She jammed it into Charley’s clammy forearm anyway. She concentrated on the three freckles on his right triceps, centering the needle between them. Charley groaned and his entire face tightened into a sick grimace.

  “What happened?” asked Josephine. “Poisoning?”

  “No. I think he was injected with a heroin-like substance. A semi-synthetic opioid drug derived from morphine,” Minnow sat back on her heels and sighed. “But I don’t really know how this happened. Charley never uses drugs. Never. He wouldn’t do this.”

  In less than a minute, Charley reawakened in a state of confusion and apparent agony. He grimaced as his muscles tightened, contracting like a snake around its prey. Next he screamed out as his heart raced, the opioid blocker doing its job. He spewed vomit into the trashcan as Minnow supported his head. She knew his body felt wrapped in ice. Narcan, the cold intruder.

  Earlier

  Same Day 2134

  To tell the truth,” Charley looked up from behind his desk, “I’m pressed for time at the moment.”

  “This won’t take any time,” said Tran.

  “How polite, dear Tran.” Charley’s voice echoed sarcasm.

  “I’m lying. And you don’t have a choice, my friend.”

  Charley looked up impassively. “Tran, you know not with whom you fuck, my friend.”

  Tran nodded, “Perhaps. But I have a job and failure isn’t in my program.”

  Tran tossed Charley an envelope. “What’s this?” The unusual packet caught his attention. The envelope was oversized and non-standard bearing a colorful series of Singaporean stamps. The contents were thick and stiff.

  “Open it.”

  Charley slit open the letter with a pocketknife, smiled at Tran, then threw it into the fire unread. The corners yellowed and curled. Ashes spit into the air when Charley tossed his drink into the fire on top of it.

  “A very poor choice, I’m afraid,” said Tran. He stood across the room, short and freshly shaven. “But I am still willing to negotiate for the engine. It’s not like you to harbor stolen goods.”

  “Negotiate? I can’t negotiate for something that I don’t have, Transter. Besides, this is my shop, I call the shots.”

  “Don’t lie.”

  “I’m not. It really is my shop.”

  “You annoy me when you do this. My terms are most amenable.”

  “Your terms don’t matter if the shit ain’t here,” said Charley. “But I’ve got some fine old clocks in the back that might interest you. Historical grandfathers. Or some nice guitars if you’re more the artistic type.”

  “Shut up.” Tran glanced down the length of the store and lifted his eyebrows. “Take me to the back.”

  “You came for pharms?”

  “No, but I have some for you.”

  “To sell?”

  “No. To give you.”

  “I’ll have to decline your generosity, Tran. I’m undeserving, you know.”

  The fire started to give off a strange smell, a chemical and virulent stench. “What the hell is that?” asked Charley.

  “Your freedom.”

  Charley rolled his eyes at Tran with aimless disinterest. “You’re such a drama queen.” Tran cradled the back of his head with his palm; he felt the knob of a bruise.

  Tran chuckled. “I offer an interesting exchange.” Tran walked up to Charley and smiled.

  “You offer interesting bullshit,” said Charley. He felt a piercing heat as his thigh burned. A spot of blood leaked through his pants. He leaned back heavily as he tried to press him palm against the wound. “Jesus Christ, what is this?” he asked dizzily.

  “There was no other way, I am truly tried to negotiate,” said Tran. “My cigarette. See?” He held up an empty filter filled with a tiny spring projector and hollowed out casing. “Anyway, it’ll relax you, you’re a very tense man, Charley. And I will get the engine. Look at it as a win-win,” said Tran. “Now, let’s go to the back.”

  “No,” said Charley, slumping over.

  “Let me help you.”

  “No. Get out.” His tongue rolled thick in his mouth and he felt light headed.

  “You’ve been pharmed,” said Tran, pulling Charley up by his elbows. “But nothing irreversible, my friend.”

  “Screw you,” spat Charley. Tran swatted Charley’s cheek with a leather glove. “You’re such a girl.” Charley laughed and managed to hoist his slowed body forwards, landing a sharp blow to Tran’s jaw. He fell sideways, cracking the warped front of an antique card catalog cabinet. Red sticks of peppermint candy and assorted pills spilled from the top drawers.

  Tran picked up the sugary sticks and let them fall between his fingers. “Someone told me you used to shoot up with a plastic spoon and saliva in the parking lot of a church. Seems rather sad.”

  “I don’t pretend to be an angel,” said Charley as he wiped his lips. “I’ve seen and done many things which is why I’m so good at sniffing out people’s bullshit.” Charley’s legs felt wobbly. “I also used the electrical cord from my mother’s curling iron to tie off when I was a kid. I hit some low points, but not enough to give up for that one perfect moment.”

  “And that is what makes you an easy target, Charley,” Tran said, reaching for his fallen glasses on the floor amongst the candy. “Because you liked it.” His eyes looked enlarged through his archaic eyeglasses. “You’re lucky you still have good veins.”

  “It’s been a long time,” said Charley, his eyes starting to close. He could feel his mouth watering and starting to pool.

  Tran’s eyes registered surprise from his peculiar position on the floor. “Give me the engine, Charley,” said Tran. “And you can have as much of this as you want. You can’t make this yourself. Or, if you prefer, I can make you forget this happened. But you have to cooperate.”

  “You can fuck yourself,” said Charley. He jiggled open a top drawer. The wood cracked like thunder. He reached for his garage opener and auto start. On hi
s arm, the titanium surrounding the touch screen on his wrist caught light from the sun and danced in angles upon the floor. He tried to punch in the correct auto code as his vision blurred. The auto alarm sounded.

  “No, I will not. You and I are going to play the memory game,” said Tran walking towards Charley. Charley quickly tossed his auto start in his jacket pocket. “We’ll even make it a trade. I’ll give you a memory and you give me a memory. But, one that I pick.”

  “But I never remember anything.”

  “Then you present me with yet another problem.” Tran reached into a tattered brown briefcase. He rummaged through the contents of a clear bag, pulling out a coiled black tube and pink liquid sealed in bubble pack. “I suggest a more cooperative stance, Charley. You don’t want to wrestle with this.”

  Charley hadn’t crossed the fine threshold from consciousness into hallucinations yet. Still shaking as his body absorbed more of the drug, he ran to the window. Tran watched him with uneasy disappointment as his glasses trailed down the sweat of his flat nose, “Bastard.”

  Charley turned to face him as his back smashed the glass. Like an X-acto knife, Charley’s body etched through the smooth glass surface. His mirrored sunglasses reflected Tran’s face as he broke through the window. Charley called out as he fell to the alley, in a crash and thud, “Tran, wrestle it yourself, man.”

  Charley’s vehicle groaned down the street, windows cracked. His hair blew in his face as he tried to take deep focused breaths. He looked at the blank screen on his wrist for any messages. Seeing the dead gray screen, he saw he needed a new battery and slammed his fist on the steering wheel. He stopped at a light and pulled his socks off to scratch. He hated his skin itching in places too deep to reach. Scooters and bicycles passed him, cars honked. The knuckles of a large man edged through the crack of his window.

  “Pull over,” said Omni security. He wore the standard issue of a light blue shirt and navy pants.

  “I need to use the bathroom,” answered Charley, leaning back, about to be sick and covered in damp sweat.

  “Good. Give me a specimen, then.”

  “What’s the problem,” Charley managed to say, starting to cough loose bits of phlegm. His heart raced and chest felt tight. “I’m just taking a drive.”

  “Get out of the car.”

  “I can’t do that, I don’t feel well. I need a bathroom.”

  “I’ll call for medical. I need scan your barcode for identification, sir. Get out of your vehicle.” The officer headed back to his scooter for his scanner.

  Charley stretched and pulled his sweaty back off the seat. He reached down his back pocket, his fingers tingling and numb, and he saw Yeshua walking up in his passenger rearview.

  “Sir,” said the officer, addressing Yeshua, pointing at him sternly from the sidewalk. “Please step away from the vehicle in question. I am conducting a detainment.”

  Yeshua looked up. He wore a dizzying combination of camouflaged fatigue pants and a tie dyed shirt. “Man, you’re making me sick,” Charley rested his head back. “Looking at you makes me nauseous.”

  “It’s not me making you nauseous, man. You’ve been pharmed.”

  “It’s obvious?”

  “Yep. But get out of here. Omni’s operative is gone. Jo and Minnow will meet you at your place. Can you drive?”

  “No. Yes. It’s a short drive. I’ll put on auto pilot, can’t mess that up.” Charley rebuckled and punched in his destination address. “How do you know he’s gone?” He vomited in the passenger seat.

  “Saw him leave. Get out of here.”

  “I’m stuck here, man. With big brother.”

  “Big brother’s my problem. Go.”

  Yeshua held a camera and a knife, semi-concealed in his left hand. Charley sped off, a mixture of smoke and speed.

  As the officer looked up, jumping on his scooter, Yeshua stood in front of him.

  “Ye of little faith!” yelled Yeshua in a loud voice.

  “Get out of the way!”

  Yeshua struck the officer, sinking his fist into the soft fleshy area underneath his sternum. The officer doubled forward.

  Yeshua yelled again. “The way to see by Faith is to shut the Eye of Reason.”

  The officer grabbed for Yeshua, but tangled his pant leg in the scooter. He slid down sideways.

  “I need to scan your ID,” he growled.

  A gust of wind blew dirt into Yeshua’s eyes. The narrow thoroughfare grew crowded and hectic again. Yeshua turned, took off his bright shirt, and hunched low into the crowd. The only thing he left behind was the knife.

  An African teenaged girl with large filmed-over blue eyes stood on the corner, watching. Her hair was dreadlocked into tiny nubs. She walked up to Yeshua, wearing a man’s tweed sports coat over a collarless shirt. “Dollar Dry cleaning. Grand Opening,” her voice resonated in an adenoidal pitch. She walked in front of colorful rows of advertisements and fliers that had been thumb tacked to the wooden siding of an old information center.

  He looked at the 3x5 neon orange paper ad, intending to toss it away. The girl shook her head; the sun shrunk her pupils until they disappeared to a negligible dot. She grabbed his wrist, her dark hand wrapped like a talon over his as he let go of the paper. Her other hand snatched the loose paper mid-air. She pressed it squarely back into his palm and turned it over. A black marker in a neat cursive handwriting wrote, “I’ll be on the escalator. White out. Get out of here.” The girl walked away, “Dollar Dry cleaning. Grand Opening.”

  Pink-streaked clouds surrounded the high-rise skeletal buildings as they pointed into the sky. Stumps of leafless trees, some cut, others rotten, stood in circles around the city’s center statue. Yeshua shoved the note back in his pocket.

  A knot tightened between his shoulders as he stepped on the escalator to the metro. A red light shot through his vision and he stumbled. Two thick hands pushed his back until his knees buckled under the force. The jagged steps tore his hands as he fought to regain his footing. No one noticed his fall. Other metro riders passed by him without incident or concern. He was on White Out, and blocked to everyone’s feed by Omni. The thin white boots of a small-footed man came close to his face. He struggled to stand. He caught the eye of a Hispanic street vendor, saggy pretzels hung above crusty mustard containers. The man sullenly wiped his cart with a dirty rag, his dark eyes looked past Yeshua. A cold feeling of fear worked its way down Yeshua’s body.

  He looked to the other escalator, at a slender woman in a long dress, her lips pursed tightly as she put her finger across her lips to silence any possible acknowledgement from him. He mouthed the word, “Caroline?”

  She picked up a parasol, and aimed at the white-clad man behind Yeshua. A projectile dart shot through the air, straight into the man’s jugular. Stunned into submission, he fell.

  “Get out of here!” Caroline’s voice went unheard by everyone, except the one person it was meant for. And Yeshua ran.

  London

  August 1865

  Bodhi woke up early and stumbled into the morning sun. His watery eyes blinked away the brightness, pained by the sudden change in light. A few steps ahead, he saw shadows of people walking up and down the broken and uneven cobbled streets, some with dogs, some with horses, some dragging sleepy and barefoot children with baskets. The wet morning roads were not as vacant as he had hoped. Bodhi walked briskly towards the meat shop, only to find it closed. As he turned around, the shopkeeper appeared from around the corner huffing and puffing with a walking stick in one hand and a brown bag in the other.

  “Oh bloody bugger,” the shopkeeper mumbled as he rummaged through his bag for keys. Carefully inspecting over ten keys hanging from an oversized brass ring. He fingered each key blindly, finally choosing the correct key to place inside its half broken lock. Finally he opened the door. “There she goes,” he cheerfully sang. “The beginning of another bright day.”

  “You, over on the corner,” he pointed to Bodhi, searching for him throug
h filmy cataract-ridden eyes. He reached inside his shop to set up two buckets of yellow and red carnations for sale along his walk. “You’re up early. You need something? Come inside, lad.”

  Bodhi nodded and walked into the store. He fiddled with his pocket watch while the shopkeeper counted his money drawer and organized the tally sheets for the day. It took over twenty minutes for the man to officially open his store, not due to any innate laziness but due to the weary lethargy of old age. His fingers trembled as he handled coins, dropping more coins in the wooden counter than he properly placed in his till. A rheumatic wheeze accented his slow pace, and an arthritic and painfully hunched back slowed his reach.

  Long carcasses of beef, veal, and pork dangled from hooks on the ceiling. The shopkeeper was a heavyset man, more from a muscled strength than fleshy gluttony; his apron stained a faint crimson from years of slaughter and butchery. Bodhi knew within the hour, hordes of London women would crowd this shop, baskets on their arms looking for bargain cuts of meat.

  As soon as the shopkeeper managed to tie back his apron, Bodhi hurriedly grabbed the items he needed. A sack of potatoes and a cut of pork were quickly wrapped as Bodhi tossed his money on the counter.

  Running out of the store, the shopkeeper called after him, coughing up years of buried phlegm. “Your change, lad! You’re due a bit of change!” Bodhi knew the measured and deliberate process of counting out his change would take longer than he could bear. He waved the man off and continued walking briskly, thinking about the next plan of action.

  A spotty faced prepubescent with ink stained hands called to him, “Hello, sir! Got your paper today?” Street vendors hawked soap and candles and an organ grinder could be heard in the distance. Somehow Bodhi managed to hold on to the bag of groceries as he looked at the headlines. Men and women were starting to gather around the boy, shocked by the headlines. Bodhi stood in place and stared.

  Grabbing a paper, he tossed a coin at the boy and stumbled away from the market area. Once clear, he ran non-stop. Rushing in the door, he ran up the stairs by two’s and entered the hall to Francesca’s private area.