Christine Danse - That Dratted Affair with the Dream Engine

ThatDratted Affair with the Dream Engine

ChristineDanse

Published by Christine Danse atSmashwords

Copyright 2010 ChristineDanse

Cover design by Christine Danse, usingArtweaver and Picnik.com

Photograph of man by CelsoPinto, http://www.sxc.hu/photo/271583

Photograph of differenceengine by Matthijs van Heerikhuize, http://www.sxc.hu/photo/1185634

Photographs used under thisimage license agreement: http://www.sxc.hu/help/7_2

Smashwords Edition, LicenseNotes

Thank you for downloading this freeebook. I encourage you to share it with your friends. This book maybe reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes,provided the book remains in its complete original form. If youenjoyed this story, please visit www.christinedanse.com to discoverother works by me. Thank you for your support!

"I've asurprise for you," said Annette, and I should have known I was infor trouble when she spoke those words.

Still, I lether take me by the hand and lead me through London's streets bynight. We went on foot until Borough Road, where she hailed ahansom cab. I did not hear her muttered instructions to the driver.Only when we had passed the Thames did I realize that she wasleading us toward the East End. "Love," I said, levelly. "I don'tbelieve this is a very good idea." Long had I known that my wifecould not be reasoned with. All I could do was attempt to dissuadeher, though it was a fool's errand. Her stubbornness put a mule'sto shame.

She patted myknee reassuringly. "Relax, dear. I know exactly where we are going,and we'll be fine. Promise." She gave me her winning smile andgently touched her hand to my cheek. My response to her died on mylips, and I settled back into the cab's seat with a resignedsigh.

Tight-lipped,I watched the buildings grow shabby and forlorn. All manner ofshady figures populated the streets and bar fronts of the East End:drunks, beggars, and unfortunate women who shuffled on the streetcorners like molting crows. Annette patted my knee again, and Isullenly broke off my stare.

At last, werolled to a stop on a quieter street. The glow of the streetlampshere was murky and diffuse, dulled by the haze of nearby industry."Here we are," she said, disembarking and paying the driver. Shebegan to walk toward a sooty brick wall. Only on second take did Isee the cramped doorway recessed in the shadows there, mounted on anarrow flight of steps.

"Come on,then, darling," she said as I hesitated on the sidewalk. "It'sreally all right."

"Is thisnecessary?" I asked. "Your last 'surprise' nearly got me fired fromthe force."

She laughed.It was a sound like bells. "Oh, don't worry," she said. "We will bevery much still this time, and I won't be bound inside of a freightcar, and no steamdroids with batons will be involved." She seemedto think for a moment, then added, "Actually, no steamdroids willbe involved at all." With a smile, she held her hand out to me,delicate fingers spread in an inviting gesture.

Despitemyself, the memory sent a flush of blood over my cheeks andstraight down to my loins. My pants grew uncomfortably tight.Reflexively, I ducked my head, cleared my throat roughly, and threwa quick glance up and down the sidewalk. We were alone. Annettestood quietly, her smile bright, her hand unwavering. I wascompelled to take it and to follow her through the shadoweddoorway.

She led meinto a cramped foyer, straight up a treacherous flight of stairs,and down a dark hallway papered with peeling wallpaper. I had theuncomfortable feeling of trespassing, although she walked on withall the ease of a woman in her own home. I received the impressionthat she had been here before, and I was not comfortable with theidea. No, I was not comfortable with it at all. I began to wonderabout all the unwholesome places she had been without me everknowing. This could not be the first.

There was oneopen doorway along the hall, and it was through this that Annetteled me. The room was a poorly lit parlor that smelled of grease andozone. Sheets had been draped over the furniture, and almost everyavailable surface was covered with a thick coat of dust. The placehad the feeling of a forgotten attic.

"Goodevening," said a voice.

I started andturned to find a gaunt gentleman regarding us through a pair ofslender spectacles. The white shirt and checkered vest that clothedhis person hung upon him ungracefully, as if upon a scarecrow.Though his limbs were long like an adolescent's, his balding headand lined mouth lent him the impression of middle-aged solemnity,an almost shocking contrast. His gaze alighted on me for thebriefest of appraisals, thenas if finding me immediately unworthyof attentionsettled upon my wife. I bristled.

"Mr. Foster,"said Annette, with familiarity. "How do you do?"

The man noddedhis head. The bespectacled gaze flicked to me again, and he said,"Very well. Is this your husband?"

"Yes," saidAnnette, drawing me to her side with a beckoning gesture. I steppedforward readily and placed a possessive hand around her waist, mygaze fixed sternly on this gentleman who presumed to be familiarwith my wife. "Jeremy, this is Mr. Foster. Mr. Foster, this is myhusband, Jeremy." She gave my waist a little squeeze, and I sensedthe slight tease in her gesture, as if she sensed mythoughts.

He noddedagain and repeated, "Very well." With a wave of his hand, hedirected us toward the back wall of the parlor. "If you wouldplease." As we stepped in that direction, he asked, "Sir, have youexperienced dream-watching before?"

I was takenaback by the strange and unexpected question. In my pause, Annettereplied, "No. This is his first time." She said this with a smileand leaned her head cutely against my chest. I felt a surge ofanger and indignation welling up in me as I felt her dragging meunwittingly into an unknown and unsavory experience.

Mr. Fostersaid, "I see."

We came tostand before a large machine that stood against the wall, perhapsthe only static object in the room that was not filmed with dust.With a jolt of surprise and recognition, I realized that itwas

"An analyticalengine," I said, then blurted, "But it looks positivelyoccult."

Indeed,"occult" was the only word I could find to describe the thing. Ithad the tall, narrow, rectangular shape of the engines used atScotland Yard. However, half of its tarnished, vertical computingmills had been replaced with narrow glass columns of green, glowinggas, which roiled about in a stormy state of flux.

"Youcould say that," said Mr. Foster, with a sneer. "However, althoughit borrows heavily from Babbage's design, it relies primarily onalchemical principles and hermetic technologywhat some maycall occult , forlack of understanding."

I perceivedhis insult, and I did not appreciate it. However, before I couldgather myself to reply, Annette added, "It's a dream engine,Jeremy. It allows you to experience the dreams of another person.It records them. Isn't that grand? Mr. Foster inventedit."

I regarded theengine skeptically. "Annette, I really don't think"

"Oh, Jeremy.Just one try. We're already here, and I have a surprise set up foryou."

" This is not surprise enough?" Iasked, incredulous.

"Posh! This isn't thesurprise, silly! Come, sit down. I promise you'll be all right, darling!" She stood on tiptoe toplant a kiss on my lips, then steered me into one of thethread-worn chairs that flanked the engine. I went with a frown. Awrong feeling had settled into the pit of my stomach, but Annettestood just in front of me, her knees pressed against mine, herhands holding mine, leaning over me with a warm and reassuringsmile. "It won't hurt you, I promise. Mr. Foster just needs to puta thing on your head. Just a bit of gel and three little pads. It'scold at first, but don't pay it any mind." She kissed me on theforehead, and smiled, and released me.