Clearwater Read online

  CLEARWATER

  Clearwater Station is home to Victor Clearwater, inventor of the artificial life technologies that changed the world, and his ward Elsa Witherspoon. When Frederick arrives with the goal of stealing Clearwater's research to pay back his father's debts, he discovers the lovely young Elsa is not what she appears-- and Clearwater Station is a house of secrets and lies. People want to use Elsa for their own gain, but first Frederick must figure out who and what she truly is in order to save her, and himself.

  Clearwater

  Megan Hart

  CLEARWATER

  Chaos Publishing

  Copyright 2015 ©Megan Hart

  Chaos Edition, License Notes

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  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

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  ebook ISBN:

  print ISBN: 978-1-940078-55-7

  photo credit: Avesun

  cover: Chaos

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Also by Megan Hart

  Ride With the Devil

  Seeking Eden

  About the Author

  Chapter 1

  Victor has bought me a blue dress.

  He says it is to match my eyes, though we both know my eyes are of a paler blue with flecks of white, not this rich, deep color that mimics the night sky just as the sun goes down. The color described in stories, I mean. I have never seen a color like that in the sky. The wall around the garden blocks all sight of the horizon, and I am forbidden from going onto the rooftop terrace. The only sky I see is ever of the palest hue, perhaps of similarity to my eyes but nothing like the gown at all.

  The dress is lovely, however, and I was ever so grateful to him for it. The fit, as usual, is perfect, and it came with the most cunning little pair of boots as well. Though I protested heartily, Victor promised me it would wound him dreadfully if I should refuse his generosity.

  So once again, dear Alice, I find myself indebted to my guardian for not only his kindness but his generosity. And how shall I ever repay him? Was it not enough for him to take me in when my parents passed, when I myself had been left without the capacity to adequately care for myself after the accident that took their lives? He had no obligation as my father's business associate to provide a home for me, but he did, and still also insists upon spoiling me. Though I must admit I am fond of the treats, I do wish there was some way I could find a way to let him know how dear he has become to me.

  Breakfast has finished and I've no more excuses for dawdling. I must put away this journal of letters to you, my sweet friend, until later after lessons when I might have a few minutes to relate the day's adventures. Nothing seems quite real until I have written of it to you, Alice, and it is my fondest hope that someday soon you will have made your own recovery from your illness and return to Clearwater so that we may once more spend time together as we once did. Oh, how fondly I think of our walks in the garden and of our games of Snap Me and Quoites. I miss you so much, my friend and cannot wait to hear word from you of your good health.

  Until then, I remain, yours faithfully,

  Elsa

  Chapter 2

  Elsa placed her quill carefully in its case, making sure the charging port connected to the base. She'd been lazy with it a few times and had run out of power while writing in her journal. She'd been careless and clumsy with it as well, dropping the quill more than once onto the hard wooden floor and once even onto the flagstone path in the garden. The quill had broken, that time, and though Victor had scolded her, he'd replaced it with a better one.

  He was too good to her. Truly. Elsa smoothed fabric of her gown over her lap, admiring the shimmering colors. The blue in the gown shaded from deep to pale and back again along the hem. The entire gown could be programmed to sparkle in several different patterns, though as it was morning and not evening, she hadn't turned on that function.

  "You should change your frock." Gerta's voice racheted from the doorway, and Elsa turned.

  "But Victor gave it to me and said I was to wear it whenever I like." She smiled at the maid. "It is lovely, is it not? Look how sweet the boots! I swear they are made from real kidskin. So soft!"

  Elsa admired them, turning her toes one way, then the other, then peeking at her ankles. The black stockings she wore molded to her bones and muscles, emphasizing to her once more how decidedly unladylike she found her legs. Thick, sturdy. Legs for running and jumping, not dancing delicately in the arms of a gentleman. She sighed. Not that she'd yet had the opportunity to dance with anyone but herself in the looking glass.

  "You should change your dress," Gerta repeated and moved stiffly on her wheels toward the wardrobe to slide open the doors. "Lesson in half a click with Tutor. This dress, instead. It is also blue."

  "Not this shade of blue. That dress is plain. This one is so much prettier." Elsa stood and slowly twirled in front of the mirror. She watched the hem of her dress shift color and quickly tapped the small gemstone button at her waist to set the sparkling lights shimmering, just to see how pretty they looked. Victor had said the dress matched her eyes, though she knew he was merely being kind. Leaning close to peer into them, she studied the deep black circles. The pale blue rings, the white specks. Looking in her own eyes, she always felt as though she ought to understand herself much better, but she never did. "And the boots will not match that other gown."

  Gerta shook her head with a grinding sound. The maid was humanoid in form, her body shaped as though she wore a long gown though it was solely made of metal, with two moving wheels beneath to act as feet. She didn't have much in the way of a face, but there was no question she'd have been frowning if she had a mouth and not a simple speech box. "The boots are not real kidskin. They are of synthleather. Manufactered --"

  "I know, and I don't need you to give me the entire listing of their creation, even if you do know it." Elsa frowned. "It is lovely to imagine they are of real kidskin, no matter how silly it sounds. The expense alone would be so decadent!"

  "Lesson in half a click. You will be late." Gerta held out the plain navy day dress, along with a pair of sensible black boots with horrid plastic buttons.

  "These boots have pearl buttons," Elsa said wistfully, pointing a toe.

  "Synthpearl. Those boots are for a party."

  Elsa gave the maid a sly look. "I should like to wear them anyway, even if the others are more suited."

  Gerta could fuss and scold and insist, but in the end she was bound to do as Elsa commanded. "Lesson in --"

  "Half a click, I know."

  "One quarter of a click. And Miss Pamela has rung that she will be visiting, later. You will ruin the pretty boots. These are the better choice for today." Gerta held up the day dress and the plain, battered boots with the toes scuffed from the times Elsa had tripped over her own
feet.

  Gerta did not have to remind Elsa of her clumsiness again. She could blame the carriage accident for how ridiculously unstable she was on her own feet, even now when most other signs of her injuries had passed, but it didn't matter the cause. Her lack of grace was, to Elsa's mind, shameful.

  Elsa sighed but allowed the chambermaids, One and Two, to unbutton and unlace her, stripping her down to her unadorned white shift. One and Two had triangular bodies with multiple segmented arms and moved on a series of small treads, and as they whirred and swerved around her to help her into the day dress she gave another longing look to the pretty boots.

  "I should like to wear them anyway, even if the others are more suited. I shan't walk in the garden with them, I shall be ever so careful."

  Gerta had been tidying Elsa's desk but turned with a squeak of her gears. "Plain boots are more suited for a lesson."

  Stars, but the maid could be so adamantly stubborn. Nothing short of an outright command could get her to change her mind on this, that was becoming clear, and no matter how much Elsa wanted to wear the pretty boots, to force the issue would be taking an unfair advantage of the maid's natural inclinations. Miss Pamela had told Elsa many times that a young lady of her social standing should never use it unwisely or unkindly. Gerta, after all, could not help her place.

  Elsa sniffed, peeking down at her toes. The boots were beautiful and went so nicely with the dress Victor had given her that morning. They'd be lovely with the day dress, too. With a look of longing she put aside the pretty footwear and slipped her toes into the stretched and worn synthskin boots. It was true, she was likely to ruin the fancier footwear in a few wearings, but...Victor had given them to her for the express purpose that she should wear them. They'd do nobody any good hidden away in the cupboard. Elsa frowned and scuffed her foot along the synthwood floor, stopping at the way Gerta shook her oblong metal head.

  "I suppose I'm late for my lesson," Elsa said.

  "Always, Miss Elsa."

  Elsa smoothed the front of her plain dress. It was far from ugly, and she ought to be grateful she had a choice of gowns at all. Miss Pamela had counseled her often on the plight of less fortunate young ladies, those without such a generous patron. Other young ladies in Elsa's situation might have been put onto the street or forced to take up service in the very sorts of homes in which they had once abided.

  Elsa did not feel grateful. She felt cranky and out of sorts. Unduly chastised. "You really needn't keep after me so closely. Should I not be ready to learn how to keep my own time?"

  "You should," Gerta said, "but it seems an unlikely outcome, based on practicality and probability."

  For a long moment counted off by the steady ticking coming from Gerta's chest portal, Elsa stared at the maid.

  "I shall never learn," she said finally, "if you never allow me the opportunity."

  Gerta's clutching pincer hands settled on her rounded hips. "Lesson in --"

  "I'm off." Elsa lifted the hem of her skirts to keep herself from tripping on them, and left the room. In the long hall, she bypassed several servants and headed for the school room. She was too old for lessons, as she was for a nursemaid, she thought, but it was important to Victor that her education not cease simply because she'd soon be of marriageable age. Truth be told, Elsa didn't mind the lessons. Language, art, music. It passed the time, for what else would she do here in Clearwater if she were not always learning something new?

  In the school room, Tutor looked up from the tablet he'd been reading. "You're --"

  "Late. I know." Elsa gave him a grin she knew he wouldn't be able to resist.

  Tutor was old with gray hair and wrinkles just like the pictures in her history lessons of the way people had once aged. He'd told her once it was because he'd decided long ago not to enhance his appearance for the sake of vanity, that knowledge meant far more than a pretty face. She supposed he'd meant it as warning to her, but Elsa could not imagine letting herself ever look that way. She wanted to stay young and pretty forever, if she could.

  "I've downloaded a new song for you. Miss Pamela requested you learn it for the party."

  The party was a fortnight away, and would celebrate Elsa’s eighteenth birthday. Elsa brightened at the idea of a new song. "For me to sing?"

  "Yes. And play accompaniment on the pianoforte."

  Elsa paused as she settled into the chair across from him. "But I don't play the pianoforte."

  Tutor shrugged, his bushy white brows lifting. "You will."

  Chapter 3

  The creature had arrived this morning, the same size and shape as the crate in which it had been shipped. No eyes or a nose. No face at all, only a mouth port in which it had been fed through a tube for all of its existence. No fur. Nothing about it to endear it to anyone. It ate and excreted, but was it truly alive? Frederick poked the quivering flesh with a fingertip, frowning at the meater's warmth. The thing had been created solely for the purpose of being killed, cooked and consumed, he thought, but if people could see what it looked like before it got turned into steaks and chops, would they really want to eat it?

  "You, boy! Move your arse." Cook waved the long blade attached to his left hand in place of his forefinger. The rest of his hand was metal, with only two fleshy fingers remaining, and the stark contrast of the bare metal against the spotless white smock took Frederick's attention away from Cook's scolding mouth. "I need to get this meater sliced up in time to cook supper. Master Clearwater's been offstation for the past two days, and he commed that he wants a roast, a real roast, not a protein converted one."

  "Master Clearwater isn't onstation right now?" Avoiding a closer look at the meater, Frederick tugged over the cart of prepared storage dishes, ready for everything Cook was about to slice off. He would have argued that a roast sliced from a meater was not real meat any more than something manufactured in the protein converter, even if it counted as flesh. "I thought Master Clearwater never left the station."

  You couldn't hold any sort of position in a tech field without learning about Victor Clearwater's eccentricities. He'd invented artificial life tech, the same that had created synthflowers and meaters. Every bit of artificial life tech advancement that had come after had been based on Clearwater's initial patents. He hadn't produced anything since then, and was something of a recluse, but most people assumed he was living comfortably off the money from those inventions and had no need to do more than that.

  Frederick had seen him only once or twice since he'd arrived at Clearwater Station a cycle ago. It wasn't that unusual not to meet the station owner. The last few jobs he'd taken had been much the same. Hired by the staff overseer, assigned to work, paid his wages. Mostly invisible and he liked it that way, he thought as Cook hollered at him again to move faster. When people knew your name, it made it so much easier for them to make you do things you didn't want to do.

  "Of course he leaves the station sometimes, he's not tied to it. He has to go out and speak, sometimes, or do whatever it is that he does. Or maybe he just wanted to visit a friend, it's not of your concern or mine."

  Without a second glance, Cook deftly slid a long, thin needle deep into the meater's side. The thing shook rapidly, soundless, then went still. The small hole left behind by the puncturing probe dribbled a bit of pinkish blood. Wielding his finger knife, Cook began slicing with a grimace. Blood spattered.

  Frederick ducked.

  "You lazy puffenstuff," Cook cried. "For the love of the infinite universe, stack those steaks and get them into the cooler! I've got my digits full here with this roast. And when you've done that, offal boy, do I need to remind you to get to the other chores you seem to have forgotten you were hired on to take care of?"

  Offal boy. Frederick cringed at the title. His usual realm was metal and wire, circuitry and energy. Not garbage. Nor had he been a boy for a long time. When he had been, working with his father, there'd been dirt and manure and real flowers even in skystation gardens. That had been a lifetime ago. E
verything was different, now.

  Frederick nodded, not wanting to think more about his father. The old man had died from what had officially been a malfunctioning illegal software update to his biomech heart, but Frederick and his mother knew the truth. The old man's heart had been broken when he was forced to leave the gardens he'd tended so lovingly for so many years and had to watch them dozed under to make way for synthetic plants.

  Frederick gave the other man a bland smile. The pan of still warmly shuddering flesh weighted his hands. "No, Cook. How could I forget when you're here to remind me?"

  Cook paused to swipe a streak of blood on the front of his white coat. "Look, lad. I know this isn't your ideal working situation here, but you've got to make the best of what you've been offered. Master Clearwater pays better for this gig than you'd get tinkering, which is why I guess you came for the work in the first place. I know you wanted a place on outside staff, but let's be truthful, the days of real labor needed to cultivate the gardens are long gone. So do this work, which is honest as it gets, and be glad for it so that you can send money on home to take care of what your father left behind instead of following behind him in his mistakes."

  Frederick didn't even think; he threw the tray to the side and launched himself at the other man. He found himself flat on his back with Cook's pinching metal digits around his throat before he could even take a breath. Wisely, he stopped fighting. His reaction had been hair-trigger, but he had learned his lesson about fighting those bigger than he.