Addleton Heights

by George Wright Padgett

  I looked up at the remaining hydrogen bladders. It was clear they weren’t going to be able to handle the shift in weight distribution. One or two cables of each of the quad harnesses snapped at intervals like overwound guitar strings. Each occurrence made the ground beneath our feet shift in a nauseating motion.

  “You should carry me now,” I said.

  As if waking from a dream, she looked back down at me. “Yeah . . . yeah, I think you’re right.”

  She picked me up and trotted around the side of the mansion. The angle of the ground was no longer vertical but began sloping upward in the direction we were headed. The steeper it became, the more grateful I was for the extra weight of the walking suit, which kept us from slipping in the snow.

  We didn’t speak. I didn’t dare do anything to distract her.

  As the far end of compound continued to raise, Janae stopped running and began methodically placing one foot in front of the other to preserve her balance. I wondered if she regretted her choice to come back for me.

  We rounded the corner to see the dock of the sky ferry in the distance. Loose articles tumbled down the growing slope, collecting snow with each bounce and roll.

  I broke the silence as Janae delivered us to the platform canopy. “We have to hurry. The line is getting taut. It could snap at any minute.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “I hadn’t figured on that.” She climbed a few more steps and then said, “Kip, I’m going to need both hands, so you’ll need to grab onto my back somehow. Do you think you can do that?”

  More cables snapped above. My heart raced. “Yeah, just go . . . Go now,” I said, trying to beat down my fear.

  She climbed a few more steps and reached the top of the canopy. “All right then.”

  A second later, she dangled me at her eye level. Without warning or prelude, she brought me in closer until the vapor from her breath was in my face.

  She pressed her lips against mine.

  I was too stunned to kiss back. It wasn’t a long kiss—just a quick peck on the lips—but it sent me reeling nevertheless.

  “A kiss for luck,” she said.

  “I wasn’t ready—do it again,” I said.

  “Look, detective, it’s not like we’re gliding all the way down to Mexico or anything. That’ll just have to hold ya. If we survive this and make it to the other side, maybe you can have another.”

  She placed me on her back before I could rebut. My fingers desperately ran over the riveted metal and eventually found purchase between the shoulder slats on either side. My brain was still a fog from her unexpected display of affection. She bent to grab the bassel cable on the edge of the roof.

  “Here we go,” she said, followed by the metal clank of her fingers around the line.

  I gasped as we slid downward.

  In actuality, it was less like sliding and more like guided falling. I hadn’t expected the horrendous squeal of the metal cable as it scraped across the palms of her interlaced hands. Sparks from the friction shot back at me in unending fireworks, and I closed my eyes for a moment. Instantly, I realized this was a mistake, as the sick sensation of dropping from the sky was made worse by doing it blindly.

  I reopened them and welcomed the light show, knowing that the sparks and the demonic shrill of scraping metal meant Janae hadn’t let go. The wind blew against my eyes and ears as our descent gained momentum. I had to resist the instinct to cover my ears to block out the noise.

  We plummeted through the worker level of the compound as if we’d been shot from an angry cannon. The entire area was a blur as we zipped through it. I only knew where we were because the afternoon sun was obscured for a few seconds.

  We fell for an eternity.

  There were squeals and showers of sparks.

  My stomach contorted and somersaulted, threatening to unload its contents.

  Was it an illusion that we were still picking up speed? What was the landing going to be like at this horrific rate?

  I pressed my face against the cold metal of the suit and prayed not to vomit and involuntarily let go or break Janae’s concentration.

  Ever downward we went.

  Then the line went slack and the squealing stopped.

  “Hold on!” Janae shrieked.

  Our trajectory shifted. We weren’t sliding at an angle anymore. We were falling now.

  “What’s happening?” I yelled over the wind.

  We swooped downward sharply.

  “Line from the mansion side broke!” Janae shouted.

  I shot a glance upward. She still had the cable in her grip, which meant it was still connected to the platform on the level of Trudeau’s guard station. I twisted my head around the other direction. The compound behind us tilted downward like the end of a serving tray pointing at the ocean. Smoldering wreckage from the airship, unidentifiable shapes, and, of course, slain bodies of fighters from both sides trickled off the side to be claimed by the water far below.

  “It’s going!” I yelled.

  The four or five remaining suspension balloons snapped free. The bladders of gas shot upward out of view.

  Some fifteen seconds later, Montague’s compound slammed into the sea with a tremendous crash. The aftershock hurled us forward with a great gust of wind. We smashed into the steel edge of the city platform.

  Remarkably, Janae managed to hold tight to the cable. I, on the other hand, was partially shaken loose. My broken left hand throbbed in pain, leaving me to dangle by the right. Smaller impacts against the structure followed, each lessening until the cable Janae held onto settled.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, speaking loudly to compensate for facing away from me.

  “I’m all right!” I yelled back. “I just need a moment to reposition myself.” Dangling far off the edge of the city allowed a vantage point into the Under.

  “Yes, me too,” Janae said as the sway of the vertical line decreased and became more stable. “What can you see? Did we stop it?”

  I forced myself to look downward at the Under. The view was dizzying, and my head began to swim.

  When I didn’t answer, Janae prodded, “Kip, what’s going on? Can you see anything?”

  “I think I’m going to be sick.”

  “No,” she said, “don’t do that. Take some breaths and focus on an unmoving part of the landscape down there.”

  After a few seconds, she repeated, “Take some breaths. You’re going to be all right.”

  In addition to an overall soreness, my muscles felt like they were on fire. Janae had the benefit of a powered walking suit, but I was exhausted, so tired that I felt that I’d have to get better just to die. I did as she said, breathing in a few times as I stole another glimpse. Despite the Under being its own Purgatory of sorts, the vista that I had was nothing less than spectacular.

  “Kip, what do you see?” an impatient Janae cried out. “Is it flooding?”

  “I don’t think so.”

  I scanned what I could see of the area for any indication that water was coming in. Not seeing anything like that, I tried to tell if there was a sense of urgency or chaos among the inhabitants. The few tiny people that I could see didn’t seem to rush about. Finally, I looked at one of the massive stilts of the city, and there it was—a mechanical had made it nearly two thirds of the way down the steel column and stopped. At first, I thought it was a bird or group of birds, but as the line we hung from stopped moving, I knew for certain.

  “Janae, I see one of the mechanicals. It’s just sitting there. It’s not moving.”

  “Kip, that’s great! Hang on, I’m going to try to climb us to the ledge up there.”

  The edge of the platform was at least seventy-five feet above our heads. This was going to take a bit. I braced and said, “I’m ready.”

  We ascended yard by yard as Janae systematically placed one hand above the other and pulled upward. As her passenger, I had nothing to contribute—I simply had to hold on and not sway about too much as I dangled from the shoulder
plates. I tried to dispel the awful vision of the cable snapping from the stress. With every upward jerk, I wondered about the weight difference between me on the back of the walking suit versus the allowed weight of a full sky ferry.

  I closed my eyes and tried to imagine myself in the warmth of the photographic dark room of my office.

  When we finally reached the edge of the platform, Janae told me in short staccato words, “Kip, climb . . . up . . . over me.”

  I grunted acknowledgement. Mustering what little strength remained, I hoisted myself up and found a toehold in one of the seams of her walking suit. It was clumsy, but I managed to scale up the side of the metal body. The cable that had saved us was too thick for me to get my hands around, so I reached for the lip of the platform. I was careful to avoid kicking the side of her head as I pushed off the suit’s shoulder plates. Lunging upward, I found myself face down in the snow again.

  I crawled on my elbows to move away from the edge. After a moment, I was able to stand. Quickly surveying the area, I registered two things. First, the sky ferry bassel—now dented—was on its side and off center from the landing dock. This was no surprise, considering what had happened to its cable.

  Secondly, I saw the people that had made it down from the compound. They were gathered in their respective clusters: Babbage operators; mansion staff, including the doctor, who was busy examining Hennemann’s corpse in the steam carriage; and, of course, dirty scrapes. I went unnoticed as they all stood along the edge of the platform, looking down at the spectacle in the ocean below. I turned to join in witnessing the destruction.

  The palace that had been Montague’s home and place of business crumbled apart like a stale, brittle loaf of long bread. Even from this distance, one could hear the compound fracturing and breaking apart.

  Looking down at it, I felt tremendous relief, though I was somewhat in shock that we’d actually pulled it off and saved the people below from certain death. Even more amazing was that we were both alive.

  Janae blocked my view as she noisily climbed up the side of the platform. This got the attention of those whom she’d rescued. Some pointed and sheepishly moved toward us, careful to leave a safe distance.

  Janae sat down with a hard thud in the snow. She allowed the suit’s massive legs to dangle over the edge of the city.

  “You all right?” I asked.

  “Yeah, I guess so,” she said, staring down at the water. “It’s just weird to think that Jimmy’s body is somewhere beneath all that.”

  With all of the excitement, I’d forgotten about Jim Nelson’s death.

  The shattered components of the mansion bobbed like cork before taking turns disappearing under tumultuous swells of seawater. Each time the waves overtook the floating rubble, less returned to view.

  Her comment about her brother forced me to think on everything that had happened over the last few days. Finally, I said, “Such a waste.”

  “Yeah, that’s the truth. I left Rodger in the mansion.”

  I’m not sure if she intended it to be a joke or not, but it made me chuckle, which in turn solicited laughter from her.

  It was probably a release of pent-up stress, but her laughter made me laugh harder. After about thirty winded seconds, I said, “Stop, it hurts my ribs . . . to . . . laugh.”

  This triggered another round of uncontrollable snorts and extended giggles. It set off a coughing spell for her, but she didn’t seem to mind.

  When her coughing episode subsided, we returned to silently watching the Atlantic greedily finish off the remaining parts of the compound.

  After a minute of this, she spoke in a flat and distant voice. “Good riddance, Alton Montague.” She said his name like she’d spat out a mouthful of sour milk.

  I studied her for a moment as she gazed downward at the last glimpses of the destruction. I pondered how much pain he’d brought into her life . . . until I realized she’d never have been born if her father hadn’t been banished. Maybe pain is an important ingredient in the process of life.

  I was too fatigued for such heady business. I looked back to watch the waves bombard the last fragments of the Montague reign. The people gathered in a semi-circle around us but were respectfully quiet, like they were in church or something.

  There was nothing but the ocean now. Cascading violent waves overtook one another, each declaring victory over the sunken mansion below.

  I stood up and brushed the snow from my trousers. “Come on, there’s a livery beside the guard station. There’s likely to be tools in there for shoeing horses and whatnot. I’ll bet we can find something to get you out of that blasted walking suit.”

  I remembered something and moved closer to her. “I almost forgot . . .”

  Skeptically, she asked, “You almost forgot what?”

  I leaned in and gave her a kiss—a real kiss. I pulled away after a few seconds, studying the way the sunlight shone in her eyes. I smiled. “You said I could have another.”

  And that was the first time I saw her truly blush.

  Epilogue

  And so that’s pretty much how 1901 started for me. The days that followed were surreal. Word spread quickly, and my status as a celebrity far exceeded the episode years ago when I’d decked Commissioner Davenport. To the working-class poor, I became a hero, a symbol of hope. Ironically, now I’m this naïve beacon of how righteousness outlasts the designs of evil men, how good eventually prevails over tyrants tightening their grip on the less fortunate. If only that were true.

  I’ve heard rumor of parents manipulating their young children—especially boys—into eating vegetables so they could grow up big and strong like Detective Kipsey. Someone told me that a few mothers-to-be were contemplating the name Thorogood for their sons. That was really too much for me to bear.

  Even worse was my near-deification by the clans in the Under that heralded me as their liberator. You’d have thought I was a modern-day messiah before throngs of lepers. My poor old mot, old Miss Talbot, bore the brunt of this, since the ever-growing horde of displaced people camped outside her tenant building. Coming and going by means of the fire escape quickly became a regular practice for me.

  Through it all, I did manage to find the time to send Samuel Densmore’s fiancée a special envelope: the contents of the results of my last official case on the platform. No doubt that stirred the pot a little for them.

  Oh, I forgot to mention that the scrapes—er . . . the people from below (I’m still working on referring to them in the new way) were granted clemency in exchange for helping to implement Sawyer’s electrical storage box program. High-ranking members of the tink community determined that his wave conversion process was sound and are working to set it up with some minor modifications—namely, not flooding the Under.

  I’ve heard talk that the tinks devised a way to utilize the ocean water on the outside of the barriers to power the city, using the same general concept as Mr. Sawyer’s. It will require more hands-on maintenance at the beginning, but it’s better for the long term.

  Within a week of the compound crashing into the sea, five of the twenty portal shafts were converted into lifts. This unprecedented change allowed for regulated transport above and below. Former residents of the Under, excluding those from destructive clans like the tattooed sloats, were offered the chance to work on this massive project in order to gain full citizenship up top.

  Essentially, this parallels the John-John offer from long ago when the city stilts and bassel lines were assembled by Chinese workers in exchange for an undeveloped piece of the city. The plan is to use the profits from battery sales to the states below to offset the construction costs for a refugee community on the western side.

  As amenable as this proposal is, there are factions of the Addleton Heights community that resist the idea. Some suspect that Davenport is seeking a higher office, now that Montague is out of the way. If scrapes are granted voting privileges, which is being discussed, he’d be guaranteed a win for overseer. I’ve
always been wary of a man who rushes in to rule over others.

  I should be clear that I’m not a hero to everyone. Those who cling to the status quo have demonized me in proportion to those who offer misguided worship of me. I’m simultaneously the most loved and despised man on the entire platform—even more hated in some circles than Alton Montague, if you can believe it.

  This small but influential faction has made it clear that they hold me responsible for destroying Addleton Heights’ culture by mixing the “reprobates from below” with the “decent folk.”

  I may be many things, but I’m no hypocrite. For the record, I’m neither a hero nor a liberator, and I’m definitely not a revolutionary or a devil. I’m just a detective who grew up in the East Dolan sector, a simple man who found himself thrust into a situation outside his control and came out on top.

  Curiously, none of this misplaced attention, good or bad, found its way to Janae. The newspapers ignored her role in our “assault on the Montague compound,” though I gave her accolades at every turn. As progressive and forward thinking as Addleton Heights claims to be on issues of slavery and parity of wages between male and female, it would seem that most aren’t ready to accept that someone of the fairer sex is capable of aiding in the dethroning of the city’s most powerful man.

  Physical beauty is a power of its own. For someone to possess that while also having the means to change the course of a people is too frightful for many local men to consider. Yeah, looks like they still have a ways to go on that one.

  The lack of attention didn’t faze her, though. Janae’s only concern was people might discover she came from the Under. This seemed a little odd, since scrapes were being accepted in part now. Old habits die hard, I guess. Either way, I assured her I’d keep my promise to stay quiet about her past.

  I’ve never shared with anyone, including Janae, what I saw in the transfer lab. As far as I’m concerned, that was the real horror, and the secrets of that depraved tinkage died with Montague and Sawyer. I won’t be the one to point someone down the path of debauchery and abomination. Some ideas are like matches that turn to wildfire once lit. Better to douse this one before it can ignite.