Addleton Heights

by George Wright Padgett

  I find myself wondering if the papers will print an obituary if Montague’s corpse is never found. It’d probably make the front page.

  Speaking of papers, would you believe Davenport even took a picture with me for the Addleton Gazette? To look at his smile, you’d think he found a long-lost friend—such a politician. As they say, the more things change, the more they stay the same.

  And speaking of change, I’ve given a lot of thought to the cicada Montague had in the jar: that shed skin of a creature that has long since moved on, taking only what was essential, into a new life . . . just like me.

  In the light of the midday sun, I look again, for the thousandth time, at what Janae slipped me in the pub. It’s a handwritten address wrapped around what was originally her brother’s airship ticket to Connecticut. Two weeks ago she sent a telegram for me to meet her at the Scuff & Bib that evening. I didn’t know it was so she could tell me she was permanently leaving the city.

  I don’t know what kind of life I’ll find there with her. In many ways, we’re little more than strangers to each other, but it feels like there’s something between us. Sometimes, you play a hunch, shoving all the chips to the center of the poker table based off a twinge in your gut. That’s what I’m doing today. There’s only one way to find out if there’s a life out there with her that’s worth leaving the platform for, and that’s to do it.

  The porter motions to me to move forward. I’m at the front of the line to the ramp now. I present the ticket.

  “Only one piece of luggage?” he asks, a little surprised.

  “Yep,” I say, bringing Jim Nelson’s suitcase up to chest height. I’ve never owned any luggage myself, having only left my beloved city once when I was a child. “Only taking the essentials.”

  He tips his hat. “Seems like a good plan. Anything you need, you can get in New Haven.” He offers the punched stub back to me. “Enjoy your journey and whatever finds you there.”

  I try to imagine life as a wheelwrighting assistant to a female tink in a blacksmith shop. I turn and look at the skyline one last time and smile. “You know, I think I just might enjoy it very much . . . very much indeed.”

  THE END

  APPENDIX:

  NELSON’S LEDGER ENTRIES

  [ Secret entry in the July 1900 ledger ]

  My name is Jim H. Nelson, and I have served as Montague Steel’s chief accountant as well as Babbage administrator for over seventeen years. I recently stumbled upon a deadly secret—so vile, in fact, that I found it difficult to accept at first.

  I am not a courageous man at heart—far from it—but there are times when a man is compelled by overwhelming events to offer more of himself—more than just being an honorable citizen. This is one of those times. How can I idly turn away from the horror I see unfolding before me and not damn my everlasting soul? I have no choice but to act, though doing so places me at considerable risk.

  In fact, in this moment, I fear for my very safety. I’m certain that they suspect that I know something, though to what extent, I can only guess.

  For the past eight and a half days, I’ve noticed one of Mr. Montague’s ground-level security officers following me. This man has appeared in every public place that I’ve frequented. While he’s never approached me, he’s made his presence known from a distance. A nod of the head or a tip of the hat in my direction to let me know he’s there. Obviously, his objective is for me to know that he’s observing me. For this reason, I know going to police headquarters or city hall or even mailing a post is futile.

  I’m certain that the other members of the Babbage team are also being watched, though probably not to the same extent as I. It’s possible that they may not even be aware, which would actually be a good thing. As frightened as I am, my conscience won’t allow me to put any of them in additional jeopardy.

  All but I have families. Exposing them to what I’ve learned would be the same as signing their death warrants. I deliberately withheld my findings from them to insulate them from any repercussions that may come from my actions.

  I act alone in exposing what I’ve discovered and my theories. It’s only me. It has to be that way—just in case.

  (continued in the front of next ledger)

  – August –

  The discovery occurred quite by accident. It all came about because I could not reconcile an invoice.

  Being a member of the Commonwealth, you’re aware of the Addleton Heights Materials Act of 1893, the controversial city bylaws revision pushed through by Mr. Montague. This is the selfsame act placing an embargo on all building materials from suppliers below in the states.

  You’ll recall how many on both sides at the time saw the ordinance as a blatant effort to require Addleton Heights citizens to use Montague Steel in construction of any kind. I have no opinion about the intent of the mandate and its restrictions, only how it affects the work I do for the city.

  Though my team of Babbage operators and I are not a part of the regulatory oversight committee for materials, we are tasked with giving an accounting of all “foreign” building supplies once said petition has been received and approved for use.

  Several months ago, an uncommonly large request for lumber sparked my interest. There hadn’t been any notice of recent fire damage within the city, nor were there any petitions for new development. If anything, by my calculations, we as a city enjoyed a surplus of lumber for minor repairs to doors, tables, flooring, bedframes, horse troughs, and whatnot.

  So I couldn’t understand why it had been listed as new construction. It was also queer that there was no sector location code on the document. However, I was able to verify that Mr. Montague himself had signed off on the request, which again, was highly out of the ordinary for something that appeared to be so mundane at first glance.

  Stranger still was that the shipment seemed to have disappeared entirely after it was processed in the city’s airship receiving bay.

  – September –

  Thinking I was on the trail of an embezzler of the company, I intensified my research. I cross-referenced service and invoice numbers until I found that the term “construction” actually referred to the work of two carpenters in the city, a pair of brothers commissioned to build approximately fifty-two hundred containers.

  I truly don’t have an answer for why I didn’t approach Mr. Montague with this discovery. If I had, I’m certain I wouldn’t be writing this now.

  For several days, I pondered why Mr. Montague required so many boxes. Then I recalled members of my team passing rumors for years about a secret tink, or maybe tinks, that worked on the same level of the compound as the Babbage department. I knew part of this to be true. The area down the hall even had a procurement service code, R1893, listed as a subset of the company’s operating expenses.

  I ran a two-month, then a six-month, query against that number. I’m not a tink, but I know one of those types and recognized the kind of items involved in cogworks and tinkware manufacture. I determined a substantial increase over the past thirty-nine months of various products being delivered to the locked area across the way from the Babbage chamber.

  The other part of the equation came from Mr. Montague himself. One morning this past autumn, while I had the system calculating foreign commodities exchange reports, I received a notice from him requesting lunch.

  When I first arrived at the top level of his estate, I wondered if he was going to bring me into his confidence and inform me about the secret project. He did not. Instead, he handed me a confidential request pertaining to oceanic data. He had elaborate tink schematics (I’ve done my best to redraw them from memory—look at my last entry found in the front of the December ledger).

  There were machines labeled “fluid turbines” and there were many unfamiliar terms such as “catch-basins,” “wave motors,” and “tidal power.” Anyway, he said that he needed very specific answers delivered about ocean currents.

  When I pressed him for the purpose of the request, he w
aved me off, saying it was for fishermen from our neighbor, Martha’s Vineyard. It didn’t add up, and I asked how poor fishermen could afford top-level Babbage services. He immediately revised his story, saying it was a special project for the mayor down there.

  Changing the subject, he spoke of being the only one of the Commonwealth with courage enough to set the city free from its dependence upon the states below. I remember an unsettling look in his eyes as he said it—the look of a ferocious madness.

  – October –

  Within a week of our luncheon, my department began to receive anonymous Babbage system requests from an unknown source. We were asked to run computations on the steel tolerances of the structure under the city, the area that confines the banished to what’s commonly referred to as the Under.

  Though the source of the inquiries was unknown, the documents bore the proper category A-1 request credentials. So my team immediately put the system to work, prioritizing this above all other Babbage tasks, and the first round was completed in record time.

  It’s uncommon practice for the Babbage operators I oversee to discuss particulars of a project. It’s not that it’s forbidden for Level A operators to speak of conclusions with each other, it’s just in poor taste and unprofessional. This was different. All of us could feel it and had unease about the need to calculate the answers. Was the city faced with the threat of an enemy attack?

  It’s no secret that coal is delivered by dirigible for the prisoners in the Under to shovel. If that area was flooded as a result of an attack from sea, the entire city would lose its steam power, grinding everything to an abrupt halt, save for those on the Montague estate.

  As manager, I did my best to soothe worker apprehension while also reminding them of their oath, which restricted them from sharing any Babbage information outside the compound. A day later, I arrived to a commotion in the Babbage lab. The original request had been returned, this time asking for similar data but from the inside. The request had a footnote reminding us to make allowances for outside water pressure pushing in on the metal embankments.

  The revised questions asked for precise pressure points to weaken the steel structure. It was undeniable the inquiries were not to prevent an attack, but rather were for us to provide instructions along with detailed scenarios on how to sabotage structure integrity. In other words, how to deliberately flood the Under.

  – November –

  Then, three weeks ago, as I was leaving late, I heard a ruckus down the hallway. A couple of the guard staff unloaded a crate off the top of the sky ferry. Peeking around the corner, I saw the men drag the empty box followed by its plywood lid into the open gate of the restricted area—the suspected tink lab.

  A few minutes later, the crate was nailed up and now appeared to be considerably more difficult for them to manage. This told me it had been filled with something. To avoid conflict, I allowed them to ride the bassel down by themselves as I remained hidden.

  When they returned with another empty crate, I took my leave and rode down to the street level. To my surprise, the crate was there, right off the landing. Curiosity got the better of me, and I tried to open the container, but I could not.

  The next day, I came to work with some tools I’d borrowed from a tink acquaintance. Now there were three crates at the bassel landing. After much effort, I popped one of them open to see a metal human form.

  Four days ago, I had the system run an activities report on procurement service code R1893. When the data came back, it was no longer listed as operating expenses, but had a P-5 ledger name for a division called Montague Power Company.

  – December –

  My conclusion: I suspect that what I saw in that crate a few weeks ago was some type of automaton created for the sole purpose of puncturing the water barriers to flood the Under. Doing so would allow Montague Steel to harness the ocean below us for electricity by means of tidal wave energy (see my diagrams below).

  The result would be twofold: First, it would free the city from dependence upon coal and gas from the states. Secondly, Montague would be able to sell boxes of electricity to the North and South—and possibly other countries—in much the way that his steel division leads the world in production. In time, everyone could potentially become so reliant upon these electricity boxes that Mr. Montague could influence nations, holding kings and presidents hostage to his whims.

  I’m placing all my confidence in you and the other members of the Commonwealth. Mr. Montague’s plan must be stopped! As far as I can tell, he intends to destroy the Under on Founder’s Day, January 13th, so you still have time to mobilize against this evil act. I don’t expect him to respond peaceably when confronted, so by the time these ledgers find you, I will be living in the states below. May you find the strength to withstand this madness and defend the name of our great city.

  ˜ Jim H. Nelson ˜

  Addleton Heights Map & Key

  Tap for the full-size version of this map.

  1. Tete Ridge 17. Maker Row

  2. Axehead 18. Cliburn

  3. Melven 19. Huewson

  4. Berthshire 20. Gibba

  5. Krupp 21. Siasconset

  6. New Gettys 22. New Allis

  7. Tink Sector 23. Hagers

  8. Quaise 24. Cae

  9. Low Bromick 25. South Hummock

  10. Dolan 26. Whale Point

  11. Agronomy Sector 27. Miacomet

  12. East Dolan 28. Foundry

  13. Sacacha 29. Municipal District

  14. Chinatown 30. Wallington

  15. North Hummock 31. Bedford

  16. Bunnell

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  Acknowledgments

  Many thanks—

  In my experience, writing a novel is like running a solo marathon—a solitary thing, to be certain. Listed here are the people who urged me on throughout the process. When the terrain became rough and the running of this race slowed to a trot, these are the folks who encouraged me to keep going, handing this lonely runner cool cups of water and cheering from the side until this story crossed the finish line. I am indebted to each of you.

  First and foremost, my wife, Sabrina, for making the way. My mother, Mary Padgett. Vicki Estes, Andi Klemm, and the members of Team Armageddon: Shannon Winton, Dominick D’Aunno, Erik Hailey, and Christian Roule. Also thanks to Drew Heyen for his weapons expertise, Michele Giorgi for a fantastic cover illustration, and editors Hilary Comfort, Jason Bergstrom, and Josh Mitchell for sound guidance.

  And a big nod to my publisher, Jason Aydelotte. When I told him the story premise at my very first book signing, he became so enamored with the idea that he urged me to put it to page every time I saw him until it was done. Thanks again, Jason, for being such a friend to this book.

  And finally, my warmest appreciation to you, the reader. Whether you merely stumbled across the story of Addleton Heights or actively sought the book out, thank you for going on this journey. I hope you found it to be time well spent.

  Sincerely,

  George Wright Padgett

  Fall 2016

  About the Author

  Texas native George Wright Padgett is a multi-genre author who grew up reading science fiction and comic books. After a brief stint writing children’s picture books, he turned to darker themes. He now writes a mix of novels and short stories in sci-fi, detective, and horror categories.

  His non-writing time
is divided between being a husband and father of two, a jazz piano player, a graphic artist, and a playwright.

  Connect with George

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  More from George Wright Padgett

  Spindown

  For over a hundred and fifty years, the rarest and most valuable substance in the solar system has been mined from the only location where it exists in significant quantity: Jupiter’s largest moon, Ganymede. For all of this time, the remote mining outpost has been serviced by clone slaves who are drugged into mindlessness, and all of it has been monitored, controlled, and administered by the artificial intelligence known as Prinox.

  But what happens when a failed rescue mission causes a small band of escaped clones to begin questioning their lives, their society, and their very existence? Hunted by deadly killing machines, confused and scared, these renegade slaves are about to find out—for better or worse—just what it means to be human.