The First Book of Ore: The Foundry's Edge

by Cameron Baity

  “Switch,” he said, scarfing down half a tin of yams. The kids traded and quickly devoured their long-awaited meal. Licking his lips, he reached down to open up another one.

  “Wait,” she said. “Is this all there is? The water, too?”

  “Pretty much, yeah.”

  “We should go easy then, right? We need to make this last.”

  He froze, mouth agape and itching to open the can in his hands. But he knew she was right. Micah tossed it back into the pile and swiped his finger inside his empty tin of beans.

  “Where did you find this?” she asked.

  “Pantry over there.” He motioned, sucking his finger clean. “Pynch pointed it out.”

  “An expiring human be an abominable thing me associate and I could not bear to witness,” the fat mehkan piped as he inspected the tin lid that Phoebe tossed aside. He wiped the syrup off and popped the disc in his giant mouth. “Consider it a benevolent favor. A freebie, as it were.”

  Mr. Pynch flashed a wink from one of his wonky eyes.

  She looked at him suspiciously. “How long was I out for?”

  “I dunno. Maybe five minutes,” Micah said. “Why?”

  “Nothing.” She dismissed the thought and took a moment to absorb her surroundings. A dark notion cast its shadow in her recuperating mind. “This place…Is this what I think it is?”

  “You don’t know?” Mr. Pynch said with surprise. “Why, it be a festivity hall. A venue for customary human carousals.”

  “Festivity? You mean, like, parties?” Micah asked.

  She could almost hear the music and the merry laughter of revelers, almost see the twirling couples in their formal attire. Every bit of decadent joy had been paid for in mehkan blood. This was once a Foundry ballroom.

  “It’s disgusting,” she said.

  “Pardon?” Mr. Pynch queried.

  “It makes me sick.”

  Mr. Pynch bent his huge mouth in a contemplative frown and shared a look with the Marquis, who shrugged. The dapper mehkan was more interested in the empty cans, as was Dollop. With the kids’ approval, the three mehkans split the discarded tins and dined upon them, chatting casually in Rattletrap. Lacking a mouth, the Marquis tilted his periscope head back to reveal a gap in his neck. He tossed in the metal bits and chewed by pumping his entire torso up and down. The pack of whining sparkies gathered and begged for scraps.

  “What’re y’all talkin’ about?” Micah asked.

  “Ah,” Mr. Pynch said, motioning to Dollop. “Our charming counterpart here was just commentating on the fact that he never has seen a lumilow and balvoor, such as meself, cavort together. Sworn nemesi, our peoples be!”

  He had a good laugh at this with the Marquis, whose lamp shutters fluttered delightfully.

  “It-it-it’s true!” said Dollop. “Ever since the Great Decay, um, I heard balv-v-voors can’t even set foot in Dyrunya.”

  “As you say,” Mr. Pynch said, picking at his stained teeth with a protruding quill. “Indeed, times be tough. But whereas strife drives most toward prejudicial aspersions, me associate and I see it as a fertile opportunity for collaboration.”

  Dollop pondered this, nibbling on a chunk of can and shooing away sparkies.

  A few of the critters jiggled vigorously, shaking off grease and rust like wet hounds. With some hesitation, Micah reached over to scratch one behind its paddle ears. The creature jerked away and looked askance, then reconsidered and leaned into his petting, throttling a piston leg in satisfied response. Micah looked at Phoebe, a grin lighting up his face.

  “What about you, good Dollop?” Mr. Pynch asked. “Yer particular assemblage be unfamiliar, even to seasoned expeditionists such as ourselves. Where do you hail from?”

  “S-s-sorry?”

  “Yer haven, yer birthplace?”

  “I…” He looked down at his hands. “I d-don’t know.”

  “Well, what be yer heritage? Who be yer clan?”

  Dollop glanced away, his amber eyes flickering with distress.

  “I see,” Mr. Pynch said, stroking his muttonchops thoughtfully, his nozzle ticking away. “A foundling? An orphan?”

  “For real?” said Micah.

  “You don’t know where you’re from?” Phoebe asked.

  “I—I—I—I forgot,” he said, methodically rubbing the crevice in his head.

  “No matter,” Mr. Pynch comforted. “It just so happens that the Marquis and meself be veteran gallivanters, and we confabulate with a great many mehkies. If you have the penchant, me lad, we would be honored to make some professional inquires into yer…particularities.”

  “Tr-tr-truly?” Dollop chimed. “You’d—you’d help me find…me? I mean, my cl-clan? You w-w-would do that?”

  “Indeed we would,” Mr. Pynch growled cordially. “So tell me, how comes it that you be traveling with this pair of delightful humans?”

  “Th-they saved me!” Dollop chirped. “Serve those who giveth themselves unto you. The Way is quite c-c-clear on this matter.” He stroked the emblem on his chest, the icon of two intersecting gears depicted with a jagged vertical line.

  Mr. Pynch let out a guffaw. The Marquis covered his luminous eye, overcome by a peal of silent giggles. Dollop shrank back a little.

  “Har-har, what a rollick! Be that a genuine, unalloyed dynamo?” Mr. Pynch chortled as he looked at the symbol on Dollop’s chest. The Marquis flashed his signal lamp at Mr. Pynch, a flickering pattern that looked like some kind of visual language. The fat mehkan whispered back in Rattletrap.

  That set Phoebe on her guard. She nudged Micah to see if he had noticed the covert exchange, but he was preoccupied with his battered club. He had slipped the wrench out of his back pocket and was focused on taking the weapon apart, ignoring the sparky that nudged his legs for attention.

  “Forgive us. It just be that, well, we haven’t observated a genuine Waybound in quite a lengthy spell. It be so antiquated, so…provincial. You be the rarest of breeds nowadays.”

  “It-it-it’s okay. I-I’m used to it,” Dollop said, slumping over.

  “And what of you, me brave young wanderer?” Mr. Pynch purred to Phoebe, his nozzle making a slow, repetitive click like a gun being loaded. “How do you come to be in Fuselage?”

  “We walked,” she said curtly. “What about you two?”

  “Scouring for that which might perchance have some utility.” He indicated a huge, lumpy sack in the corner that was bound with perforated steel straps. The bulbous bag was overflowing with picture frames, candlesticks, a wall clock, wooden utensils, and various other human goods.

  “You’re s-s-s-stealing?” Dollop gasped.

  The Marquis flared his lamp and shook his head no.

  “Scavenging, to be more precise-like,” Mr. Pynch corrected. “Just as the sparkies and yer comrade here have clearly done.”

  Micah looked up and shrugged.

  “Yeah, who gives? It’s just stealin’ from the Foundry anyway,” he said, trying to rub the scorch marks off his pilfered weapon. He held it up to read something off the blackened grip. “Lodestar XC-8. Wicked!”

  “It-it-it’s still stealing though,” Dollop explained. “And—and stealing is against the Way.”

  “That may be, me dear mehkie,” Mr. Pynch rumbled cheerfully as he lay a hand on Dollop’s shoulder. “Yet wouldn’t yer Engineer smile down upon our sin? It led to the salvation of yer comrades in the form of sustenance, after all.”

  Dollop stroked his dynamo and considered this.

  “Why did you help us anyway?” Phoebe asked.

  “What she means is,” Micah said, shooting her a sideways glance, “thanks for the help.”

  “You be kindly welcome,” Mr. Pynch said with a bow. “To elucidate, me associate and I be in the business of helping people. And helping people of the human persuasion be our speciali
ty.” The Marquis flickered his light warmly to the kids.

  “You aren’t scared of humans?” she asked.

  “Do you intend us ill?” the fat mehkan inquired.

  “No. But how do you know we’re not with the Foundry?”

  “Lost as you be? Sojourning with a Waybound? Endearing yerselves to the locals?” Mr. Pynch chuckled as he motioned to Micah, who was scratching the exposed belly of a contented sparky. “But even if you were Foundry, what of it? Why fear the inevitable? We might as well fear the fusion o’erhead, or the ore underfoot. Or the gauge in our pockets.”

  The Marquis blinked another message to his companion. Mr. Pynch nodded, then leaned his fat body back to roll forward onto his feet.

  “Come with me,” Mr. Pynch said, crunching through broken debris. “I be keen to show you something.”

  With great trepidation, Phoebe strode across the ballroom to join him, keeping a safe distance. Dollop and the Marquis followed, but Micah stayed put. He was far too engrossed in trying to repair that stupid club.

  Mr. Pynch motioned out the balcony. Far off in the recesses of night was a scattering of settlements. Tall smokestacks churned out blankets of billowing smog, and lights glimmered through the haze. It reminded Phoebe of the nighttime view from her veranda back home—the view of Foundry Central.

  “It be known as the Chusk Bowl,” Mr. Pynch said. “An ancient farming kinship. You see, only grudrulls can eat chusk and break it down, so langyls share an intimate bond with them. When langs shed, they relinquishate their skin castings to grunds, who utilize them to fabricate their shells. In exchange, grunds permit langs to harvest chusk fibers from their excrement.”

  Micah, still working at his weapon, snickered at the word.

  “Chusk weave be hearty, infinitely useful, and provides the langs with a spectaculous profit.” Mr. Pynch held out one of the jagged flaps of his metal fiber overcoat for Phoebe to touch. She reached out with some reservation—it felt like a rough version of fabric she was accustomed to back home.

  “And the langs be not alone with their interest,” Mr. Pynch said.

  “The Foundry. Chusk is Durall.”

  “Very perspicacious of you, Miss Phoebe,” he rumbled. “The langyls negotiated a partnership with the humans, and now the Chusk Bowl be Foundry owned and operated. All was agreeable, and the gauge flowed freely. But some langyls were no longer acquiescent to the arrangement. The Foundry be intolerant of such betrayals, and responded by soundly obliterating them, thus leaving behind this potent lesson for all who might consider such impetuments in the future.” He spread his arms wide to present the bleak ruins that lay around them.

  A beam of light appeared on the horizon, one of those behemoth trains departing the langyl settlements, probably carrying a shipment of newly minted Durall. Phoebe thought about her father’s stunning wardrobe, the upholstery on his reading chair, and the gleaming Durall carpets in their home. Was he involved in the Foundry’s business with langyls?

  She shivered against the night air. Mr. Pynch wandered back inside.

  “Why are you telling us all this?” she asked, following him.

  “To illustritate what happens when one opposes a human—when the nasty thought even crosses yer mind. That be a misjudgment me associate and I have never made.”

  “B-b-but all those poor langyls…” Dollop moaned.

  Mr. Pynch stood side by side with the Marquis, the tall mehkan dusting himself off fastidiously and flattening the wrinkles in his pristine tuxedo.

  “Aye, the poor langyls,” Mr. Pynch agreed sadly. “Yet tragic victims though they be, the langs unwisely volunteered to a partnership they later chose to negate. You think the Foundry be disgusting, engaging in felicitatious activities in this salon while mehkans suffer under their dominion. That be undoubtedly true. But here be another truth—humans pay on time and their gauge never be counterfeit. And in such a troubled age, that be of great value to adventuring business-mehkies such as we.”

  Phoebe wanted to vomit up her beans and yams.

  “As I afore-mentioned, we be in the business of helping people.” Mr. Pynch smiled. “We have proffered the generous favor of nourishment—the first one always be on the house.” He settled his hands on the lapels of his chusk-weave overcoat. “Now, how else may me associate and I be of assistance?”

  “Actually,” Micah chuckled, finally looking up from his toy, “there is somethin’ we need pretty bad. Just so happens that we’re on our way to the—”

  “To bed,” Phoebe interrupted. “We need sleep. Thank you for the food, and for your offer, but we have had a long day.”

  “Say no more,” Mr. Pynch said. “We’ll reconvene our negotiations on the rise.” The Marquis bowed graciously, swiveled about on bendy legs, and then trotted across the ballroom to their stash of pilfered goods.

  Micah gaped as Phoebe retreated to the opposite corner.

  “Oh, and never you mind about security,” Mr. Pynch called out. “We be the lightest of sleepers and honored to stand vigil.” His stained smile glittered from across the ballroom.

  Phoebe turned away and gathered discarded tablecloths to use for bedding as Micah and Dollop joined her.

  “What’s up?” said Micah. “What’s the harm in asking?”

  “They work for the Foundry,” she replied.

  “Aw, they’ll work for anybody. They’re in it for the money.”

  “You think that’s a good thing? Any mehkan that would even consider helping the Foundry can’t be trusted.”

  “What do you say, chum?” Micah asked Dollop.

  “Who, m-m-me? Uh, I dunno.” He shrugged. “Th-they’re…okay?”

  “Well, I have a bad feeling about them,” said Phoebe.

  “So that’s it, then?”

  “Yes. We can’t afford the risk.”

  Micah wanted to talk back, she could tell. He glanced down at his broken Lodestar, his lips pinched into a hard line. But when he looked back at Phoebe, his eyes were cool and his demeanor indifferent.

  “Now let’s just get some rest,” she said softly. “In the morning, we can search this place and see if there’s anything else we can use. Maybe there’s a map or something to help us find the Citadel.”

  “Sure,” Micah said as he plopped down. “You’re the boss.”

  With Dollop’s help, she finished arranging tablecloths into a makeshift bed and lay down. Her stomach growled, but she knew they would have to pace themselves with their limited supply of food. Micah continued repairing his Lodestar, disassembling it and fiddling with the pieces. The sparky that had been cuddling up to him earlier nuzzled at his side.

  Phoebe yawned. “Since you’re staying up, you should take first watch, okay? We can’t let them out of our sight.”

  Micah didn’t respond, intent on his project.

  “Just wake me up when you’re ready to switch,” she said. “Did you hear me? I said wake me up, okay? Micah?”

  “Yup,” he said, scratching his head with the wrench.

  Dollop crammed an empty trash bin full of linens and crawled into the impromptu cave. He pressed a hand to his dynamo and closed his eyes, murmuring prayers in Rattletrap. Phoebe looked away from him, feeling like she was intruding, and glanced to the other end of the ballroom. The Marquis strobed a message to Mr. Pynch, who grumbled a gruff chuckle in response.

  As Phoebe drifted off, she wondered what was so funny.

  hoebe rocketed up the front steps of the manor and flung open the doors. The house was still and thick with shadows.

  “Daddy?”

  She blasted past the dimpled copper door to his study. He was standing before the fireplace with his back to her—a lean silhouette carved out by the low light of licking flames.

  “Daddy!”

  She ran toward her father to embrace him. He turned.
>
  Her blood froze.

  His skin was hard and fixed into an eerie grin that did not reach his dead, black eyes. His brittle smile cracked, and fissures snaked across his dented face, revealing the unmistakable shine of metal.

  The fireplace roared. She screamed, but no sound came.

  He began to grow, stretching, towering to fill the room.

  “Cricket,” came his voice, vague and very far away.

  She looked down at herself—her flesh was gone, replaced by overlapping scales of metal skin. She could feel a searing gush of life in her ductlike veins and a whirring engine where her heart used to be.

  Phoebe was a mehkan.

  “Cricket.” This time the word was a rusty peal.

  In her father’s white-gloved hand was an enormous glass jar. He leered down at her, sparks crackling in his fractured eyes. She tried to get away, but her legs were bent backward like an insect, snapping in ways she did not understand. Phoebe pounced and flailed, but she was not fast enough.

  The jar slammed down around her. She leaped like mad but only clanged against the glass ceiling. His monstrous hand tightened. Cracks shivered across the dome overhead. The gritty crunch of splintering glass.

  Her father’s hand came crashing down.

  WHOOMF.

  The sound was like the ignition of a powerful gas jet. She threw back her tablecloth covers and scuttled away in a panic. Nearby, Micah laughed.

  “Up and at ’em, Plumm!” The sparky he had befriended ran circles around him, bouncing on piston legs.

  Her heart was pounding. She glanced around the room, trying to shake the dream from her blurry mind. The ballroom was transformed, now awash in streaming light, refracting rainbows through the crystal chandelier. Dollop sat with Mr. Pynch and the Marquis on the far side the room, gobbling up handfuls of glop from a hexagonal shell. The mehkans were huddling around a carefully arranged stack of little curved rods knotted with symbols.