“H-h-happy rise!” Dollop called over to her. Mr. Pynch waved, and the Marquis flickered a cheery hello. “Th-they’re teaching me how to play, um, Sliverytik. It’s gr-great fun, and I lost all five games, but—”
Mr. Pynch played his hand by adding pieces to the stack, which re-formed to an intricate new shape with a little ticking sound. Dollop’s shoulders sank.
“Uh, m-m-make that six games.”
“Peaches?” Micah said out the side of his crammed mouth and offered her a can. She took it and quickly devoured the remnants, letting the succulent fruit chase away her grogginess.
“What happened last night?” she whispered, eyeing the mehkans across the room warily. “You were supposed to wake me up, remember?”
“Eh, you needed your beauty sleep. No worries. Dollop and I kept watch.” He whipped the Lodestar up and twirled it around his hand in a practiced gesture. “’Sides, I had to get this puppy up and runnin’, didn’t I?”
The weapon was dented and held together with new scrap-metal additions, but she could tell Micah had spent all night repairing it. The coiled tip glowed with a purple light and emitted a steady hum. As she ate, he pointed the Lodestar at her and squeezed a trigger on the handgrip. The glow surged, and the can was whipped from her hand, drawn to the flaring coil with a clink.
“Fire in the hole!” Micah called out, aiming his club at the mehkans across the room. He fiddled with the knobs until he heard the cheery ping that announced that the Lodestar was ready. He squeezed the trigger again, and WHOOMF! A fuzzy bubble bloomed out of the purple coil, a pulse of wavering energy that launched the can like a missile. The sparky took off after it, squealing with delight, but the Marquis extended a telescoping arm and caught the can with the tip of his umbrella.
“Much obliged, Master Micah,” called Mr. Pynch. He scooped up the Sliverytik rods and shuffled them expertly while addressing Dollop. “You be quite the expedient learner, me lad. How’s about we toss a round for keeps?”
The Lodestar’s hum rose in pitch, ending with that pleasant chime. Micah beamed as brightly as his new toy.
“Worked up a new pulse switcher out of bits and bobs I found lyin’ around,” he boasted. “It’s the same as them big ol’ coil dealies—the ones we saw lined up around the train yard. The Foundry must have all kinds of crazy magnet weapons here. Pretty freakin’ sweet, right?”
“Yeah,” Phoebe said, chuckling. There was something new about him, like the Lodestar had fed his growing confidence. “I’m impressed.”
“I mean it’s no gun, or nothin’,” he mused, “but it’s wicked strong. I’m still gettin’ the hang of it.”
“Hey, what’s with the getup?” she asked, suddenly registering that he was decked out in a strange, oversized outfit that was bunched up and tied off at the arms and legs. His grin grew even wider as he hooked his thumbs under his collar, flipping it up. It was a singed, mismatched set of industrial coveralls, complete with gloves and protective pads. The jumble of yellow and gray was imprinted with a snazzy pattern of interlocking triangles. On the sleeve was a patch bearing the Foundry’s sunburst logo.
“Hundred-percent Durall. Musta cost a freakin’ fortune!” Micah squawked, his voice cracking awkwardly. He was too excited to be embarrassed. “Snatched ’em from a busted storage room downstairs. Now we don’t have to get all sliced up anymore. Go ahead, try ’em on.”
He gestured with his Lodestar to another set of gear that lay folded on the ground. She grabbed the pile and saw what was hidden underneath.
“Boots!” she gasped. Each scuffed shoe had come from a different pair, since the color and size didn’t really match, but it was a miracle. She could have hugged him.
Micah just shrugged.
“Thank you,” she said with a smile. Phoebe grabbed the metal jug and poured a little water into the empty canister. “Let me get changed. Can you gather up the food and—”
“Oh, you mean that?” he said, motioning to a heavy-duty Durall rucksack filled with their meager supplies. She laughed.
“You’re the best,” she said, lightly touching his shoulder. He looked down at her hand. “Give Dollop a heads-up we’ll be leaving soon. I’ll be right out.”
“Not a problem.” He grinned at Phoebe’s back, watching her hurry out of the ballroom with her cup of water. “I got it all under control.”
She wandered down a hall littered with debris, past a marred bust that might have once been Creighton Albright, and found a blackened washroom. The plaster walls were ripped to shreds, the stalls were leveled, and the silver sinks were crumpled, but it would do for a minute of privacy.
Phoebe slipped out of her skirt, tossed aside Micah’s stinky jacket, and pulled on the coveralls. Although it was heavy, the jumpsuit was surprisingly comfortable. It was made for an adult, a smoker, she guessed by the smell of stale cigars, and it draped over her willowy frame like a woven metal bathrobe. She zipped it up, then rolled the sleeves and cuffs, securing the folded material with the attached straps. After snapping the protective elbow and knee pads into place, she discovered a hood hanging in the back with a transparent shield for the eyes. This connected to the face mask that unfolded from the collar and contained a breathing apparatus. She tested the mouthpiece and inhaled, then coughed—yup, the previous owner was definitely a smoker.
Phoebe sat on a pile of rubble and unwrapped the wire and metal fronds that bound her blood-caked foot. The sight unnerved her. She couldn’t believe how far she had managed to walk on it. Her sock was crusty red and plastered to the wound. She bit her lip to keep from crying out as she gently removed it. The gash was nearly an inch long, swollen and tender, but thankfully it didn’t appear to be infected.
She didn’t know the first thing about dressing wounds, so all she could think to do was clean it with water. Phoebe found some tattered hand towels and tore them into strips. She wrapped the pieces around her feet and crammed the rest into her Durall boots, which were several sizes too large. The second she slipped her feet in and eased them down onto the soles, she let out a blissful sigh of relief.
Her eyes fixed on her sniping skirt, crumpled on the floor. There was a ragged tear from when she had squeezed through the barricaded door last night. After nearly two days in Mehk, the garment was covered in snagged seams and little punctures, but it was basically intact. She fished her needle and thread from one of the secret pockets that she had stitched into the pleats and set to work fixing the tear.
Phoebe’s mother had taught her to sew. They used to sneak into her father’s closet and steal clothes for her to practice on. Together, they would rip armpits and tear pant legs, giggling all the while. The challenge was for Phoebe to make the mend seamless so that her dad wouldn’t notice. She suspected he had been playing along the entire time, pretending to be oblivious.
Her mother had also taught her that some tears could not be mended.
Luckily, this was not one of those tears. She made quick work of it and pulled the skirt on over the industrial coveralls. The combination looked utterly absurd but she didn’t care. She grabbed her Durall gloves, the cup, and Micah’s jacket. As she turned to leave the washroom, Phoebe caught a glance of her reflection in a cracked mirror that remained on the wall.
Is that…me?
Her hair was a matted nest, her face sunburned and stained with sweat-streaked grease. She held her own gaze for a long moment, marveling at the hardened girl staring back at her.
She was doing this. She was going to find him.
Would her father know her? She barely knew herself anymore. He would recognize the skirt—all the more reason for her to keep wearing it. And what would her mother have said to him if she had learned the truth about Mehk? Would she forgive him, or was this a tear that could not be mended?
Phoebe looked down at the Foundry patch on the sleeve of her coveralls. She dug her bony fingers underneath the st
itches, ripped it off like a scab, and tossed it aside before marching out of the washroom.
hoebe returned to the ballroom to find everyone laughing—all three mehkans were gathered around Micah, who was playing fetch with the sparky by launching chunks of metal debris with his Lodestar.
“Now that’s a fashion statement, if ever I saw one,” Micah chuckled, pointing at her skirt and coverall combination.
“Ah, Miss Phoebe. A marvelicious ensemble, to be certain,” complimented Mr. Pynch as he sealed and secured his big bulky satchel. “Not only do Foundry accouterments protect yer delicate hide, but they look snappy, too.”
The Marquis nodded his approval, meticulously dusting his fancy Durall attire with a small collapsible pocket brush.
“L-l-look, Phoebe!” chirped Dollop. “I’m a bag boy. Th-that’s my, um, my function!” He held up the Durall rucksack containing their limited supply of food. Unfortunately he held it upside down, and it all spilled out and clanged to the ground. “Whoops, s-sorry.”
“No worries,” Micah said. “You’ll get the hang of it.”
Mr. Pynch ratcheted a valve on his giant satchel, and it compressed, expelling all the air until it looked like lumpy leftovers wrapped in foil.
“Well, after much trepidation on the part of me associate and I,” Mr. Pynch began with a frown of worry on his lumpy face, “we accept yer propoundment. It undoubtedly be a garrison of much unspeakable malfeasance, and we be operating contrary to gut-wise instincts, but gauge talks, as they say. So we shall perform as yer dedicated chaperones.”
She looked at them, uncomprehending.
Mr. Pynch rattled on. “As a precautionary measure, I advise a strict avoidance of public thoroughfares. Best to travel a sequestered trajectory and remain unscrutinized—in-coggy-neato, if you will—and I have formulated the ideal route. So we all be preparated for embarkation then?”
“What are you talking about?”
The Marquis flickered at Mr. Pynch, whose nozzle spun.
“Master Micah hasn’t informed you?”
“Informed me…of what?” she growled, leveling her eyes.
“Gimme us a minute, fellas,” Micah said. He launched a chunk of metal from his Lodestar, and the sparky pounced after it. The three mehkans, after a brief exchange in Rattletrap, nodded their agreement and wandered out of the ballroom, though Dollop cast a concerned look back at them as he departed.
“Let’s have us a chat,” he smirked, leaning the Lodestar on his shoulder.
“What did you do?” she hissed.
“Only what needed to be done. I hired ’em to take us to the Citadel.”
“You WHAT?”
“I’m gonna find the Doc, and I’m gonna save him,” he said as if it were obvious. “It’s prob’ly best for everyone if I take the reins from here.”
She studied his face for a moment, and then a smile played on her lips.
“Very funny. You almost had me going,” she laughed. “Good one, we’re even. Sorry about the rust slug, okay?”
But he shook his head, his grin never fading. The truth sank in. She began to tremble with rage. That smug sneer on his fat, freckled face made her want to scream.
“What did you tell them?”
“Everything,” he replied. The sparky came bouncing back, and Micah sucked the hunk of metal from its clattering jaws with the Lodestar.
“You…” She tried to control herself. “You told them about my dad?”
“Not that. Just what we said to Dollop,” he huffed. “I ain’t gonna give away your dirty little secret. I’m not an idiot.”
“You are if you trust those two!”
“What’s trust got to do with it? I know how to handle jokers like that. You just gotta know how to work ’em. And if they step outta line?”
Micah cranked up the settings on his Lodestar so that it hummed more intensely. He fired it, and she flinched as the air pressure from the purple detonation blasted her face. The metal chunk smashed through a plaster wall at the opposite end of the room, leaving a gaping hole.
“Quit screwing around with that thing for one second,” she snapped. “This isn’t about you or me. This is about finding my father.”
“Exactly. So quit bein’ so stubborn about it, and step aside,” he said, starting to get frustrated. “We’re gettin’ nowhere fast, followin’ you. You got no plan and you keep passin’ out all over the place.” He rolled his eyes back into his head and pretended to swoon.
“I do have a plan. And those criminals aren’t a part of it.”
“Oh yeah, what’s ’at? Wander along some more train tracks and hope we get lucky? Some plan!”
She didn’t have a comeback for that.
He assumed a tone of forced calm that irritated her all the more. “Look, we both want the same thing. It just so happens that you don’t have a clue how to go about it, and I do. No biggie, I’ll take care of it. I’m lookin’ out for you. I already put food in your belly and shoes on your feet, didn’t I?”
“You just can’t remember your place, can you?” Phoebe snarled. She took a menacing step toward Micah to loom over him, but he was unfazed. “You are still my servant. You do what I say, when I say it. Got it, Toiletboy?”
“Yeah, about that,” Micah said, smiling as he retrieved the chunk of debris from the bouncing sparky’s jaws. “I quit.”
“Really? Just like that? You would sell out your entire family for…this?” She gestured to him and his stupid Lodestar. “So you can finally be in charge of one thing in your pathetic little life? When we get back, Micah Tanner, I swear I’m going to make sure that—”
“Yeah, yeah,” he said, teasing the sparky with the bit of metal. “That we’re all fired, that my entire family starves to death, that whole thing. Got it. Now if you’re done bellyachin’, it’s time I establish my command. Rule number one…”
It took everything she had to keep from punching him out.
“Gimme back my jacket,” he ordered.
Phoebe wadded up his coat and threw it at him as hard she could. It knocked him off balance, and although he pretended to laugh it off, his reddening face betrayed his anger. He turned up the knob on his Lodestar so that it buzzed like a hive of furious bees. She felt heat emanating from the flaring coil as its glow intensified and took a wary step back.
“You were planning this all along, weren’t you, you little rat?” she spat.
“I gave you your chance, Freaky. Now it’s my turn. I’m quicker, I’m stronger, and I got the skills. Face it—I’m the man for the job.”
“You’re not a man. You’re a midget with a magnet.”
That got him. In a fiery fit of rage, Micah cranked up his Lodestar full blast. It vibrated so fiercely that it started to rattle, and Phoebe feared it might explode in his hands. He mashed the trigger and a giant bubble of force knocked them back, throwing off his aim. The metal chunk exploded into the enormous crystal chandelier. Icicles of glass careened down.
They watched it for a tense moment, hoping. Then the supports gave way, and the entire thing plummeted, ceiling and all. Phoebe, Micah, and the sparky dove away. The chandelier detonated on the floor, pulverizing wood in a splintering crash.
As the dust settled, Micah looked around at the damage.
“Whoops,” he said.
Fuselage looked more desolate in the daytime—a wasteland of sun-bleached rubble. Not a single structure or an inch of ground was untouched by the conflict. The group made their way out of the abandoned Foundry building with the sparky hopping along beside them. As they navigated through the leveled town, Micah presented his jacket to Mr. Pynch.
“There y’are, just as promised,” he announced. “A genu-wine Military Institute of Meridian bomber jacket. I’ll even throw in them medals of honor there for free, ’cause that’s the kinda guy I am.”
“A lavish vestment indeed, Master Micah,” admired Mr. Pynch as he caressed the faux leather and chintzy little adornments. “And a wise expenditure. You won’t be disappointed.” The Marquis held it up to see if it might fit him, and then stuffed it into the giant foil sack strapped to his back.
“That’s all he paid?” she scoffed. “To get us to the Citadel?”
They looked at her strangely.
“I mean, it’s just a cheap souvenir,” she said. “It’s not worth anything.”
“Don’t listen to her,” Micah retorted. “She’s full of it.”
“Sorry he tried to scam you. Eugene can be like that.”
“Eu-Eugene?” Dollop asked, adjusting the rucksack.
Phoebe acted surprised. “Yeah, that’s his real name. He didn’t tell you that either?”
“No, it ain’t!” Micah said, getting angry. The sparky whined beside him.
“How about this?” she suggested. “Since it’s such a measly payment, why don’t you just lead us to the train tracks? Point us in the right direction, and we’ll take it from there.”
“Not this again!” Micah threw up his hands.
“Tracks, Miss Phoebe?” queried Mr. Pynch. “Not an advisable route.”
“I’ll take my chances.”
The fat mehkan inhaled, expanding his massive belly. “As yer newly contracted retainer, I must advise you against such measures. It be a roundabout digression, adding a cycle or two to yer journey. And if I am to understandimate it, you require the punctual rescue of a person of interest?”
Mr. Pynch waited for her response, but when none came he continued. “Then there be the Holkhei land bridge. That alone would require half a cycle to ambulate, with nowhere to retreat should a locomotory engine traverse during yer crossing. You’d be most assuredly cast to rust down in the ravines or pulverized flat as a baby drebbling. Oh, and did I mention the silver steppes?”
“No,” Phoebe grumbled.
“Just one further notation,” Mr. Pynch continued merrily. “Trifle though his presented raiment may seem, it be an exceptional sort of rarity here in Mehk, and therefore quite profitable. Many thanks for yer concern, but it be more than adequate compensation for our services. So then, with yer permission, Master Eugene…Let us avaunt!”
The First Book of Ore: The Foundry's Edge Page 18