The First Book of Ore: The Foundry's Edge

by Cameron Baity

  “Phoebe. Micah,” Goodwin implored. “Please help me to correct his grievous error before the entire world is forced to pay the price.”

  Her mind felt muddled, dark, and molasses thick. When she had first walked into this room, everything had seemed so clear, but now she didn’t know what to believe. She was confused by everything Goodwin said, but there was forceful logic in his words. All he wanted was peace. She looked to Micah, but he was just as lost as she was. He hadn’t the foggiest clue how to proceed.

  If they agreed, she could see her father, be with him right now. In a matter of minutes, she could be wrapped up tight with his voice in her ears. Her heart yearned for him. He would explain everything. And she would help him. She and Micah would convince him to save all those lives.

  But why? Why would he aid the enemy?

  What could be worth a global war? His secret must be important. So important he was willing to give everything up to protect it, even his own life. Her father knew Goodwin, had worked closely with him, and had chosen to defy him.

  Which meant that he wasn’t one of them after all. Her father had betrayed the Foundry.

  And that was all the answer she needed.

  The darkness was gone.

  She snatched an empty plate and hurled it at Goodwin.

  He was caught completely off guard. Her aim wasn’t perfect—the plate shattered into a dozen pieces against the chair back, inches from his face. She grabbed her glass, her silverware, a candleholder. She pelted the Foundry Chairman with everything she could get her hands on.

  And Micah didn’t miss a beat.

  In a whoop of joy, he hurled his own plate and glass and steak knife at Goodwin, who ducked and retreated down the corridor. She flung a snowball of sorbet at his back, triumphantly splattering his jacket with lavender dessert. Micah lunged for the fireplace poker. He wrenched it from the rack and chased after Goodwin, rearing back to swing. White-gloved hands grabbed it. In a matter of seconds, they were overcome by Watchmen.

  But she didn’t care. Today was the day that Phoebe Plumm made the Chairman of the Foundry run.

  She hoped that Goodwin would remember this moment every time he sat at this table, every time he ate here.

  The last thing she saw before they dragged her below was Micah’s wide-open mouth, drowning out the Muse-o-Graph’s melodious song with his raspy, squeaking laughter.

  The last thing Micah saw was the white-hot iron in Phoebe’s eyes.

  oundry scrap roared down the chute. Bullet casings, empty cans, and broken equipment tumbled through the darkness. Mangled mehkan carcasses were tossed in with a grisly rain of oozing shells and shredded metal. It was a tidal wave of useless junk for which no purpose could possibly be found.

  Including Dollop.

  He clattered down the tube and slammed painfully onto a pile in a massive container. A glint of gold caught his eye—his dynamo, his sacred emblem of the Way, had popped off. Debris pummeled him as he reached for his beloved symbol, but it was quickly buried, and so was he. Dollop wriggled through the junk, looking for his dynamo or some kind of escape, but found only the floor. Embedded in its center was a circular grate made of crisscrossed bands of steel, leaving diamond-shaped openings a couple of inches across.

  It was a drain, he soon found out, as rancid lubricant and mehkan blood trickled down from the scrap and all over him. The torrent of refuse stopped, and the accumulated weight of it compressed him like a vise. The bin jolted and began to move. Dollop pressed up to the drain and saw that he was being hauled through a dark tunnel. The air was stuffy and growing steadily warmer. There was light up ahead.

  The container emerged into a cavernous space, shrill with activity. Watchmen scurried about like silvery ants far below, enduring high temperatures in shiny protective jumpsuits. They zipped around on Transloaders, hauling supplies back and forth. A complex motorized cable system wove across the ceiling, carrying dozens of suspended bins toward the center of the room, where a pulsing light glowed. Then he saw it.

  Rising in the scorching heart of this chamber was an immense blast furnace, spewing sparks and gurgling thick bubbles. The containers rattled over this hellish pit, dumping their contents into its fires before speeding away to be filled again. Troughs ran from its sloping sides, pouring streams of liquid metal that radiated in all directions like beams of the sun.

  This was the ancient furnace of Kallorax, the boiling abyss where millions had been burned alive. Now the Foundry stoked its flames.

  Dollop stared at the searing crater as his bin approached it. His last shreds of hope melted away. Soon his body would be reunited with the ore, and his ember would pass beyond the Shroud, returning to Makina for judgment.

  He had failed Her. She would never blaze his ember. That divine reward was only for those who had found their function, those who lived as vital components in Her sacred machine. No, he would be stirred in the Forge, destined to be reborn in a new form, probably something foul and lowly, like a ryzooze. It was as much as a useless scrap like him deserved. He couldn’t even manage to hold on to his dynamo.

  Where had he gone wrong? Why had Makina led him to Phoebe and Micah if it was to end like this? Had he misinterpreted the signs all along?

  He clutched his fingers through the grate and pressed his head on the mesh, feeling the container rumble as it carried him to meet his Maker.

  Dollop closed his eyes and began to pray.

  “Oh, no you don’t!”

  Micah knew Watchmen were too dumb to talk, but he screamed at them anyway. A pair of the Foundry soldiers stuffed him into a narrow shaft. He writhed and fought, but the tube was so tight he couldn’t even raise his arms. Digging in with his knees and elbows, Micah struggled to slow his descent, but they just forced him down until his feet touched the bottom. He tried to look up but barely had enough room to tilt his head.

  “NO!”

  The hatch clanged down and plunged him into darkness.

  A handful of breathing holes let a little light in, not like there was anything to see. The tube was maybe seven feet tall, and the corroded gold walls were like rough rock. He couldn’t turn around or even bend his knees.

  Goodwin must have been pretty ticked off. If only Micah had gotten in one swing with that fireplace poker. Just one. He was jealous that Phoebe had nailed the fat cat with that ice cream. He’d have to compliment her aim when he saw her again. If he saw her again.

  The thought made the cramped walls feel even tighter.

  Where was Phoebe anyway? Probably in a cage like this one. The Doc too. And Dollop? The Foundry was probably gonna turn him into a toaster or something before the poor mehkie even got to figure out what the heck he was.

  No. Stop it. I can’t think like that. Gotta stay positive.

  He tried imagining what he’d do once he got his hands on Pynch and the Marquis. He’d pluck Fatty like a turkey and pull his spines out one by one, then tie the Marquis’s arms and legs in a big ol’ knot.

  How could he have been such an idiot?

  It was his fault everything had turned to crap. He had lied to Phoebe and hired those two scumbags. He had even bragged that he could take care of them if anything went wrong. Way to go, Tanner.

  Darkness settled in his mind like sawdust. He felt like he was being squeezed. The only sound was his own stupid breath. He hated that. It was thin and weak, such a tiny little puff to hang his entire life on.

  His banged-up cheek itched. He struggled to get his arm up to scratch it, but there was no room. Micah thrashed angrily. Growling, he rubbed his face on the rough metal, but that only ended up making his bruises feel worse.

  How long had he been in here? It felt like a lifetime. No way he could stay standing like this. He was worn out, and his knees were trembling.

  What was he thinking? Once upon a time, he was gonna be a hero and put a b
ig ol’ dent in the world. Wasn’t that why he had wanted to find the Doc in the first place? He was stupid enough to think he could maybe be somebody, that Micah Eugene Tanner might matter some day. He was wrong.

  He was just a toiletboy. And toiletboys weren’t heroes.

  Rory, Jacko, and the rest of his buds probably weren’t bothered in the slightest that he was gone. Sure, maybe they had been curious at first, wondering why he wasn’t in class anymore. But they’d find another chump to tweak their Snakebite S-80’s and just go on as if he had never existed.

  Margie wouldn’t even get word he was gone, wherever she was. And what about Ma and Randy? Were they worried at all? Did Ma even try to call the cops? No, he bet they were relieved. He was a mistake anyway. She told him so all the time. Just like she blamed him for Dad walking out on them.

  No one cared.

  Micah had just upped and vanished, blinked out of existence. Maybe he was more like his pathetic loser drunk of a dad than he thought. Gone without a trace, forgotten, and not even worth the effort of remembering.

  And now he was going to die in this hole. Alone.

  He listened to his breath, wheezing away in this emptiness. Each breath was another lost second, one more missed chance.

  His nothing life was fading to black.

  A pair of Watchman soldiers spun a pressure wheel and pulled open the heavy, circular hatch. Phoebe stepped through it before they could force her. Alert and bristling, she was ready for the worst that Goodwin could throw at her. If her father could stand up to the Foundry, so would she.

  She was going to make him proud.

  The door slammed behind her. She found herself in a circular room that was maybe fifteen feet across and made of rough, hammered gold blanketed in centuries of scale and rust. Machinery growled behind the walls, which reeked of mildew and decay. The floor was etched with ancient, faded outlines. It depicted a ring of suns orbiting a many-winged figure with a cruel, jagged mouth. High on the walls were a dozen sculpted heads, eroded mehkan gargoyles with monstrous barbed teeth, all spaced evenly around the room.

  This was another relic of Kallorax.

  The walls were tall, but there was no ceiling. Above was a series of catwalks, a nest of intricate copper plumbing, and giant shining pumps and generators. This wasn’t a room, it was some sort of vat. Which meant that if she could climb these walls, she could escape.

  As Phoebe walked the perimeter, she noticed indentations that offered some traction, but not enough to support her weight. She felt her way along the solid surface, finding it scored with deep gouges, maybe scars left by the clawing desperation of some long-gone mehkans.

  The hatch screeched open behind her.

  Kaspar appeared. A brittle chill shook her. He carried a length of chain. With slow and deliberate steps, he stalked toward her, but she kept her distance, clinging to the walls.

  “What do you want?” she asked.

  “Mr. Goodwin requires your help.” He jangled the chain.

  “I already gave him my answer,” she said defiantly.

  A gray grin stretched his flaking lips. He jetted at her with blinding speed and knocked her to the ground. She rolled away and leaped to her feet before he could snare her. There was no point in fighting. Her only hope was escape.

  Kaspar pursued her like a patient predator.

  Phoebe hadn’t heard the door shut behind him, but she didn’t dare look lest she give her plan away. She feinted to the side, then sprang forward to make a break for the hatch. He wasn’t fooled for a second. Her fingers grazed the open door, but he snatched her by the hair. She flailed and screamed and tore desperately at his hands, grabbing hold of a long black glove. He hurled her to the ground again.

  Her body buzzed with pain. His glove peeled away.

  She lay dazed on her back. Kaspar grabbed one of her feet and dragged her like a rag doll to the center of the vat. He clapped a brace around her ankle, which emitted an electronic whir as it cinched tight. Then he latched the chain to the floor, securing it to a ring in the mouth of the carved figure.

  Phoebe sat up, trying to focus her eyes. It didn’t matter what he was about to do. She had to withstand, to endure. She would not give in.

  Just like her father.

  Kaspar leaned in and pulled his glove from her grasp.

  Then she saw his bare arm, and her resolve drained away. The limb was cadaverous, bloodless and pale as a dead fish. His flesh rippled and throbbed with muscle, laced with purple, wormlike veins. And yet it was not flesh at all. His arm was a latticework of pulsating pistons and sinewy gears, exposed mechanical musculature that churned and twisted. But it didn’t gleam like steel or any metal she could recognize—it was an organic mechanism that moved with sickening biological precision. She couldn’t tell where his skin stopped and the machine started because the two were seamlessly fused.

  “I am the first,” he proclaimed, his lips peeling back to reveal his rows of tiny, gray teeth. “Mr. Goodwin chose me. They put Mehk into my body. It invaded me, consumed me.” He paced slowly around her, the soft machinery of his arm parting and shifting with an awful sound like cracking knuckles. Kaspar saw her distress, and his grin slashed wider.

  “But I tamed it, conquered it. And it rebuilt me. The living metal ate my weakness. Now I am without the limits of man or machine. I am the Dyad.”

  Striking in a flash, he thundered his fist into the ground. She recoiled. His blow left a divot in the metal vat. Kaspar’s grin was savage, his quivering lips pulled white.

  “I gave myself to Mr. Goodwin and the Foundry. And I was reborn. That was my sacrifice.” He leaned in close to her. His straining lip split open, spilling a dark trickle of blood down his chin. “Now make yours.”

  His blood dribbled onto Phoebe’s skirt.

  Kaspar lingered, savoring the look of terror and disgust in her eyes. Then he rose to his full height and wiped his lip with the long black glove. He strode from the room, slammed the door, and locked it.

  Immediately, she grappled with the manacle on her ankle. It was Foundry technology—no way she could break it. No keyhole, so even if she had a hairpin in her sniping pockets, she couldn’t try to pick it. But it was secured around her boot. Maybe she could take it off and slip her foot out.

  There was a crystalline sound like a drizzle of rain, so faint that she wasn’t sure she even heard it. It took her a second to find the source. There was a trickle of water leaking from a sculpted mehkan head high on the wall. It cut a snaking rivulet to the floor. Then there was a squeal of metal, something shifting behind the walls, and a second head spat out a stream.

  A cold spike of certainty shot up Phoebe’s spine.

  She leaped into action, tearing at her laces with wild hands. A third head started to leak. Then five. And eight. The water sputtered and spilled onto the floor, puddles shimmering as they bloomed toward her.

  The water stopped all together. Silence. A low shudder beneath her feet.

  She fumbled with a knot, almost had her boot off.

  Her breath died in her throat. All at once, water exploded from the twelve heads above her, torrential blasts like open hydrants. The sound was deafening. Phoebe was bowled over by the deluge. She tried to get to her feet but slipped. There was nowhere to run from the churning flood. Frigid swells smashed down relentlessly. Debris spewed out from the pipes and battered her. Mehkan fingers. Joints and hinges. Fractured skulls thinned by eons of rust.

  The water rose to her knees. She coughed and spat, blinded by the vile spray. It was so cold that she felt her flesh go numb. Still it climbed. Her frantic breathing was shallow. The violent pool crept higher, eager to choke her, to douse her lungs and weigh her down. The water screamed in her ears, promising to swallow her into its icy, nightmare depths.

  The surge hit her thighs. She sloshed around in a panic.

  It reached h
er waist. Then her chest.

  Her shoulders.

  By the time it frothed around her neck, she was crippled by fear. The water buoyed her upward and she flailed, treading wildly to stay above the surface. The floor of the vat dropped away beneath her. Her vision swam with madness. Everything began to smear and run like an ink drawing in the rain. How long did she have before the chain pulled tight and she could float no higher? How long would she last after that?

  The torrent clawed into her mouth. Was that the bitter taste of seawater?

  No. No, it couldn’t be.

  She drifted up, closer to the snarling sculpted mehkans that spewed out the jets of dismal water. Footsteps clattered on the catwalk a few feet overhead.

  Goodwin. He chose this torture. He knew her fear.

  “Help! Please!” Phoebe shrieked, reaching out for him.

  The Foundry Chairman was devoid of emotion. He ignored her, speaking to the group of people he was with. She couldn’t make out his words over the snarl of water. As she rose, the others came into view. It was Kaspar and a pair of Watchman soldiers, dragging a figure whose head was hidden beneath a black hood. Kaspar tore the fabric away.

  “DADDY!”

  He was battered and bandaged. Their eyes met. His knees buckled as if the life was ripped right out of him. But Kaspar held him up, wrenched his hair, and forced him to look at his drowning daughter. His face contorted, his mouth parted, and out poured a wretched moan that she could barely hear.

  Her father sobbed. He was saying something to Goodwin. She wanted to insist that he not give in, that whatever he was hiding was more important than her life. He had endured too much to surrender now.

  But the fear won. She gargled an inarticulate shriek.

  The churning flood buried the gushing gargoyles, muffling their roar.

  The water continued to rise, forcing her ever higher.

  “Please!” her father cried. She could hear him now, hoarse and agonized.

  She thrashed, treading wildly.