The First Book of Ore: The Foundry's Edge
Page 29
“We go,” commanded a clipped female voice.
The words were strange and fluttery, as if spoken through the blades of a fan. They came from a mehkan who held a convulsing Watchman soldier in her powerful grip. With a flash of her clacking arms, she slashed off the Foundry soldier’s head and dropped his sparking, spurting body onto the floor.
The mehkan was lean and vaguely humanoid, rising to a towering height as she approached. Instead of a solid mass, her body was made of countless interlocking ellipses, ticking pendulums, and spherical astrolabes in constant flux. Sliders on her limbs calibrated, and needle pointers worked through some inscrutable algorithm. The folding rings and planes of her anatomy were scythelike and razor sharp, her face incomprehensible—not because of the dark, but because it was all shifting blades and wheels, devoid of any recognizable features. The red lights in the floor passed through the adjusting gaps of her strange form and cast eerie, flickering shadows.
Affixed to her fluctuating chest was a dynamo, dark red like dried blood.
Understanding crashed hard upon Phoebe.
The Covenant was here. In the Citadel. They were saved.
“We are in your debt, Orei,” her father addressed the strange figure.
“No time,” the mehkan trilled low. Fleshy cords vibrated in Orei’s core where her throat should be, like plucked guitar strings. The twirling arcs of her body reached out to them, measuring and assessing something. “Weak, soft. Both of you,” she droned disdainfully. “Move.”
Orei vaulted into a sprint with the silent grace of a wolf. The rest of the pitch-black Covenant team raced after her. Rifle at the ready, Jules grabbed Phoebe’s hand and pulled her along behind. Watchman pieces lay scattered, limbs torn from torsos, heads crushed like eggshells. Phoebe had to be careful not to slip in the puddles of viscous Watchman gore.
They ran past the prison cells and rushed down the corridor. The Covenant team kept a tight formation around the two humans, and she could smell their hot iron breath as they hurried along in deadly silence. Phoebe heard a swish and looked up to see another mehkan above, gliding along with the group like a shadow, zigzagging across the walls.
Jules clutched his side and winced, seized by a sharp pain in his ribs. Phoebe held on to him.
“Are you okay?” she asked.
Orei reversed direction, inverting her body in midstride to run back to Jules. The ellipses of her body spun dangerously in the red light, her slides and pointers evaluating Phoebe and her father, judging. Calculating.
“Too slow,” she said venomously. “Move faster or die.”
Phoebe decided she didn’t like Orei, even if the Covenant commander had come to rescue them.
They hurried to the end of the hallway, where it intersected with another dim corridor. Phoebe startled as a mehkan appeared around the corner, scampering down the wall as if unaffected by gravity. The creature clung to the sheer surface like a gecko with what appeared to be magnetic paddle feet. It was all black, like the others, its lithe form clinking with sharp overlapping metal scales. The mehkan had a long pointed beak, and the back of its head flared out like a pickax. It scuttled around the corner and out of sight.
The team followed the gecko mehkan and came upon more brutalized Watchman soldiers, their bodies broken and scattered. The creature skittered down the wall, then stood on its hind legs beside a bulky companion. Phoebe’s blood went cold when she recognized the brute as a crane-claw mehkan, just like the one that had detained her in the Gauge Pit. One of the beast’s arms was riddled with Foundry bullets and petrified with white cement. But as soon as Orei appeared, the mehkan shrugged off his wounds and stood at attention.
This corridor was curved, winding out of sight on either side and making it impossible to see what might be coming. Everywhere was red darkness and silence, which meant the power had been cut throughout this entire area.
The Covenant had been thorough.
With Rattletrap orders from Orei, the team assembled in front of the hammered-steel elevator, which was propped open to reveal a yawning shaft. A blackened chraida emerged from the steel chute. Phoebe realized then that the mehkans weren’t pitch-black—they had camouflaged their bodies. The chraida unspooled cable from its chest to weave a ladder that led down the shaft.
The Covenant gathered around their escape route.
Escape…
“No!” she cried, planting her feet. “We can’t leave.”
The rest of the group spun to face her in confusion.
“Move,” ordered Orei, impatiently reaching for her.
Phoebe sidestepped the mehkan’s grip and backed away.
“I said NO! We have to save Micah,” she demanded, looking at the rest of the motley team. “And Dollop. He’s a mehkan, like you. We have to find them!”
Her eyes met her father’s, his glasses flashing red in the dim light. He clutched his injured side and nodded.
“She’s right,” he said. “I will not leave without them.”
In a blur, Orei grabbed Jules by the shirt. Her stiletto fingers tore holes in the filthy fabric as she yanked him close to the whirling rings of her face.
“We sealed an eighty-two-quadrit perimeter. Forty-seven enemy puppets trapped in lockdown, closing in. No time.” A slider on her chest tapped rapidly, and her swishing scythes blasted back the hair from his face.
“They must be close,” he said.
“Will not engage,” she growled. “Move, bleeder. Or Entakhai will carry.”
At the sound of his name, the wounded crane claw mehkan snapped his heavy fist closed with a clang. The other Covenant warriors tensed.
“You need me,” Jules shot back at her. “You only managed to infiltrate the Citadel because of my information. Defy me, force us to leave, and I will tell you nothing more.”
“We must save them,” Phoebe insisted, stepping beside him.
Orei thrust her lethal, bladed head inches from Jules and Phoebe. The Covenant commander’s measuring apparatus clicked and surveyed, clacking and stretching out from her body toward the humans to size them up.
They didn’t flinch. Phoebe squeezed her father’s hand.
Orei turned and barked insistent Rattletrap orders to her warriors. They responded instantly, fanning out to assume a battle formation. With a swish of cable, the chraida jetted up into the shadows above the deactivated lighting grid. Another ominous mehkan, who appeared to be draped in a cloak like the Grim Reaper, leaped up and careened off the walls toward the ceiling. As it bled into the darkness, Phoebe could see its undulating robe was a muscular membrane like that of the syllks, hiding a cluster of spring-loaded javelin legs.
The gecko mehkan slinked up to Orei, and its long beak splayed open like a pronged radar dish. It scanned its head and gurgled to the commander.
“Korluth has a signal. Must evacuate in minus sixteen ticks,” Orei’s voice reverberated harshly. Jules nodded and readied his humming Dervish rifle.
“Or what?” Phobe asked.
The Covenant commander seemed to turn her attention to Phoebe, though her featureless face of arcs and planes made it impossible to be sure.
“Or we all die when the Citadel falls.”
In the shadow of the great headless effigy of Kallorax, the control center buzzed like an angry hornet nest. Goodwin stood at the heart of it all, the axis around which every operation orbited. Engineers barraged him with analyses of system schematics. Technicians reported every development as they worked to restore the Omnicams and Dervish turrets in the affected areas. Watchman Coordinators updated him as they deployed and managed their military units.
Goodwin studied an illuminated map of the Citadel with his crystalline blue eyes. The three military executives surrounded him, arguing and shouting as they formulated a strategy. Kaspar stood nearby, rigidly at attention.
“And I’m saying t
hey sealed off four minor sectors on four different floors with no rhyme or reason,” one of the executives insisted as he pointed to the red highlighted specks scattered throughout the gigantic map. “Until we know their objective, there are no priorities. Retake all four at once.”
“It’s too random,” said another. “This attack feels desperate. Like they just disabled whatever they could manage.”
“I wouldn’t even call it an attack,” the first dismissed. “It’s sabotage, just a hack job. Our sensors detect no unidentified heat signatures in the affected areas. We’re chasing ghosts.”
“Then what’s that?” replied the third executive, pointing to a giant screen above them that flickered with incomprehensible footage, flashing shadows and gunfire. “That’s a Watchman unit optic feed in Sublevel-C. Who are they shooting at? And why are all eighteen units off line now?”
“Their targeting systems are buggy in the dark.”
“Don’t be naïve,” Goodwin said. “This is Plumm’s work. It is an invasion.”
The military executives considered the Chairman.
“They have circumvented our defenses. They have isolated specific areas and used our own security apparatus to lock us out.” Goodwin smiled wryly. “They are even masking their body heat to cloak their presence. Jules gave the Covenant everything they need, make no mistake.”
“To what end?” one asked. “Their incursion is aimless.”
“Decoys. To distract us from their target.”
A captain approached, shouldering his way through the barrage of messengers. He saluted the Chairman.
“The remaining Watchmen sealed in the detainment block are moving into tactical formation Delta-Five, sir.”
“How many total?” Goodwin asked without looking up from a memo.
“Forty-seven, sir.”
“Put the live feeds on display. I want active operator control of every unit. And I want those surrounding doors open. Mobilize the platoons.”
“We are still working to disengage the emergency locks, sir,” the captain explained. Goodwin looked at him. “The enemy has overridden those circuits. It will take another—”
“Retake the sector. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir. What about the captives?”
“Expendable. I have what I need. No one escapes.”
A grin slashed across Kaspar’s lips as the captain marched away.
“All this just to rescue Plumm?” an executive mused.
“Hardly. He’s only half of it,” Goodwin muttered and pointed to the map.
“Level Three?” one of the pin-striped men scoffed.
“If any of these are decoys, it’s Three,” said another. “Offices, nothing more.”
“And through a couple of walls?” the Chairman said, sliding his finger slowly across the building schematic. They looked at Goodwin in unison.
“The Armory?”
“Impossible. It’s too well fortified.”
“Are you certain?” Goodwin asked. “With everything Plumm knows?
“It’s the only target worth this effort,” another said.
They nodded. It was unanimous. Time was of the essence. The military executives broke from their huddle and began to bark orders at their subordinates. Goodwin supervised the Foundry in motion, as perfectly polished a machine as they were ever likely to create.
“All units on Level Three,” came a voice over the intercom. “Take up defensive positions around the Armory immediately. Repeat, take up defensive positions around the Armory.”
The giant screen lit up with a grid of flickering windows, each displaying a live feed from the optical sensors of a single Watchman. The military executives relayed orders to coordinators, who were manually issuing commands to the automated Foundry soldiers.
“I will see to Plumm,” Kaspar growled.
Goodwin turned to him. “No. I need you at the Armory. Organize the defenses there and hold off the Covenant.”
“But the intruders are below.”
“They are not my concern. The real threat is above.”
“Get your sheep to supervise that. I want Plumm.”
“I said no.” Goodwin’s baritone rang out, and his icy eyes glared. Nearby Foundry workers turned to look. “Plumm is no longer your concern.”
Kaspar gritted his teeth and clenched his gloved fists.
“You said I could have him when the time came.”
“Do as you are told,” the Chairman commanded.
Their eyes locked.
“Do it!” Goodwin snapped.
A hush descended on the command center. The grotesque soldier bowed his head and departed. Goodwin turned his attention back to the monitors.
Kaspar marched stiffly away from Goodwin. He loomed over the urgent rush of Foundry workers and cut through the pesky flood. Throwing open a pair of reinforced platinum doors, he strode down a reflective, brightly lit hallway toward the bank of elevators. Other employees made way for him, staring and yet trying so hard not to stare.
He hit the call button hard enough to crack it. Kaspar looked at his hand, pulsing, bulging beneath his glove. The other workers waiting for the elevators backed away. The car dinged, and he stormed inside.
As soon as the doors closed, Kaspar unleashed his wrath. He pulverized the walls with a whirlwind of crushing blows, denting and rending. He threw crashing kicks and butted wildly with his head, crumpling the elevator car. Everyone in the hall could surely hear, but he didn’t care.
The rage was in control. He was just a vessel.
But the fit soon passed. He stood there, panting and flexing his hands, feeling the colossal swell of living machinery within him subside.
He looked at the panel of buttons.
Kaspar made his choice.
ollop knew he should be thankful. His death would be mercifully quick.
The giant suspended containers chugged along their cables toward Kallorax’s furnace. Their bases were hinged on one side, and they crashed open, spilling out refuse like beasts being disemboweled. The crater below devoured the scrap hungrily, erupting in searing splashes that fragmented into galaxies of molten, glowing droplets. The emptied bins then closed and clattered backward to be filled up once more.
The grate that he clung to at the base of the container grew hot as he approached the flames. The stifling, sulfuric air stung his insides.
Dollop wept. In a mere tick, he would be snuffed out. This was the end. The gears of fate had brought him here. It was Makina’s will, and at long last, he would return to Her.
Wasn’t that worth the brief moments of unbearable pain?
He searched his fractured mind for anything that might give him courage. At the housing of the Waybound where he had been raised, the axials used to praise the final moments of the Ona, holy prophet of the Great Engineer killed by CHAR four hundred phases ago. It was said that she embraced death unflinchingly, and that her ember blazed brightest of all. That is how he wanted to depart the ore—fearless, faithful, and content. He racked his memory for the Ona’s final words.
The Waybound called it “The Martyr’s Prayer.”
“O M-M-Mother of Ore, return my ember to Thy bosom, embr-r-race me in Thy Forge,” Dollop chanted in Rattletrap. “I—I commend my span to Thee, for Thou art the Creator of the sacred machine, and only You can fathom its gears.”
Dollop’s tears spilled through the drain. He longed for his dynamo, but his precious symbol was lost in the scrap.
“I—I—I am blind in your presence, O Everseer, and—and in Thy infinite and infallible plan, my f-function is at an end.” Dollop coughed against the rising heat. “Um, l-lead me gently beyond the Sh-Shroud.”
The Ona had not feared death. She had met it with the same serenity in which she had lived. Of course, she was a vital component and di
ed knowing Makina would welcome her with open arms. Dollop would not have the same fate. Still, invoking her sublime name gave him strength.
Though not enough to keep him from trembling.
“May You deem me w-w-worthy to interlock with Thee, O Divine D-D-Dynamo,” he yelled over the raging flames, “and may You welcome my-my ember with infinite l-love so that I may blaze with Thee eternally ev-v-ver after.”
CRASH!
Another container slammed open up just ahead, jolting him from his reverie as it emptied into the furnace. The air was sweltering, unbearable. Nearly there now. His liquefied body would blend with the scrap. He would be reunited with his beloved dynamo within the flames, oozing together down the molten streams for Watchman workers to attend to.
Dollop shook violently, disturbing the precarious pile of refuse above him. It shifted and fell, squashing him hard against the hot grate. His hand tore down the middle, fingers passing through gaps in the mesh.
He screamed. Desperate panic sundered him. He wasn’t going to die in a sudden scorching burst—he was going to melt slowly, agonizingly, before he even got to the furnace. It had already begun.
Then, all of a sudden, he quieted.
There was no pain. That was curious. The two halves of his hand wiggled outside of the bin. A strange new sensation tingled within him. The pieces of his body were speaking in unison, a chorus of life, and he heard every note distinctly. A dawning realization washed over Dollop. He was suddenly conscious of the many connections in his anatomy, ones he had never known or perhaps had long forgotten, all held together with a powerful, intangible energy.
He rammed his other hand against the drain, and it too split open, pieces parting to pass through the narrow holes. Concentrating, he willed his hands to detach from his wrists. They wriggled through the opening, fingers shifting and swapping places to cling to the grate. Outside the container.
Could it be?
A second ago, he had been preparing to die. Now Makina was showing him the way. He had been wrong all along, seeing it backward for his entire span. He was used to falling apart, his slipshod body always separating at the worst time. But it was not a curse, not a weakness. It was a talent. A blessing.