Blaze of Embers

by Cam Baity

  “My apologies for the intrusion,” Goodwin said. “But the dire nature of our circumstances required it.”

  “Dire? Let’s not be overly dramatic, James.”

  “You’re out of your minds.” Phoebe finally found her voice. “Do you have any idea what’s going on out there?”

  “Nevertheless,” Goodwin went on, “I thought it best to seek you out directly.”

  “Of course. You bring a precious gift,” said another of the Board members. It wasn’t until Phoebe heard the voice that she registered the shriveled creature was a woman.

  “Come forward, child,” said a third voice.

  The cords at Phoebe’s throat constricted. Was that fear or another bout of exhaustion? She strode forth all the same.

  “None of you understand,” Phoebe said.

  “Don’t we?” asked the first Board member, amused.

  “Mehk has come to pay us back for everything you did to them. While you’re hiding down here, safe and sound, people up there are dying. Our people! All because of you!”

  The Board shared a dry chuckle.

  “She has spirit, doesn’t she, James?”

  The Chairman showed no reaction.

  “Did you hear what I said?” Phoebe stormed toward the closest Board member, but the hydraulic arms attached to his wheelchair whipped at her, metal claws snapping.

  “Uh-uh-uh,” the Board member warned.

  “You’ve lost, and you don’t even know it,” Phoebe said through gritted teeth. “The Foundry is gone.”

  “Nonsense. WE are the Foundry. The rest can be built anew.”

  “They’re going to burn Meridian to the ground!”

  “Meridian is not our concern.”

  Phoebe was speechless.

  “Our sole responsibility is to the Foundry,” said the first man.

  “Growth and profit. Nothing else matters.”

  “Cities. Countries. Worlds. These are merely concepts.”

  “Building a better and brighter future,” Goodwin added, his voice distant.

  “The Foundry is immutable.” The members of the Board swept closer to Phoebe. “And thanks to you, we will be eternal.”

  Their hydraulic arms extended toward her, grasping for the seed at her throat. She stepped back and bumped into Goodwin.

  “Our current technology can merely extend old age.”

  “But with your discovery, we will conquer death itself!”

  Emotion flickered on their ancient, skull-like faces. Hunger. Desire.

  Phoebe kept her focus. She had to find a way. “It’s not too late,” she said. “There’s only one thing that can stop this. The Ona has called for the leaders of the Foundry.”

  Still, the members of the Board drifted closer.

  “Come with me,” Phoebe pleaded. “We can end this.”

  “This is the fulfillment of humanity’s oldest dream.”

  “Our deepest, darkest fear…eradicated.”

  “No more loss. No more mourning.”

  “No more limits.”

  “The Foundry’s greatest gift to the world: a second life.”

  “For those who can afford it, of course.”

  “You can’t do this,” Phoebe said. “Please!”

  The wheelchair devices closed in, hydraulic claws reaching for her. She tried to run back to the entrance, but the path was closed. Phoebe dashed to the side, but a Board member glided before her with surprising speed, blocking her escape.

  “Tell us about this miracle, James. Tell us everything.”

  “You shall have one too, of course.”

  “Enough for us all.”

  “No.”

  It was the Chairman who spoke.

  The Board halted. Phoebe looked at Goodwin. His ice-blue eyes were a brewing storm beneath his heavy white brows.

  “You will have nothing,” he stated with finality.

  “Watch yourself,” one of them warned.

  “I have done a great deal over the course of my tenure at the Foundry,” Goodwin intoned. “Much of it I am proud of. Some I am not. Yet I could always justify my actions because it was all done for the good of my country.”

  The Board watched Goodwin with rheumy eyes.

  “The Quorum did not start this war.” His voice was thick as molten iron. “They did not attack the Crest of Dawn or kill President Saltern.”

  Phoebe barely breathed.

  “It was you.”

  “Mom, I can hardly hear you!” Margaret shouted, covering one ear and pressing the receiver tightly against the other. It was impossible to talk over the chaos surrounding the Dialset booth.

  “I said we’re okay. Randy’s with me,” hollered Deirdre Tanner on the other end.

  “Stay put,” replied Margaret. “Keep the Televiewer on in case there are any mandatory evacuations.”

  “Evacuations? Good god, Margie, what on earth is going on?”

  “I wish I knew. Gotta go. Love you.”

  “Wait! When are you coming home?”

  Margaret hung up the Dialset and dashed from the booth.

  Outside, Albright City felt like a war zone. The military presence was unlike anything she had ever seen, with streets blocked off to accommodate tanks, airspace cleared to allow Gyrojets to dominate the night sky, and platoons of soldiers forming a protective cordon. Thousands of civilians packed every sidewalk, rooftop, and building window to get a front-row seat for the end of the world. Armies of Televiewer news crews rivaled the military itself. Their Omnicam drones hovered, recording everything from the terrified masses to the unfathomable sight of Foundry Central in ruins.

  And looming above it all was that monumental figure of glowing clouds, standing silently. Waiting. No one knew why it had stopped its rampage.

  Margaret had tried on multiple occasions to report for duty, but the Meridian Army had strict urban defense tactics and did not welcome the Foundry’s participation, so she had been turned away. She knew she needed to do something. But what?

  A fleet of Gyrojets banked overhead and shot out across the bay in formation. It was an odd, abrupt procedure, and to Margaret’s trained eye, it didn’t bode well.

  She slipped through a mass of gawkers on Bayside Avenue, making her way to a military checkpoint where she hoped to be assigned an official detail.

  “—reports confirm that several dozen employees were, in fact, captured alive and subsequently released.”

  A man on the street was watching a news report on his handheld Scrollbar device, and people clustered around to see. The screen showed an Aero-copter spotlight shining on a handful of people fleeing across the bridge that led from Foundry Central.

  “These fortunate few were given an ominous message by the invaders,” the commentator said. The newscast cut to a terrified-looking woman in a blanket.

  “They said, ‘Bring us the masters of the Foundry,’” explained the traumatized survivor. “‘If they’re not here by daybreak, you shall know the wrath of Makina.’”

  “The public response has been immediate,” the commentator said, as the screen cut to footage of demonstrations outside the mansions of Foundry executives. Angry people threw rocks and tried to scale the walls to force the higher-ups into action.

  Margaret looked down at her Foundry Military Division uniform and hoped that it didn’t draw too much attention.

  “Emergency medical teams have reported seventeen injuries as a result of these riots so far and—Hold on. I’m getting some breaking news.” An image of Foundry Bay appeared with a scattering of lights spread across the glittering horizon. “An armada of naval vessels has been spotted moving toward Foundry Bay. We have not yet been able to identify them—”

  Margie thought of the withdrawal orders issued in the Cube before the Foundry was attacked. Were these Meridian’s ships, returning to defeat this new enemy?

  She pushed through the ocean of people and climbed up on a steel military barricade to gaze out at the bay and see for herself. There they wer
e, a fleet just cresting the horizon, hundreds of vessels racing into Meridian’s waters.

  A chill crept up her back.

  She recognized their formation—a Pinnacle Maneuver. She had seen it a hundred times from her office window overlooking the naval yard—in Trelaine.

  The Quorum had come to Albright City.

  Micah paced back and forth in the white corridor, hands snapping into fists again and again. Everywhere he went, the turrets followed. Furious, he let loose a barrage of kicks on the hidden door, but all he got out of it was a few stubbed toes.

  “Nothing, not a whit,” Mr. Pynch reported. He and the Marquis had just completed their third top-to-bottom scan of the empty white hallway and come up empty-handed.

  Mr. Pynch slumped to the ground, deflated and defeated. The Marquis fidgeted restlessly. He plucked out a soiled handkerchief and rubbed at his ruined tuxedo in vain. Fritz was distracted, as usual, poking his fingers into the bullet holes in the walls made by the Board’s warning shots.

  “How long they been in there?” Micah asked.

  “A few meager ticks,” Mr. Pynch sighed.

  “Well, in one more, we’re gonna break down that door.”

  The Marquis blinked a dim message.

  “I concur with me associate,” Mr. Pynch grumbled. “Best scenario, that be utterly impossible. Worst, it be suicidery.”

  Micah ran his fingers through his hair and glared at the ceiling-mounted gun.

  “If you hurt her,” he screamed to whoever might be listening, “I swear I’ll…I’ll…”

  But of course there was nothing he could do, and he knew it.

  It was Rust Risen all over again.

  That helpless feeling was creeping in. Like he couldn’t breathe. He tried to fight it off, but it was as pointless as trying to kick down that foot-thick steel door.

  Micah screamed. The others looked up at him. He tried to scream at the fear, chase it away, but he just ended up sinking to the floor with his head in his hands. Crying. Concerned, Fritz approached Micah and reached out his sparking hand to comfort the boy, but caught himself and used his good one instead. Micah looked up at Fritz, hoping that maybe the Watchman had stumbled on some kind of solution.

  But there was nothing. Just that vacant mask of a face and a gentle pat on the back. Fritz leaned closer to Micah, confused. He raised a gloved finger to the boy’s cheek.

  Gingerly, Fritz touched his tear as if it were priceless.

  Phoebe was surrounded. The Board’s silence was acid as they adjusted their gliding wheelchair devices to face Goodwin.

  “F-20 Bloodtalon missiles are designated strictly for Meridian and the Foundry,” the Chairman said. “Because they have never been included in any of our international trade agreements, Bloodtalons could not have legally found their way into the hands of our enemies.”

  The Board remained expressionless.

  “So I investigated the Air Brigade arsenal to see if any had gone missing due to foreign sabotage,” Goodwin went on. “Every serial number was accounted for—of our known stockpile.” He circled the Board members. “You had unmarked Bloodtalons manufactured in secret. You used them to stage an attack on home soil. You assassinated the President and committed treason in order to incite a global conflict.”

  Goodwin took hold of Phoebe’s elbow and led her away from the Board. This time she did not cringe from his touch. The Chairman had baited the Board with promises of the seed, only to deceive them. He had no intention of handing her over.

  The five ancient heads of the Foundry stared passively.

  “And what of it?”

  “I slaved my whole life to avoid another Alloy War,” Goodwin said, his voice rising with passion. “On behalf of my homeland and the Foundry. Not only because I knew the horrors it would entail, but because I believed that war was bad for business.”

  “You were wrong,” said one of the Board members simply. “War is fear. Fear sells weapons—Foundry weapons.”

  “And the Foundry keeps ammunition flowing,” added another. “To all sides.”

  “Then, after the destruction,” explained a third, “life goes on. Reconstruction.”

  “More opportunity for the Foundry.”

  “But President Saltern, his family,” Phoebe cried, unable to take it any longer. “You killed them. You killed all of them!”

  “What is a president?” a Board member mused.

  “A pyramid of power can have but one apex.”

  “The rest are bricks and mortar. Materials to use or discard.”

  “The cost of doing business is not murder,” Goodwin stated.

  “What would the directors have to say about that, James?”

  The Chairman squared his jaw.

  “All those lives,” Phoebe grieved. “All those innocent people.”

  “A numbers game, nothing more.”

  “Gains and losses.”

  “This…” Phoebe said in a threatening tone, taking a step toward the Board. “This is why Makina has come for you.”

  “Yet we will never be found.”

  “Nor will you or your friends,” another added. The threat hung in the air like CHAR.

  “Without us, eternal life will remain forever out of your grasp,” Goodwin growled.

  “Nothing is out of our grasp. Surely you know that by now.”

  “Even as we speak, our plans are in place.”

  “The Foundry still has many resources remaining in Mehk. Many devoted employees who stand ready to do all we ask.”

  Slowly, the five wheelchairs drifted forward.

  “James, we know your locations before and after your disappearance,” a member of the Board said. “It was simple to triangulate the position of this discovery.”

  “The fruit of life is ripe, and when better to pluck it than while the creatures are preoccupied with Albright City.”

  “You make me sick,” Phoebe spat.

  “Yet taking it will gain you nothing. The mehkans cannot be stopped,” Goodwin countered. “Your time is at an end.”

  “Time…” mused one.

  “We have been trying to stave it off for decades.”

  “For centuries, some of us.”

  “Yet no matter how much we have resisted it, no matter how we have innovated to keep it at bay,” a member of the Board said, stretching elegant mechanical arms to illustrate the point, “still it has always threatened to turn us to dust.”

  “But not anymore. Not with this.”

  “Now even death cannot impede our progress.”

  “Our time is not at an end.”

  “For us, there will be no end.”

  Before Phoebe could react, a claw shot out to snatch her arm. Flung her to the ground. She fought, tried to roll away. Goodwin rushed to help her, stumbling as his wounded leg gave way. Mechanical arms grabbed her ankles. The Board dragged her across the chamber, kicking and screaming. Their wheelchairs surrounded her.

  A curved glass wall dropped from the ceiling like a guillotine. The Chairman lurched back to avoid being crushed. The thick glass barrier divided the room, him on one side, and the Board with Phoebe on the other.

  Turrets hissed down from the ceiling. Goodwin crawled away. The barrels spun and opened fire. He collapsed behind a large bank of Computators and medical equipment just as bullets screamed against his shelter.

  Claws tore at Phoebe. She ripped one away, only to have two clamp down in its place. She tugged at the cold metal, but they were too strong, squeezing so hard she thought they might crush her collarbone. The Board’s milky eyes gleamed hungrily.

  Phoebe thrashed, grasped for something, anything. Saw the blue conduit connecting the wheelchairs, went for it. The members of the Board yanked her out of reach. She kicked at them. Snagged her foot on a tube, pulled hard. Warm fluid pulsed from it, and a claw retracted. The Board member wheezed for breath. The mechanisms on his damaged wheelchair leapt into action, repairing the damage.

  The other Board members grabb
ed her wild legs. They pinned her to the ground with dozens of claws. Arms wide, legs spread-eagled. She flailed. Couldn’t move an inch. Released an animal scream. She looked over and caught Goodwin’s eyes. He was trapped behind machinery that was being riddled with bullets, fragmented by the onslaught. It was only a matter of time before the rounds started pounding through.

  They were going to die in here, together.

  A mechanical arm clamped down on her hair. Wrenched her head back. Another claw tugged her collar aside. The seed in Phoebe’s throat was exposed. She could see its light reflected in their eyes.

  “Take it!”

  “Our miracle!”

  Claws grabbed the seed. It crackled with sparks. A spasm of heat forked through Phoebe’s body. But the members of the Board didn’t relent. They pulled.

  Breath came in a rapid flurry. Her eyes rolled. They were trying to tear the seed from her skin. But the cords laced through her body contracted. Clinging to her bones. Squeezing her organs. Inhuman sounds poured from Phoebe’s open mouth.

  Mechanical arms pulled. Her body was aflame.

  She felt something pop deep within her torso.

  They were stealing her second chance.

  Ripping her life away.

  Then all went—

  White.

  The seed reacted.

  As metal claws tried to rip the glowing ore from her throat, it detonated. Sparking fire surged out from her body. Snakes of yellow lightning arced. A bitter smell assaulted her nostrils, black and burning.

  The Board.

  They jerked violently in their chairs, thrashing from side to side. Teeth clacked, skin sizzled. Clipped, distorted noises screeched from their speakers—horrific sounds, worse than human screams. Electricity danced through the blue conduit that connected all five of their bodies in a brilliant, lethal chain. Their hollow faces glowed red, like shriveled jack-o’-lanterns.

  The lights went out with a pop. Equipment exploded with loud bangs, sending up puffs of white smoke. One by one, the metal claws grasping Phoebe released. The Board’s hydraulic arms fell loosely at the sides of the scorched wheelchairs, twitching.

  The seed fizzled, went cold. Phoebe fell limp. The room was a dark swirl. She couldn’t feel her limbs. Her vision was dimming, thickening with a heavy gray haze. Everything was dissolving to nothingness.