The First Book of Ore: The Foundry's Edge (19 page)

  cold splash.

Water!

She coughed and sputtered. The trickle of water was heavenly in her ash-dry throat, even if it did have a slight metallic tinge. Drop by drop, she came back from the brink, and the world re-formed around her.

Phoebe cracked her eyes to see Micah pressing a steel canister to her lips. Dollop stood nervously beside him, together with Mr. Pynch, the Marquis, and a pack of curious sparkies. She took the container from him with shaking hands and drank greedily.

“Welcome back,” Micah said. His words were muffled by something in his mouth, but she couldn't make out what it was. She closed her eyes and drained the canister, shaking it even after she knew it was empty.

“Th-that was a close one,” Dollop said, and scooted away from a sparky who was eyeing him hungrily.

“More,” she rasped. “More.”

Micah chuckled and refilled her cup from a dented metal jug. She emptied the container again.

“All be wholesomated! Miss Phoebe prevails,” Mr. Pynch trumpeted. The Marquis extended his telescoping legs and rose above the crowd to offer a wave.

Phoebe looked warily at the two mehkans, unsure of how they had learned her name. She had been laid out on a pile of singed curtains in the corner. There was a jumble of toppled tables strewn with foul-smelling garbage. Gobs of food clung to shattered plates, black and crusted beyond recognition. The buffet counters were demolished, and a cracked punchbowl had left a dark red explosion all over the white silk. It was torture, staring at these rotten remnants of a feast. She turned to Micah and realized that he was chewing.

“Food!” She snatched the half-eaten ration bar from him.

“Hey! Watch it, Grabby.”

She gobbled it ravenously. It was vaguely peanut butter flavored, dry and crumbly. A couple months ago it might have been considered stale, but to Phoebe it was divine.

“W-we thought you had, um, g-g-gone to rust!” Dollop stammered. “A-a-are you feeling better?”

Phoebe nodded and smiled her thanks.

“Now don't get all fainty again when I show you this,” Micah teased. He gestured to a meager stack of beaten-up cans and a few packs of durable staples. Phoebe could barely believe her eyes. She snatched up the nearest can and ripped the lid off with shaking hands. Black beans—thankfully unspoiled. Taking in a huge gulp, she let the dark, salty juice saturate her mouth. The beans were creamy and soft, and though she tried to chew slowly and make them last, her body screamed for more. Micah joined her and opened a can.

“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 speciality.” 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.”