The First Book of Ore: The Foundry's Edge (24 page)

hoebe's first hint they were making progress was the needle-like chill that cut through her coveralls. She huddled on the floor of the passenger bucket, bundled up in her hood and face mask, but it didn't help. Gusts of wind moaned, making the ride more turbulent and further agitating her anxious stomach. She clutched her head in her hands, praying for land.

The buzz of the vellikran's tail and the rhythmic thrash of the river merged into a muddled drone. She let the noise lull her into a trance, neither awake nor asleep. Time felt like a snake shedding its skin, and the slithering seconds and hours slowly peeled away.

And then, at long last, they came to a shuddering stop.

There was some conversation, and the foil satchel rustled behind her. A hand gently touched her shoulder.

“Ph-Ph-Phoebe?” came Dollop's voice. “Um, we're here.”

She didn't respond. There was a clink of chains, a crank of gears, and the panels of the passenger bucket dropped away. The biting wind forced her from her stupor like a cold pinch. She dropped from the bucket and hit the ground, her legs numb from being cooped up. Ignoring the others, she shouldered the rucksack and climbed the steep shore toward a gunmetal-blue mountain range that disappeared into brooding clouds.

Phoebe took a few deep breaths, letting the tension and nausea of the last several hours seep away. The thought of climbing into these mountains was daunting, but anything was better than the river. Behind her, she heard the others come ashore. The vellikran emitted a chirrup, and its fantail whizzed as it skidded along the river and headed home.

“What the heckles is that?” Micah's voice was awestruck.

Alarmed by his tone, she risked a glance across the Ettalye. A pall clung to the distant horizon, a black umbrella hanging over the land like a cloud of spilled ink. The terrain beneath it was a sunken crater, as if everything trapped in the shadow of this lingering blackness had been eaten away. Obliterated.

“CHAR,” rumbled Mr. Pynch. “Devours any ore it touches. One of the Foundry's more ignominious practices. That particular blight be nearly four hundred phases old, and thrice as big as the day it was dropped.”

“M-M-Makina help us,” Dollop moaned, a hand placed over his dynamo.

“Would that She could. Interminable it be and ever expanding. The cycle will come when this one consumes the Ettalye herself. Best not to speak of it.”

Mr. Pynch turned away with a shudder, and the others followed. But Phoebe couldn't tear her eyes from the blight. She felt a clutching in her chest. How many of these ravenous black cancers had the Foundry inflicted upon Mehk?

She hung back, hiding behind her hood and face mask, as they rounded the steep banded shore and took in the stormy peaks ahead.

“There they be,” Mr. Pynch trumpeted, trying to lighten the mood. “Giants of fanciful legend, fabled in story and song. The final gamut of this cycle's sojourn—the Vo-Pykaron Mountain Range.”

“B-b-b-beautiful…” Dollop said with wonder.

“Must be gettin' close,” Micah said, glancing at Phoebe.

“To be certain, Master Micah. With any fortune, we'll outpace the rain and arrive at Sen Ta'rine in a click or two. Then, following a safe and secure recharge, we shall commence to the Citadel after rise.”

“I wouldn't say no to a good night's sleep,” he replied.

“You'll adore Sen Ta'rine! A plethora of trade. We can easily obtain whatever digestibles yer innards desire. As for meself,” the fat mehkan buzzed, sliding a black tongue across his glinting chops, “there be a cracklin' slab of roasted flugul with me name on it.”

Mr. Pynch marched ahead, followed by Dollop and the Marquis, who strapped on the oversized foil satchel and slid a lens in front of his opticle to inspect the sky. Micah lingered for Phoebe to walk past.

“What's up, Spaceman?” he said, pointing to her hood and face mask. “You just gonna pout the rest of the way?” She ignored him.

They hiked into the foothills, which were spotted with low growths the same blue-gray as the mountains. As they walked, the protrusions became taller and more frequent. They were monochromatic, though some were darker or more vibrant blue, and others speckled in silver or gold polyps. Phoebe observed their variety—there were swollen sausage shapes covered in tubelike spouts, clusters of rigid cones, and others like tangled, sinewy nets.

“Now where be that obstinate trail?” Mr. Pynch wondered as he bent over to sniff the ground. The Marquis made himself taller to scan the landscape.

“You don't know where it is?” Micah asked.

“Well, Master Micah, it can't exactly be pinpointed as such,” replied Mr. Pynch patiently. “For it never quite resides in the same place twice.”

“The trail…moves?”

As they proceeded, the vegetation fused and blanketed the ground, coalescing into bundled stalks that braided to form pillars a dozen feet wide. These joined in a vast network of columns and arches that rose up to create the mighty mountains. The Vo-Pykarons were alive, like pyramids of metallic coral reef.

But the image of CHAR lingered in Phoebe's eyes. She imagined it spreading, creeping across the river and devouring this lush landscape.

“Aha!” Mr. Pynch tugged at a tangle of pale blue tendrils. The growths recoiled to reveal a path that led up one of the giant stalks. “We be in business.”

Bitter wind swirled around them as they began their ascent, and dark clouds cloaked the afternoon suns. Their progress was made even more difficult by the restless growths, whose shifting movements made it hard to get a foothold, sometimes clinging to them as they passed.

Phoebe strayed so far from the others that she looked up after a momentary reverie to find them gone. At first, she was alarmed, but instead of trying to catch up, she stopped in the middle of the path to absorb the silence and majesty of the mountains around her. It felt like she had been abandoned on a stormy blue moon, the sole visitor on an unforgiving world.

After the brief solitary moment, she trotted ahead until she found the group around a bend in the trail. They hadn't even noticed she was gone. The Marquis was jumpy, his lenses swapping methodically as he inspected the sky. She looked up and realized that these were not regular clouds of condensation, but opaque conglomerations of ore clinging to the sky like scabs. A low rumble rolled out, and the rugged clouds resonated like gargantuan metal cymbals. The Marquis flickered an urgent message and opened his Durall umbrella.

“I fear you be right,” said Mr. Pynch. “I had aspired to avoid any inclement weather, but it appears the Vo-Pykarons do not sympathize. Master Micah, I must advise that you muster up that hood of yers so—”

A piercing howl split the air.

They froze in their tracks. Mr. Pynch and the Marquis dropped to a crouch and crept through the azure brush for a look, and the others followed.

Phoebe saw a broad valley dipping between the peaks. Flares crackled in the shadowy recesses formed by the pillars of an adjacent mountain. Another monstrous shriek erupted as a truck surrounded by Watchmen backed out of the darkness. It was being driven toward a gathering of identical vehicles in the valley, about twenty of them parked around a black platform. The trucks were familiar, their cargo beds covered in overlapping steel plates.

No—these were not vehicles. They were mehkans. The twenty-ton beasts were armored in heavy, segmented carapaces like the plates of an armadillo, and they glided across the rugged ground on tank-tread feet.

Hard-hatted Watchmen workers were mounted on what looked like Cyclewynders. Popular back in Meridian, these vehicles were sleek and agile with a row of sharp wheels down the center and long flexible bodies that could negotiate hairpin turns. The Watchmen jabbed at the bellowing mehkan with crackling electric prods affixed to their bikes. The creature stomped and bucked, but the attacks were too numerous.

Phoebe wanted to scream. Wanted to vomit. Wanted to tear the Watchmen apart with her bare hands.

“P-p-poor liodim,” warbled Dollop, covering his face.

Soon the battling mehkan quieted, and the Watchmen drew back. Slowly, it turned to join its brethren, as if the fight within it had been snuffed out.

“Why they just sittin' there?” Micah hissed. “What's wrong with 'em?”

“Mesmerizer,” whispered Mr. Pynch. “They be enslaved by its sound.”

At first, all Phoebe could hear was the burr of Cyclewynders.
But beneath that was a drone coming from the platform in the middle of the pacified herd.

More cries rang out. A pair of small liodim tottered out from another recess. Howling, the cubs raced toward their herd. Watchmen closed in.

What are you doing?
she thought fiercely.
Run. Please run!

The Foundry workers lunged at them with crackling prods, but the little ones proved more agile than their parents and dodged the electric barbs. So the Watchmen raced across the cubs' path. The Cyclewynders confused the baby liodim, causing them to panic and stumble and roll onto their backs. They lay defenseless, kicking their stubby legs in the air.

The bikes bore down on the helpless young.

She didn't want to look. Yet she felt compelled by an invisible force. She stared, unflinching, at the Foundry's brutality.

The Watchmen ran them over. The choking shrieks of agony tore her apart. The cubs tried to run but only managed to drag their injured bodies a few feet before the Cyclewynders plowed into them a second time. Again and again, the Watchmen sliced the baby liodim, until their pitiful, gurgling cries faded and nothing was left. Their butchery complete, the Watchmen sped off into the open network of giant stalks beneath the next mountain.

As the cubs died, so too did something within Phoebe.

“Come,” Mr. Pynch muttered to his stunned companions. “Nothing we can do.” He got to his feet and began to follow the path once more. The others shuffled behind him, turning their backs on the scene.

No.

That voice again, the one she had heard in the tunnel. The same voice that had summoned her into Mehk. The cries of the baby liodim mingled with those of the murdered chraida. She thought of the ruins of Fuselage, the terror on the syllks' faces, the black plague of CHAR eating away at this world.

She thought of the Foundry. Of her father.

Was she the same as him?

No.

A fire ignited. It grew intense and focused, tempering her mind like metal in a forge. Phoebe knew what she had to do.

“No.”

The others stopped in their tracks and turned. She pulled back the face mask of her coveralls and stared at them. Her expression was iron.

“Pardon?” asked Mr. Pynch.

“I'm going down there,” she said. “I'm going to stop this.”

The Marquis flickered a message to Mr. Pynch, whose nozzle spun so fast it made a little whistling sound.

“What? Are you nuts?” Micah goggled.

“No.”

“This is just another one of her stunts.” He rolled his eyes to the others.

“B-but they'll k-k-k-kill you,” whimpered Dollop.

“Miss Phoebe. Please auscultate yer friends' wisdom.” Mr. Pynch smiled, his hands clasped together. “An attempt to engage here be a fool's errand.”

“Don't be stupid,” added Micah. “What about the Citadel?”

“This is more important.”

“Bullcrap! Not after everything we been through.”

“This is
because
of everything we've been through.”

Micah went quiet.

“I'm not asking you to come,” she said. “But I'm going.”

“B-b-but what about your, um, clan? Your f-f-father?”

“I…” She paused for a moment, a crack in her resolve. She ached for her father's embrace. His voice. She clenched her jaw. “I can save the liodim. I don't know about him.”

Mr. Pynch's smile vanished. “Yer passions be rousinating, dear heart, truly they be. None has more compunction for the plight of the liodim than meself. But simply put, this fight cannot be won. Surely you comprehend. To oppose the Foundry be a grievous blunder.”