The First Book of Ore: The Foundry's Edge (30 page)

“It almost sounds like you care,” Phoebe remarked.

“He's just thinkin' 'bout money,” spat Micah through a mouthful of food.

“In a sense, you are both right. I care deeply for this world. The majesty of Mehk is undeniable. Its staggering biodiversity is the sole reason you and I have enjoyed so many technological breakthroughs in our lifetimes. And yet, I also believe wholeheartedly in the Foundry's vision. Both can be true.”

“But Mehk is dying,” Phoebe countered. “What you're doing is killing it.”

“Please don't be melodramatic. Do you not see that our success depends on the preservation of this world? We have nearly doubled our average life expectancy over the last century. We have changed the way cities are built, even pioneered augmented robotics,” Goodwin said, gesturing to the silent Watchmen attending their supper. “All because of Mehk. Far from killing it, we want it to thrive so that we may continue to discover its secrets.”

He leaned over the table, his excited eyes shining.

“Did you know that certain kinds of microscopic mehkan bacteria can traverse through solid matter? There are indications of ore found in deep-sea vents that can burn with a heat that never wanes. I have even heard rumors of rare mehkans that have the capacity to reanimate dead tissue. What amazing advancements for the human race! Can you imagine a world where these things are made available to you and me? Well, I can. And it is beautiful.”

“And what about CHAR?” she asked, her mask slipping.

“I am talking about the future, and once again you dwell on the past,” Goodwin sighed. He pushed back from the table and strode to the fireplace, stirring the logs with a bronze poker. “Albright devised CHAR to conquer Mehk long ago, and he implemented it with no thought to its long-term impact. It was disgraceful, unforgivable. Who can fathom what wonders were destroyed, what innovations humanity may never see because of his folly?”

The fire surged, causing Goodwin's face to glow.

“But times have changed. I established an entire department devoted to reversing the effects of CHAR. Our finest chemists are working on the problem, and we have made some notable progress. It is my duty as Chairman of the Foundry to end that kind of wanton destruction once and for all.”

“Quit actin' like you don't wanna kill 'em!” Micah spat.

“How is your supper?” Goodwin asked.

Micah shoveled the rest of the meat into his mouth and chewed with his mouth open, hoping to disgust their host.

“That food you are enjoying comes from a cow—a living thing. It was raised on a farm, probably in Sodowa. It lived for a number of years, then died for your consumption. And yet that fact does not seem to trouble you in the slightest. How are mehkans any different?”

“
'Cause you wanna wipe 'em all out!”

Goodwin hung the poker on its rack and accepted a towel from the Watchman to wipe his hands. “Is Sodowa driving the cow to extinction? Of course not. It would be self-destructive to squander such an invaluable resource. I understand your fears, believe me I do, but the Foundry is not what you think it is. If we destroy all mehkans, human civilization will collapse.”

Phoebe was losing ground. Goodwin was winning.

“The chraida aren't cows,” she said. “Neither are the syllks. They're people. What you do isn't farming, it's murder.”

“Exactly!” Micah said, his eyes fixing on the poker Goodwin
had just hung. “That's what I've been sayin' all along.”

Goodwin nodded thoughtfully and swirled his wineglass.

“Some of our methods are outdated, but we are always striving to improve our practices. We are building economic incentives and fruitful relationships, partnering with mehkans who willingly work for us. We have devised methods of conservation, including hatcheries and sustainable harvesting techniques that will permanently reduce our footprint on Mehk. We are working toward change, toward a mutually beneficial relationship with this world.”

Phoebe was clutching her butter knife in a shaking fist.

“Tell that to the langyls in Fuselage,” she said flatly.

Micah turned to look at Goodwin, who glowered at her. The Chairman did not move for a long moment.

“We are not perfect, but neither are we monsters,” Goodwin said at last, his voice calm. “Nor are mehkans helpless victims. After your experience in the Gauge Pit, I think you should understand that better than most.”

Mr. Pynch's dirty golden smile flashed before her eyes.

“Mehk is not populated with innocents, Phoebe. We share certain emotions with them, and they exhibit similar behaviors to ours, but mehkans do not possess our governing sense of morality. They are not us.”

She scooted her chair back abruptly. Two Watchmen stepped forward.

Phoebe rose.

“It has to stop.”

Micah jumped to his feet too.

“Damn straight!” he cried, scanning the exits. There were a half dozen Watchmen in the shadows, the firelight glinting in their black eyes.

Goodwin held his hand up, and his attendants eased back.

“Would that it could,” he said, untroubled. He dabbed his mouth with a napkin, pushed the plate aside, and folded his hands on the table. “Do you know how many people died in the Alloy War?”

That caught her off guard. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“Thirty-one-point-six million. All because a handful of rogue nations wanted what we had. Rather than trade with us fairly, they invaded our homeland to take it by force. Do you think that was right to do?”

“No, but—”

“Now our enemies grow restless again. They call themselves the Quorum, but they are the very same butchers that nearly laid waste to us all those years ago. The Foundry is doing everything it can to meet their demands. Were we to suddenly end our operations in Mehk as you suggest, supplies would stop. The Quorum would be outraged. Do you want another Alloy War?”

“Of course not,” she dismissed.

“Your sister Margaret is enlisted,” he said to Micah. “And your brother Randall would be drafted. Do you want to see them come home in body bags?”

“What are you talkin' about?” Micah growled.

“The next war will be infinitely more terrible. Our enemies have been preparing for another conflict. The devastation and the death toll will be unimaginable. I am willing to do anything to prevent such a calamity. Are you?”

She wanted to say yes but refused to concede to his point.

“Because there
is
something you can do,” he continued.

Goodwin nodded to the Watchmen, and they cleared away the dinner plates. A whole new set of trays was brought out, overflowing with macaroons, gourmet cakes, berry tarts, and silver bowls packed with sorbet. Goodwin served himself while the kids waited for him to continue.

“Look familiar?” he said with a grin. “They're from Sylvan's
on Fourth Street—best dessert in all of Meridian. Please, despite my ample size, I assure you I can't eat it all myself.”

They looked at each other and sat back down in their chairs. Micah mashed two cupcakes into his mouth and stuffed a few into his pockets. Phoebe ate nothing, her hands planted flat on the table.

“Your passion is inspiring,” Goodwin continued as he savored a few nibbles of sorbet, his spoon tinkling in the little bowl. “Your lust for life, for graciously sparing it wherever you can, that is why I wanted to meet with you. We are engaged in delicate negotiations with the Quorum, and the slightest miscalculation is liable to tip us into catastrophe. And yet, I have reason to believe one of my partners has been working to sabotage our efforts.”

She felt the meal churn in her stomach.

“My father.”

“Jules has shared vital secrets with the enemy. He will not tell us what, or with whom. But if I do not learn the truth soon, he could be responsible for an unprecedented loss of life, the likes of which the world has never seen.”

“He doesn't want war,” she pleaded. “He doesn't want people to die.”

“I don't doubt it. I am sure Jules is convinced that his betrayal was the right thing to do. But all actions have consequences. In this case, dire ones.”

Micah was about to gobble a tart, but he put it down.

“Through much painstaking diplomacy, we are finally within reach of a historical peace agreement with Trelaine. It is not too late to undo what Jules has done, but we must know what that is before we can repair the damage.”

Phoebe felt sick. “What do we need to do?”

“But…” was all Micah said. He stared at her, horrified.

“Talk to him,” Goodwin said, leaning forward, his hand reaching for hers. “That is all I ask. I will take you to him now. He refuses to talk to us, but perhaps he will listen to the two of you. Convince him. Save him.”

She studied the Chairman's clear blue eyes, which were earnest and sincere. He wasn't lying. She had worried that her father might be responsible for the deaths of mehkans, but it was something far worse—the next Alloy War.

“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.
I
f
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 big 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.