The First Book of Ore: The Foundry's Edge (4 page)

The city had lost its comforting hum. Now everything was amplified and aggressive—horns shrieked, jackhammers roared. Phoebe thought she heard her name murmured in snatches of passing conversations, and her heartbeat thundered in her throat.

She shot down an alley and slammed against a wall to catch her breath, her lungs wheezing and straining for air. Her eyes couldn't focus, she was dripping with sweat, and her legs burned. Feeling light-headed, she peeled off her hat, savoring the chill that swept over her drenched hair.

Phoebe was not at all accustomed to this kind of exertion. Walking was okay—she loved to explore the city. But running? Long ago, she had talked her father into getting a doctor's note to permanently excuse her from gym, some fabrication about weak knees or something. Ever since then, she had avoided anything that might cause her to break a sweat.

What was she supposed to do now?

The chirp of the Zip Trolley sang out. It was like the call of a long-lost friend. This was her chance. She closed her eyes and tried to visualize where she was in relation to it.

Click-clack-click-clack-click-clack.

The sound of metal-soled shoes.

Click-clack-click-clack.

Phoebe peeked around the corner.

He was coming.

Her hat slipped from her fingers.

The sunset careening off the Crest of Dawn nearly blinded her when she spilled out of the alley. Disoriented, rushing down a street she didn't recognize, all she could do was chase the sound of the trolley whistle. She crashed into a vendor selling limeade Fizzies as she bolted onto a narrow walkway between towering black buildings.

Phoebe burst out onto Illacci Hill again, and there it was. The sight of the Zip Trolley with its bulbous facade and round, sparkling windows filled her with elation. It was just starting to roll away. She pumped her legs like a locomotive to catch up. Her heart felt like it was going to explode.

She reached out and snatched the back railing, feeling the deep vibration of the electric engine through her palm. Phoebe hauled herself aboard just in time to see the stranger rushing at her from the
opposite
side of the street.

Impossible. He had been behind her only moments ago. How could he have gotten over to the other side? It was as if he were everywhere at once.

The stranger jogged for a bit before giving up the chase, his eyes never leaving her. She heaved a rattling sigh of relief as the Zip Trolley whizzed away, her body trembling from exhaustion. No matter how fast he was, there was no way he would be able to catch up on foot.

Yet as the trolley sped over the hill and his black-hole stare vanished from sight, she had a feeling the stranger would not give up so easily.

 

oiletboy!? Ha-ha!”

Jacko and Rory doubled over in laughter. Micah knew he should have stopped his story at the hose part.

They were hanging out in Micah's work shed, a little storage hut at the back of the estate where all the old busted equipment got dumped. Doc Plumm let him use it as a machine shop, and Micah had turned it into a wicked hideout. The place was a total sty, of course—just how he liked it.

“Whatever,” Micah grumbled as he tied the lace on one of his work boots. He checked the grime-spattered pockets of his overalls and dug a thumbnail into his fingertips, an ongoing effort to build up some halfway-decent calluses. “You guys seen my wrench anywhere?”

“And you let her get away with that?” Rory snorted.

“
'Course he did. The little slave's gotta obey his master,” Jacko sneered.

Micah threw a lug nut at his friend, who dodged easily.

“Bet you love wipin' the queen's butt!” jeered Rory.

“Oh, Toiletboy!” Jacko called in a mocking, singsong voice. “Come hither this instant. My rump needs a scrub and you're the perfect height. Chop-chop!”

“Cram it!” Micah shouted as he hurled another nut, this time harder. It hit Jacko in the chest with a dull thud. Irritated, Jacko grabbed the first thing he could find, a toy pistol, and aimed at Micah.

“Wait, wait!” protested Micah, gesturing in panic to a tarp-covered shape. “Not around the—”

When Jacko pulled the trigger, the toy fired with a surprising buck. The shot ricocheted off the rear wall, whizzed inches from Rory's ear, and smashed a hole in a can of oil. Black sludge sputtered out and pooled on the floor.

“Sweet,” gasped Jacko.

“Whoa! Is that the new Snakebite?” asked Rory.

“Naw, just a modifed S-80,” Micah said as he snatched the gun out of Jacko's hand. It wasn't much to look at, with lumps of ugly solder holding it together and banged-up rivets pounded in at odd angles. “Replaced the chamber with the slide from an old crane-neck drill press. Swapped the mini-springs for some point-twos, and made a new clip that holds washers instead of BBs.”

“This puppy shoots washers?” Rory asked, a gleam in his eye.

Micah nodded and slid the gun into a loop on his overalls.

“Nice work,” Jacko said. “Midget.” Rory laughed.

Midget, runt, dwarf—Micah had heard them all. His friends knew it set him off, and they loved to see him spaz. Sure, he was a little short for his age, but Micah more than made up for his size with guts.

“Say that again, Jerko, and I swear…” he threatened.

“Yeah, yeah. So you gonna show it to us this year or what?” Jacko asked, gesturing to the tarp.

Micah jutted his chin and made a show of thinking about it, poking through a heap of odds and ends on the bench and savoring their anticipation. “Seriously, guys, what'd you do with all my tools?”

“Get on with it!” groaned Rory.

Micah approached the draped form and paused for dramatic effect. “No touching. No breathing. Don't even look at it too hard.”

Jacko and Rory rolled their eyes.

With a flourish, Micah whipped off the cover.

The vehicle's serpentine frame wound around two gleaming wheels made of overlapping platinum plates, and the chrome on the saber-shaped handlebars was polished to a mirror finish.
Vents patterned its front hull like devilish eyebrows above the triangular headlight. Its body was deep red flaked with silver, like a sprinkle of snow on fresh cherries.

It was a brand new Cable Bike. They were struck dumb.

Micah reached into an exposed panel in the Bike's frame. With a mechanical whisper, a pair of hydraulic arms unfolded and swung overhead, creating the signature swoop. At the top of the mount was a torpedo-shaped winch head, which clung to the Link-Way cables and allowed the vehicle to race through the air. Micah got chills just thinking about it.

“No way,” Rory whispered.

“They know you're takin' it apart like that?” Jacko asked, motioning to the pile of parts Micah had removed.

“I'm gonna put it all back,” Micah said defensively. “Just wanted to see how it works, is all.” He gave the fingerprint-smeared Bike manual a nudge.

Jacko grabbed one of the handlebars. “I'm ridin' first.”

“What are you, stupid?” Micah slapped his friend's hand away. “It's a birthday present for Queen Stringbean. They'd kill me if they found out I—”

“
When
they find out,” rasped a snide voice.

Micah's older brother Randy lingered in the doorway, a smug look on his acne-splattered face. Even though the school day was over, he was still wearing his navy blue and gold cadet uniform. Ever since he'd been accepted into the Military Institute of Meridian, Randy was so full of himself that his head barely fit through the door.

Micah wanted one of those uniforms. If it could make a jug-eared, zit-faced goon like Randy look good, it'd turn Micah into a genuine badass.

“No one invited you,” he grumbled.

“I don't need an invitation, short stack.” Randy grinned.

“Heh, short stack,” repeated Rory.

“Shut up,” Randy snapped. He shoved past Rory and Jacko and peered into the opened hatch of the Cable Bike. “You're dead when the Doc sees this.”

“Well, he won't, 'cause I'm gonna put it together before he gets back.”

“Too late, buttercup. The Doc's here.” Randy cracked his long goose neck with a quick jerk. “And he's askin' for you.”

“Yeah, right,” snorted Micah. “Like I'd fall for that.”

“Fine.” Randy shrugged. “I'll tell him you're too busy tearing apart his little girl's birthday present to be bothered.” He spun on his heels as if he had just received marching orders.

Micah couldn't take the chance.

“Okay, okay,” he relented. “Just gimme a sec.” He grabbed one of the parts he had removed from the motor and fit it back into place. He looked around again for his wrench.

“Did you borrow my tools, Randy?”

“Pffft. I don't touch your stupid crap.”

“Why can't I find anything, then?”

“I dunno—'cause you're a retarded pygmy?”

Jacko and Rory chuckled. Micah sifted through the junk pile. Nothing. Must have packed everything away in his tool chest and forgotten about it. He whipped the lid open.

Twang. SPLAT!

A blast of white paint exploded into Micah's face.

The work shed rang with screams of laughter. Randy collapsed against the door frame while Rory and Jacko rolled on the grimy floor. Micah coughed up heaps of paint and tasted the bitter stuff trickling down his sinuses. His eyes stung as he tried to wipe them clean.

Beneath the splatters of white, his face burned red hot.

 

Micah stomped into the foyer of the manor, still fuming. He had tried to clean himself up, but paint still filled the folds of his ears and clung to his reddish hair. He was a total mess, but he couldn't keep the Doc waiting.

Worried servants were gathered near the closed study door.

“Make way. Comin' through,” Micah said, elbowing to the front. He heard voices coming from inside. One was Tennyson, but it took Micah a second to place the other—he had never heard the Doc sound angry before.

“Where is she?” roared Dr. Plumm.

“I—I went to pick her up at school,” Tennyson answered. “But sometimes she avoids me, like it's some sort of game. She always finds her way home, sir.”

Micah nervously dug a thumbnail into his budding calluses. He cracked the door open and poked his head inside. Tennyson and Micah's burly sow of a mom faced the Doc, who stood silhouetted before the fireplace. Micah wondered why he had a fire going on such a hot day.

“Take an Auto. Find her,” Dr. Plumm commanded.

“But sir, how am I supposed to—”

“I don't care how. Just go find her!”

As Tennyson took his leave, they spotted Micah lingering in the doorway.

“What in the burning hells?” his ma shrieked as she rushed up and snatched his forearm with one meaty hand. She yanked him so hard he thought his shoulder might pop out of its socket, and then scoured his paint-smeared face with her apron as if he were a dirty dish.

“Just look at yourself. And how dare you make Dr. Plumm wait around for your sorry carcass!”

She drew back her hand. Micah pinched his eyes, bracing for the impact.

“Deirdre!” the Doc interrupted. “I need you to pack a suitcase for Phoebe. Enough for a week.”

She paused. “Of course, Dr. Plumm. Anything else?”

“Leave Micah with me.”

With a huff of indignation, Micah ripped his arm free from her grasp and rubbed his shoulder. She fixed him with a threatening stare and grumbled as she departed.

Dr. Plumm had always been a lean man, but now he was a scarecrow. His long, sharp face was sunken and his glasses framed desperate eyes. It was as if he had aged a decade since Micah had last seen him.

“Do you know where she is?” Dr. Plumm asked, his voice hoarse and weary.

“You mean Phoebe? No, sir, I don't.”

“Please.” The Doc bent down to look Micah dead in the eye. “Think. How else would she get home from school?”

“Prob'ly Zip Trolley.”

“Then go with Tennyson. Check all the stops.” He crossed to his desk and snatched up a stack of documents.

“
'Scuse me, sir. But I'd be faster on foot.”

Dr. Plumm tossed the papers into the fireplace and turned back to Micah.

“There's only one stop nearby,” Micah explained, “and I got the perfect shortcut to the park. Plus, Tennyson drives like a granny, sir.”

“Go,” the Doc said. Micah whipped his hand up in a military salute, then bolted through the door and down the hall.

A legitimate excuse to leave Plumm Estate was not to be taken lightly. And it was all the more important since it was a chance to help the Doc out.

Micah burst onto the front porch, and the humid dusk wrapped around him like a blanket. He raced down the steps toward the Baronet, which was just pulling out of the driveway. Micah dove onto the hood and slid across it in a jumble. Tennyson screeched the Auto to a stop and rolled down the window to scream at him, but Micah was already halfway across the lawn. He bounded over the hedges, ducked into a somersault, and drew his modified Snakebite in one motion.

Almost perfect. He had been practicing that move.

As Micah hurried out the front gates, the manor glowed to life. Light danced across the hexagonal towers topped with bronze turtle-shell domes, and it blasted out through tall triangular windows to reflect on shining metal walls. There wasn't another place quite like it. Micah remembered the first time he saw Plumm Estate as if it were yesterday.

Three years before, the Tanners had come to Albright City from Oleander, a farming town in the Mid-Meridian state of Sodowa. When their father up and ditched them, Ma had been forced to support the family. Barefoot and broke, they hit the road in their beat-up old Auto and trekked to Albright City—he, Ma, Randy, and Margie.

It was right around then that Mrs. Plumm kicked the bucket.

None of the servants knew what had happened to her, or if they did, they weren't allowed to talk about it. And whenever Micah asked, he got his ears boxed. Whatever it was, it must have been bad.

But it was a good thing for the Tanners, 'cause the Doc was in sore need of help. Ma answered his ad, and the next day they were pulling up at Plumm Estate. Holy moly, were their jaws on the floor! At the time, Micah thought this place was the best. He didn't realize that working as a servant meant always getting treated like one.

And of course he didn't know about Li'l Miss Freaky and her stupid bag of tricks.

The Baronet pulled out of the driveway, and Micah slammed himself up against the gate to hide. He wasn't gonna let that creep Tennyson beat him to his target.