The First Book of Ore: The Foundry's Edge (10 page)

“When I push down, you pull up,” he chuckled. “Then you push, and I pull. Got it?”

She arched an eyebrow. “You want me…to what?”

“Oh, so sorry, Your Majesty,” twittered Micah with a flamboyant air. “You're gonna have to lift a finger for the first time in your spoiled little life. I do hope you don't scuff a nail!” He strapped the Trinka to the front of the cart for a headlight.

Phoebe knew he was right and hated him for it. She pushed hard on the handle to prove to him that she could do it, but the resistance was so stiff that her lanky legs flailed in the air as she tried to force the thing down. He just laughed at her again, and they were off.

Within minutes, beads of sweat dotted her brow. She was glad to give her legs a rest, but now her arms ached. Micah, of course, was doing his best to make it look easy. But as their momentum built, she found it took less effort to work the pump. The handle rose and fell of its own accord and only needed a little extra pressure to keep it going.

She stared ahead, trying to find any indication that they were nearing the end. There was none. Phoebe hadn't the faintest idea how long it had been since they chased the train into the darkness. What if the other end of the tunnel was sealed as well? Would they be trapped here forever? What if Micah was right and this really was a bottomless pit?

Her arms were buzzing with the effort and there was a fierce ache in her back. They didn't speak. The only sound was the clatter of the wheels and the squeak of the handle.

On they rode. For hour…

…after hour…

…after hour.

And then, without warning, the light went out. The Trinka's glow didn't fade away like it normally did—it just snuffed out like a candle.

“Hit the button again,” she insisted.

“I'm hittin' it,” he called over the clatter of the tracks. “It's on, I feel it tickin', but there's no light.”

Phoebe was about to tell Micah to stop messing around when she felt the strangest sensation. A sudden wave of cold overtook her, but it wasn't just some gust of air or an absence of heat. It had a presence, a weight. And it was alive. The air was dense with it, thicker and harder to pass through. She tried to breathe, but it felt as if an iron band was constricting her chest. Even the cart seemed to slow down.

Then it was gone. The Trinka light flared to life, and they gasped for air.

“What was that?” she said frantically.

“I dunno,” he sputtered as he worked the handle. “And I don't care. I just wanna get as far away from it as possible.”

Phoebe couldn't agree more. They urged their cart on, hefting and heaving the red handle. The burning sensation seeped back into their muscles, melting away the chill, and for once she welcomed it.

“
Meridian cast off all her bonds
,” she sang eagerly, and Micah joined her in the tune. Their voices reverberated like a talisman warding off the cold dark. She wasn't sure how much longer she could hold out. Pretty soon, Phoebe was going to have to rest, and she loathed the thought of confessing it.

She stopped the song mid-note.

“Look!” squealed Phoebe, her eyes opening wide.

“Keep pumping, Plumm! I ain't gonna do all the work!”

“No, behind you!
Light
!
”

 

veryone that met Olivia Plumm instantly fell in love. She was as ravishing as she was silly, and so magnetic that she drew people in wherever she went. Phoebe's mother was also brilliant, with more degrees to her name than her father, which was a source of playful competition between them. She taught Phoebe that the universe had begun as a single speck, and that everything we know, everything that is or will ever be, was contained in that one tiny, insignificant pinprick.

Much later, Phoebe would imagine the glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel like that, exactly as her mother said. It was a spark that would soon grow to a blaze. It was the beginning of everything.

They abandoned their pump cart. The kids had no idea what awaited them up ahead, but the squeak and rattle of the contraption was certain to draw attention. Phoebe removed her Trinka from the head of the cart and fastened it around her wrist as they continued on foot.

First came the sound—the thrum of machines, the growl of heavy equipment, and the chatter of countless metal-soled shoes. Then, the smell overtook them. It was subtle at first, but soon the scent developed into a peculiar rusty tang, a pungent mixture of smoky spice and iron.

It was her father's scent, Phoebe realized with a start. Or rather, what he smelled like without his aftershave.

The tunnel's end was just ahead, and after so many hours of darkness, the light was blinding. They shielded their eyes and scuttled into a narrow niche near the exit.

Outside the tunnel was another train yard, so vast it made the one beneath the Foundry look like a mere pit stop in comparison. It had the turmoil of rush hour in Albright City, with cranes reaching as high as skyscrapers and leagues of workers and Watchmen bustling everywhere. Train tracks extended through a dense plaza, then split into dozens of parallel lines. Transloaders hauled shipping containers onto behemoth locomotives, their electric engines breathing like giants. Powerful floodlights illuminated a grid of buildings that sprawled as far as the eye could see, forming avenues and intersections of bustling productivity. There were even several Aero-copter pads and a runway for Galejets.

Far in the distance, a massive security wall enclosed the perimeter. It was protected by watchtowers and turrets armed with what Micah eagerly identified as Frag-cannons. Lining the top of the wall was a row of mysterious coils that pulsed with an intense purple glow. Phoebe studied them for a moment, wondering what they could possibly be.

Without a word of warning, Micah sprang from their hiding spot. She could do nothing but stare as he zigzagged between trucks and cargo containers like a soldier under fire. He ducked underneath a tarp that was stretched over some shipping crates about twenty yards away. The fabric fluttered once, then was still, concealing him completely.

Her fists clenched so tight that her hands cramped. What did he think he was doing? He was going to ruin everything.

She sidled closer to the tunnel entrance and tensed her legs, preparing to spring into action. But there were too many workers. Every time she was about to go for it, another one came around the corner, hauling a dolly of steel crates or driving a Multi-chain conveyor.

Phoebe went for it anyway.

But she slipped. A strap loosened, and her right shoe fell off. She regained her balance and turned around to grab it, but the shadow of an approaching worker snaked across her path.

She dove for cover beneath the tarp and slammed up next to Micah, ignoring his look of outrage. Through a slit, they could just make out the figure—a Watchman worker in a blue Foundry jumpsuit and hard hat, his death mask of a face placid. He set down the steel box he was carrying and picked up the shoe.

Phoebe closed her eyes. She wanted to cry, but that was not an option. Micah nudged her, and she looked back as the Watchman departed, her shoe in his hand.

“Nice goin'!” he spat. “Might as well scream out your name and address and do a big ol' cartwheel while you're at it.”

“This is all your fault!”

“Me? Am I the one who can't keep my stinkin' shoes on?”

“No, you're the one running out like an imbecile.”

“Hey, I'm lookin' for the Doc. What are
you
doin'?”

“Quiet!” she urged. “I'm trying to think of a plan.”

“Maybe first you should
try
to not get caught, and maybe—”

“Okay, rule number three. No more idiotic leaping into danger. You follow me from now on. Got it?”

“You wanna know what I think of your…” The words died in his mouth.

They heard footsteps right beside them and could make out the shapes of two human workers through the tarp.

“Look, I'm already pushing six K here,” one of them said. “I can't handle any more.”

“Just following orders,” replied the other. “I need you to take this unit.”

“But it's headed all the way out to Station four eighty-six. Can't you just wait for the next train?”

“I told you, Mr. Goodwin took my last Cargoliner to the Citadel. You got an issue, take it up with him.”

Phoebe and Micah exchanged a look. The Citadel? If that's where Goodwin was headed, it was a good bet her father was there, too. They watched through the fabric as one of the figures grumbled to himself and entered something into a bleeping device.

“Guess we're taking this one, too!” he called out as he stomped off.

Before the kids could figure out their next move, the pallet jostled and rose off the ground. The kids clung to the crates to keep from spilling out. There was a series of hard lurches, and the buzz of hydraulics.

Then they plunged, once again, into total darkness.

A familiar chugging sound ratcheted, followed by a pronounced thunk, and the deep vibration of an engine. Phoebe and Micah had been loaded onto the back of a cargo truck.

The vehicle crunched into gear and rolled forward.

“Oh no, no, no,” she whispered.

The truck was picking up speed. The muffled murmur of the train station was punctuated by a harsh rattle every time they hit a bump. There were a couple of sharp turns that sent the kids knocking into each other, and then the vehicle slowed to a stop.

“Prob'ly security,” Micah mumbled, his ear pressed up to the wall. The truck began to move, then stopped once more. They sat longer this time. Phoebe felt sick with anxiety, certain that the cargo door would slide up at any moment, and they would be discovered.

She closed her eyes and tried to think. Nothing made sense. Ever since she had spied that Watchman from her bedroom window, she had nothing but questions. Obviously they were machines, but not like any invention she had ever heard of. They took verbal commands. They could respond to unexpected events, plan, and strategize. And like the one that took her shoe, she could swear they were actually thinking.

Why did the Foundry keep them hidden? They would sell like crazy. Who wouldn't want a robot servant of their own? Yet the Watchmen were so secret that her father was shocked to find out they were in the city at all.

At last, the truck started to drive again, rattling as it moved along. So far, so good. Phoebe glanced at Micah—she wanted to talk to him, but he was only ten, too little and too dense for real conversation. But maybe not entirely without his uses.

“Sounds like we're in the clear,” he said, pulling his ear away from the truck wall. “Gimme that light.”

“No,” she replied. “It'll draw too much attention.”

“We're in the back of a truck, Freaky. The driver—”

“What did I tell you about the name calling?”

“Whatever! Plumm then, okay? The driver can't see nothin',
no one can. And I wanna know where we're goin'.”

He was right. Again. She activated the Trinka on her wrist, and its little light guided her as she slipped out from under the tarp. Sure enough, they were in a big Foundry truck, one with a segmented cargo hold like the ones she used to thrill to see parked in front of her favorite shops. They squeezed between the crates and made their way to the rear.

The ridged metal floor was cold on Phoebe's shoeless foot.

“Shine it here,” he said, pointing to a round hub in the floor at the base of the gate. She provided light while he crammed his fingers in the panel and manually unhooked the latch. With a tug of the hoisting chain, they raised the back gate a couple of feet and got on their bellies to look outside.

It was night, the hazy bright lights and glowing purple coils of the train yard fading on the horizon. All around them, the ground was hard and dead, pocked with clumps of ragged trees. In the distance, she saw a range of craggy mounds dominated by an enormous mesa with an odd, slanted top. There was a shimmering streak of silver running toward it.

The train tracks. And the truck was veering away.

“Wait, no!” Phoebe cried. Those rails were all she had to go on. “We have to jump.”

Spindly trees grew dense around them as the truck drove up a steep grade. The road was bumpy, causing some of the hefty crates to shift and forcing the driver to slow down.

“After you,” Micah said with a sneer. “Rule number three, remember?”

There was no time to argue. She crawled under the back gate and immediately felt a warm breeze waft through her hair. Phoebe lowered herself to the back bumper and clung there, unsure of how best to drop. Reluctantly she let go, falling hip and shoulder first. She hit the unyielding ground with a shock of pain, tumbled several times, and then came to a stop.

Better than the fall from the train, but it still added a few nasty bruises to her growing collection.

She heard Micah roll to a stop next to her, and they lay there unmoving, staring up at angular treetops that swayed beneath the night sky. The rough sound of the Foundry truck faded, drowned out by the forest. There were unfamiliar animal calls and a symphonic chorus of ghostly, tinkling chimes. A rich scent clung to their nostrils, acrid but not harsh, more moist and earthy.

They were exhausted. The kids had been on the run for hours, and yet judging by the host of twinkling stars above, it was still the dead of night.

“Do you know the constellations?” Phoebe croaked, her throat parched.

“Why?”

“To figure out where we are, genius.”

“Don't they teach you that stuff in that snooty school of yours?”

“Would I ask you if they did?” she shot back. “You're the hick boy. Don't you know all about outdoorsy stuff?”

“I know you're s'posed to bring a compass and a Celestron with you wherever you go, but I didn't exactly pack for a camping trip.” Micah got up to dust himself off and mused aloud. “Let's see here, I know the tail of the Big Dipper points north. Or was that the Li'l Dipper?”

“Micah?” she breathed faintly, staring up.

The sky was all wrong.

The stars didn't twinkle—they vibrated, as if attached to a plucked piano wire. And some of them were moving. Not in arrow-straight streaks, but up and sideways, tracing intricate shapes across the night. There was no moon, but when the kids rubbed their eyes, they noticed fine silvery strands stretching between the stars, all connected like shining beads woven into a web by some unfathomable celestial spider.