The First Book of Ore: The Foundry's Edge (16 page)

The three of them hunkered down in the shade beneath a copse of corkscrew spires. They didn't know what their next move was, but standing out in the unbearable heat was not an option. They were drained and drenched in sweat. The Honeygum in Phoebe's mouth had long since gone stale, but she kept chewing it to stave off hunger pangs. She felt weak and achy all over, as if she were getting sick. Dollop's ecstasy had been replaced by inconsolable sobs. He had been at it for minutes on end, maybe hours.

“I-I-I'm not a guide,” he blubbered. “N-n-not a guide…”

That was all he kept saying, over and over, and they could think of nothing to say in response. Micah was lobster-red from the heat, sullen and silent. He channeled his rage into shooing away sizzle bugs. She didn't know what else to call them because Dollop was too unresponsive to share their real names. When the metal midges had first appeared, the kids tried to swat them. But instead of stinging, the mehkan pests seared them like tiny hot pokers. The sizzling sound they made on skin was foul, and the pain was even worse. All they could do was try and fan the torturous things away.

A guttural rumble shook them out of their stupor—a revving sound, an engine growling across the plains.

“Did you hear that?” she asked.

“Moto-bike,” Micah declared with a start. “Sounds like an old model Torrent. Maybe a Fireball GT.”

“Foundry. We gotta move.”

“N-no,” Dollop said, sniffling. “No Foundry. N-n-not out here. That's a-a-a reticulated ulkett. Nasty things, ulketts.”

“No way,” said Micah. “That's a Moto-bike. I'd know the sound anywhere. My old man used to fix 'em.”

“I—I don't think so. It's an ulk-kett. Th-these are their hunting grounds.”

Given their situation, Dollop's confidence did little to settle Phoebe's nerves. Surrounded by brass reeds that towered overhead, she couldn't tell where the sound had come from and did not want to risk walking into an ambush. She looked up at the twisting growth they were using for shelter. The spire, made of layers of hardened brass reeds, didn't look sturdy, but it would have to do. She shinnied up it, moving carefully to avoid slicing her skin on its many barbs. It screeched in complaint but held her weight as she climbed.

It was sweltering with the suns reflecting off the sea of brass. She shaded herself with Micah's jacket and scanned their surroundings. Gold and more gold as far as she could see. In the sky, there were soaring mehkans like kites with fluttering tails. At first, she worried they might be predators, but they wound in far-off lazy patterns and showed no interest in the kids at all.

No Foundry vehicles in sight.

She was about to climb down to share the news when something caught her eye. It was faded by distance and distorted by the heat, but—could it be?

The angular top of a slanted mesa. She had seen the landmark before, from the back of the cargo truck the previous night, before they were captured by the chraida. The train tracks ran that way. That was the direction Goodwin had taken her father—it had to be! She raced back down the spire, stumbling as she landed. Micah jumped to his feet, ready to run.

“What is it?” he asked, shooing away the sizzle bugs.

“I found it!” she cried. “The train tracks are this way!”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah, come on.” She motioned.

“Two points for Plumm!” He held up his hand to her, and she slapped it, beaming with pride.

“Yes. W-well done,” Dollop moaned. “Phoebe is, um, a much better guide than I ever was.”

“Aw, come on. Buck up,” Micah said.

Phoebe agreed, “Maybe directions aren't your thing. You did your best.”

“Do you suppose, uh, perhaps, M-M-Makina might have a different function in mind for me?”

Micah shrugged. “Yeah, that!”

“M-maybe you're right,” Dollop chimed. “Until I know what part I play in Makina's inf-f-finite and infallible plan, my work is never done. The Way is quite cl-clear on this matter.” He hopped to his feet and wiped away his tears. “It-it's all for the best, really, Phoebe being our new g-guide. B-b-because I think the ulketts are circling. Y-you do not want to meet an ulkett, believe me.”

The three companions set off in their new direction with Phoebe in the lead, their ears peeled for any sound of danger.

“Hey, maybe that's your thing.” Micah nudged Dollop with a smirk. “You can teach us about all of the scary crud that wants to kill us.”

Dollop's amber eyes lit up. “T-t-teacher,” he intoned.

“I'm pretty sure he doesn't get sarcasm,” she whispered.

“Te-e-e-eacher. I-I'm a teacher. I t-teach!”

Dollop's chatter took their minds off the trek. He was eager to tell them about the interconnected components of Makina's sacred machine, as he called it. The excitable mehkan rattled on about how a certain creature (though he couldn't recall its name) exuded an oozing varnish that preserved the flaking metal skin of others. And about the rhouth and the t'ulk—two species that were defenseless on their own, but together could create a powerful electric charge to ward off predators. Or was that their mating ritual? At one point, he had the kids tickle the scabby feelers of a roving plant, only to recall that it was an acidic ryzooze waiting for prey. When the thing nearly took off Phoebe's hand, they all agreed that Dollop was not much of a teacher either.

Since Micah was the better climber, he occasionally scaled the coiling brass growths to ensure that they were still heading toward the mesas. It was hard going, but when the clustered suns at last separated back into a ring and began their descent, the heat became less brutal. Of course, Phoebe's feet still felt like lead and her mouth like it was full of cotton balls, but she would take what relief she could get.

It was then that they saw the oasis.

The sunken glade stood out from the monotonous brasslands, distinguished by lush, fanning fronds with a waxy reddish hue. And twinkling between the leaves was the unmistakable ripple of water. Micah was off and running for it, and Phoebe was hot on his heels, her parched throat crying for relief. They crashed through the copper leaves with green patina blossoms and raced for the pond. The air had an astringent aroma, stinging their nostrils like fermented citrus. They splashed in knee-deep, reveling in the refreshing chill, and scooped handfuls of the liquid into their desperate mouths.

As soon as the greasy orange stuff hit her tongue, Phoebe wanted to throw up. Micah refused to accept that it was undrinkable, but after three attempts that left him retching, he gave up. It was like trying to chug gasoline.

“Water,” croaked Micah, nearly in tears. “I just want a drink of water!”

Dollop slurped a handful of the orange fluid. “N-n-no,” he corrected politely. “Tastes pretty much like v-v-vesper to me.” He dunked his head into the oasis and drank greedily.

But Phoebe wasn't thinking about water, or even about the foul taste that coated her mouth. She was transfixed by the shapes that danced beneath the vesper surface and around her legs. At first, she thought they might be a hallucination, but when she rubbed her eyes, they were still there. She stared into the depths, feeling like her heart was being squeezed in a vise.

Dollop was right—everything was connected. But not quite in the way he meant.

How could she not have seen it before? How could she have been so blind? That uncanny, fleeting sense of déjà vu she had felt before now hardened to a stone in her gut that grew heavier by the second. Micah saw them too. He forgot his dehydration and stood beside her in somber silence. Slowly, she unstrapped the Trinka from her wrist.

Now she understood why Mehk was a secret.

Phoebe laid the Trinka in the shallows of the pond and watched the gliding forms gather around it. They were bulbous silvery creatures with four paddle-shaped tentacles that spun like propellers. A little red organ fluttered within them, pulsing softly with a warm glow.

They were identical to her Trinka.

But alive.

The swimming mehkans inspected the Foundry trifle as it sank into the vesper like a ceremonial offering. They wrapped their appendages around it, nudging the corrupted carcass as if attempting to bring it back to life.

oodwin waited atop his favorite tower in the Citadel, swirling a glass of arterial-red wine. His balcony was sheltered from the brutal suns by a cascading ceiling that looked like a melted candle, with hardened gobs and streams of dripping iron—a waterfall of molten metal frozen in time. High gnarled parapets blocked out the fierce gusts of wind, making this spot a strangely serene refuge within the otherwise ghastly fortress. Goodwin came here often to clear his mind and take in the glorious, panoramic view of Mehk.

It was a land brimming with promise.

The Citadel was surrounded by moors of harsh serrated ore, choked with barbed-wire brambles and drowning in foul lagoons of rusty sludge. It was an ideal strategic location because no one could approach from any direction without being spotted a great distance away. These dead lands were haunted with history, eons of misery that struck fear in the hearts of mehkans. Just to the west were the peaks of the Vo-Pykaron Mountain Range, stormy blue formations draped in an ominous leaden sky. And to the distant south lay the Mirroring Sea. He could stare at the silvery surge for hours, entranced by its hypnotic pulse—a vast, glittering expanse of liquid metal destined to shatter over and over against the midnight-black shore.

Approaching boot steps clicked on the floor behind him, but Goodwin did not turn. There was a scrape and a scuffle as someone was forced into a chair.

“Does that bottle look familiar?” Goodwin asked. He held up his glass to admire the wine's velvety, ruby hue. “It was given to me on my sixtieth birthday, a present from my dear friend Doctor Jules Plumm. An 1864 Chequoisie—a truly remarkable gift.” He took a luxurious, unhurried sip. “Whatever happened to that man?”

The Chairman turned around. Jules was seated at a table adorned in white linen, topped with the extravagant bottle and a glass goblet. Behind him glowered Kaspar. Jules's features were drawn and taut, but a smile ghosted on his chapped lips, and his eyes twinkled bright behind his crooked glasses.

“I don't know,” Jules said, “but I'll drink to his passing.”

Goodwin chuckled softly and nodded. “I thought you might want a taste.”

Kaspar plucked the bottle up and poured him a glass.

“It is almost a shame to enjoy it here,” Goodwin said as Jules drank deeply. “I find the air here disrupts the fragile nose of a delicacy like this. Ah well. Are you hungry? I could have something else sent up, if you like.”

“I seem to have lost my appetite,” Jules muttered.

“Good, down to business then.”

Jules emptied the rest of his glass in one gulp. “Thanks for sharing, James,” he said as he wiped his cracked lips. “But your pet monster and I are late for another delightful interrogation session, so if you'll excuse us—”

He tried to rise, but Kaspar roughly shoved him back down.

“Please,” sighed Goodwin. “Stop this charade. Seeing you like this pains me, it really does.”

Jules spat out a hollow laugh.

“I have been patient with you,” the Chairman said. “But no more. Talks are failing. I received notice just this morning that Trelaine is following the Kijyo Republic's lead and has begun to pull their ambassadors from Albright City. They are now the third nation of the Quorum to do so.”

“They won't be the last,” Jules warned.

“I will not allow another conflict.”

“We've given them little choice.”

“On the contrary, we have done everything in our power to accommodate them. We lifted key embargos, lowered tariffs, especially where the Trels are concerned. And yet still they are insatiable. The Quorum will not be content until they have what is rightfully ours. But there can only be one Meridian.”

“Or no Meridian at all.”

“And you wonder why you are under suspicion of treason? Don't be naïve. Meridian will never fall, not with the Foundry as her guardian. We ensure peace because war is bad for business.” Goodwin savored another taste of wine and surveyed the landscape once more. “But how can I maintain it when you seek to undo all we have worked for? Sabotage, conspiracy, and provocation—those who work against the Foundry never succeed, Jules. You know this. We cannot tolerate defectors.”

“Is that what you think I am?”

“No, you are much more.”

Goodwin set his wineglass atop the dark gold parapet. It was balanced precariously, paper-thin crystal resting hundreds of feet above the dead lands.

“We live in a fragile time,” Goodwin mused, tracing the edge of his glass. The wine shimmered within as he nudged it closer to the edge of the rampart. “Every one of us, every choice we make is a grain of sand on the scales. All it takes is one grain, one mistake to send us crashing into oblivion.”

The glass wobbled, then tipped, but Goodwin stopped it before it fell. A few drops plummeted into the barbed-wire brambles far below.

“You have been working with Trelaine. What you have told them?”

“After twenty-seven years of devoted service, you believe I would be so foolish as to compromise our security like that? You know me better.”

“Kaspar,” said Goodwin with a casual gesture. The grim soldier stepped forward and withdrew a Scrollbar. He slid the nickel-plated rods apart to reveal a handheld Computator screen that displayed a document. “You are one of my oldest friends and most trusted partners,” Goodwin continued, his voice heavy with regret. “Do you deny this is you in these Dialset transcripts? We have not yet decrypted the other voices, but they are undoubtedly Trelainian accents.”

Jules studied the glowing Scrollbar screen, the words reflecting in his spectacles. “I swear to you. This isn't what you think.”

“Then explain. We do not have the luxury of time.”

A long silence descended, punctured only by the cold creaking of Kaspar's leather gloves as he flexed his hands.

“The truth…The truth is, I've had enough,” Jules said in a broken voice. “I can't do this anymore. Ever since Olivia…” He took a heavy breath and tried to compose himself. “I was seeking asylum in Trelaine for Phoebe and me, and these calls you intercepted are of me trying to arrange safe passage.”

Goodwin assessed Jules with a calm and unyielding expression.

“I've been suffering, James. I was looking for a way out.”

“I am sympathetic to your hardship, I always have been. I, too, am no stranger to suffering, but it is inevitable—an unfortunate fact of life. Sometimes even necessary, when it is in favor of the greater good.”

Goodwin strolled behind Jules.

“Take Kaspar.” He laid a hand on the soldier's armored back. “Think of what he has volunteered for, what he has willingly endured and suffered for the Dyad Project, for the benefit of the Foundry. And yet he doesn't go crawling into the eager arms of our enemies. His loyalty remains unbroken.”

“I am not Kaspar. I am a husband. And a father.”

“What did you offer them in exchange?”

“My life's savings.”

The Chairman narrowed his eyes at Jules. “You expect me to believe they have no interest in your tenure at the Foundry?”

“I secured diplomatic immunity. My secrets are protected by Trelainian law,” Jules said defiantly. “I knew my actions would make me a fugitive, but it was never my intent to become a traitor. I have been loyal every day of my life.”

“To whom?” The kindness that had warmed Goodwin's words was gone. “What about last month? April the twelfth and twenty-third, were you loyal to us then?”

Jules did not answer.

“The work you did to cover your tracks was ingenious. It took a data team several days to decode the phony paperwork, but there is no account of your true whereabouts. Whom did you meet with, and what did you tell them?”

“I told you, I haven't said a word,” Jules said defiantly.

Goodwin leaned in to study Jules's gaunt face. “You force me into an unfortunate position. What would you have me do?”

“Let us go to Olyrian Isle. Give me an early retirement. I understand I've forfeited my civilian life, but in the protected isolation of a Foundry settlement you can rest assured that I'll have no contact with the outside world.”

“The Isle is for those who have earned the privilege of enjoying their remaining years in peace after a lifetime of devoted service. Do you deserve such an honor?”

“Then at least send Phoebe there. All I care about is keeping her safe.”

“Would that I could.”

Jules opened his mouth to say something, but Goodwin took the Scrollbar from his hands and called up something else on the screen. It was a grainy surveillance video playing in a short loop. Jules stared at it, and his brow furrowed. It took him almost a full minute to comprehend what he was seeing.

That momentary hitch in his voice, those tears that were brimming in his eyes only moments ago, they had all been quite convincing. Yet as Goodwin read the man's face now, blanched and panic stricken at this unexpected horror, he knew for certain that it had all been a ruse.

“The children have been lost in Mehk for nearly a day,” stated Goodwin.

“How…how could this be?”

“Like her father, Phoebe appears to be resilient—and foolhardy. There is no guarantee we will be able to locate them in time.”

Jules could not tear his eyes from the monitor. His hands were shaking. Goodwin sat down beside him and pulled his chair close.

“If you truly care about your daughter, then cooperate. Tell us the truth about your exchanges with the Trels. Then you can lead the charge to find Phoebe. We will broadcast your voice across Mehk, blanket the territories, and the children will be sure to come to you. But we must act fast,” Goodwin said, finishing his last drop of wine. “The scales are tipping.”

Jules sank in on himself. He nodded almost imperceptibly.

“That will be all, Kaspar,” the Chairman said.

The silent soldier offered a bow and tossed something onto the table in front of Jules, an object that had been balled up in his fist. Kaspar left the two men on the balcony, and Goodwin poured himself another glass of wine.

Jules was focused on the crumpled object as it unfolded before his eyes. It was a battered piece of black leather with a silver strap. Phoebe's shoe.

“I am listening,” Goodwin said.