by Cam Baity
“The Board,” Phoebe recalled all of a sudden.
“And for the briefest of seconds, there was a distinctive noise in the background.”
“Lemme guess.” Micah grinned. “A Radial IR-17?”
“There is hope for you yet,” Goodwin said approvingly. “It would seem our mystery generator belongs to the leaders of the Foundry. So we will drop in for a surprise visit.”
“I’m losing the trace,” Mr. Pynch announced, his nozzle in a tizzy. “The conductorator be descending beneath us.”
The Marquis scanned the ground with his opticle and spied a grate peeking from underneath toppled machinery. They cleared it with Fritz’s help, and Mr. Pynch used his quills to loosen the screws that held it in place. While they removed the grate, Phoebe peered into a nearby repair bay, lit with flickering red emergency lights.
Something stared back at her.
The others climbed down through the hatch that Mr. Pynch had opened. Micah was about to let Phoebe go before him when he saw her frozen in place.
“What is it?” he asked, following her gaze.
There, in the stark red light, was a bulbous speckled form with stubby fins. It was suspended from hooks and splayed open, partially dissected, staring with dead eyes. A mehkan creature being skinned, gutted, and converted to a Zip Trolley in a Foundry slaughterhouse. The kids stared back, hollow with sadness, aching with rage.
“Maybe we deserve it,” Phoebe muttered. “Makina, I mean. Maybe we just finally got what’s been coming to us.”
Micah slowly pulled her away. “Not us,” he whispered. “Them. Come on.”
With one last look at the grisly display, Phoebe followed Micah down through the grate. They descended six or seven stories, navigating a maze of twisted ladders, catwalks, and pipes. Water dripped from broken ducts, which Goodwin and the kids gulped greedily from, ignoring the bitter taste of iron, to ease their parched throats.
Around them, a few lonely fires burned, but there was no hum of motors or buzzing of electricity. These were the internal organs of Foundry Central and, like the mehkan in the repair bay, this beast was dead.
Well, almost dead—aside from the lifeline of the solitary blue conduit.
Through the suffocating smoke permeating the sublevel, Mr. Pynch picked up the scent he was after. The tube they were following led into the wall once more as they reached the bottom of the sublevel and entered into a boiler room populated with tanks the size of swimming pools. They sloshed through a few inches of murky standing water. Curious about the substance, Fritz reached down with his sparking hand to touch it, only to be yanked back in the nick of time by Micah.
Mr. Pynch put his nozzle to the task and steered the group confidently, navigating around the huge vats to follow the wall. He ran his fingers along it, mumbling softly to himself as he traced the conduit. The boiler room seemed to go on forever, an endless and silent cathedral of rusted giants.
Deeper they went. Phoebe strained to hear any noise from above. What was happening? Had Makina begun to rampage again? Was the Ona ordering wholesale slaughter in the streets?
Mr. Pynch stopped in a corner, sniffing from side to side.
“This be it,” the balvoor grunted.
“Are you certain?” Goodwin asked, leaning against a pipe to take the weight off his injured leg. He was sweating profusely, teeth clenched with stifled pain.
“Most assuredly so,” Mr. Pynch said. “Me nozzle doesn’t fib.”
The six of them searched the area, feeling along the walls and checking the sodden floor, but there was nothing. Phoebe was starting to feel anxious, like they had wasted their time. But before she could speak up, the Marquis adjusted his opticle, changing its hue to deep purple. She remembered seeing him do this once before, when they had fled the Watchmen in the Vo-Pykaron Mountains. The Marquis had used this special light to reveal the plasm, nearly imperceptible blobs that burrowed beneath the mountains, allowing the companions to escape into the hidden channels.
“You read me mentals, you shrewd scrap you,” Mr. Pynch said admiringly.
The vibrant light made certain colors fluoresce, illuminating otherwise invisible defects in the wall surface. Fritz was clearly delighted by the trick. The Marquis had to swat the Watchman away as he scanned the area with his adjusted opticle.
“There,” Goodwin said, pointing to one of the boilers.
A hair-thin rectangle glowed at the base of the tank. The outline of a hidden door.
They felt around its perimeter, searching in vain for some sort of handhold or button. Mr. Pynch cleared his throat behind them. The balvoor backed up, lowered his head, and charged at the solid vat like a battering ram.
Clang.
He ricocheted painfully off the hidden door, but his blow had knocked it ajar. White light spilled from the crack. Fritz and the Marquis steadied their dazed friend while Goodwin and the kids forced the panel open with a rusty squeal.
Inside was a white hallway that curved around the corner. Although the entire sublevel had been dark and devoid of power, lights shone brightly in this corridor, making the blank walls glow. It was silent, aside from a barely audible hum.
Wom-wom-wom.
Goodwin’s eyes shone with triumph. He limped ahead of them, following the white hall as it curved ahead. The others raced to keep up. All six of them came to an abrupt stop. The hallway ended at a plain wall.
Panels on the ceiling whispered open, and three turret guns emerged. The mounted guns pivoted, scanning the intruders. Their barrels began to spin.
“Hello, James,” said a voice. It came from everywhere.
“We’ve been waiting for you,” said another.
Phoebe and Micah looked to Goodwin in confusion, but he was unfazed.
“Ladies and gentlemen of the Board,” the Chairman said. “As promised, I present Miss Phoebe Plumm.” He gestured to her casually.
“And the others?”
Goodwin glanced at the rest of the group. “Expendable.”
“NO!” Phoebe shouted.
“You evil, lyin’—” Micah snarled, leaping at Goodwin. Mr. Pynch puffed up, and the Marquis extended his arms to grab the Chairman. Fritz was just confused.
The turret guns flashed to life. A ripple of staccato thuds blasted smoking holes in the spotless walls around them. Everyone except Goodwin ducked for cover.
“There will be no more warning shots.”
“Now,” said another voice, “show it to us, James.”
Goodwin picked Phoebe up off the ground. Micah growled and went for him, but the turrets adjusted, all trained on the boy, and the Associates held him back. Goodwin yanked open the collar of her coveralls to expose her glowing seed.
“I’m gonna kill you, you know that?” Micah growled. “I’m gonna kill you with my bare hands, wait and see.” Goodwin ignored the threat.
Phoebe’s breath came hot and fast. Aghast, she looked at Goodwin, furious with him for his betrayal, furious with herself for trusting him.
The blank wall at the end of the corridor hissed open.
“You and the girl may enter, James.”
With a gentle push, Goodwin urged Phoebe along.
“She ain’t leavin’ my sight!” Micah bellowed.
“No,” Phoebe insisted. “You have to wait here.”
“But, Miss Phoebe—” Mr. Pynch protested.
“Are you crazy?” Micah snapped. “Didn’t you hear—”
“Micah. Please.”
He looked at her in disbelief.
“This is our chance,” she whispered. “I have to take it.”
He looked deep into her eyes, then at the turrets that were aimed right at him. As if in response, the barrels started to spin. At last, he nodded.
Goodwin put a hand on Phoebe’s shoulder and guided her toward the open door. She touched the glowing seed and swallowed hard. Although she could not see its glow, she could sense it waning. Her body tingled with exhaustion. Phoebe threw Goodwin’s hand off her shou
lder with a violent jerk and strode through the door on her own.
Can taste him on the air. I crushed his leg. His pain drips from these walls.
Mr. Goodwin was here in the service vault. Recently. He was with the children too. The girl’s powder still burns me. Little worms burrowing into my bones. Tried to dig them out, carved my face to ribbons trying. Soon, she will know my pain.
They all will.
I scald the ground with every step. Wretched smoke drifts in my wake. Speed up my approach. Touch a pipe and watch it shrivel. Like the creature I just killed with my bare hands. It was clever, detected me with a liquid sensor. Fast too. Not as fast as me.
The creatures have won. Never thought I’d see the day. There was a time when Kaspar would have cared. A time in the Whisper Corps when Kaspar would have given his life to stop it. But Kaspar is dead. I, the Dyad, am his vengeful ghost.
My not-skin shivers. Feel the current of intense sound waves from up ahead. I pick up speed. Something in the air drives me on, fills me with longing. With lust. Run on all fours like a beast. End of the service vault is near. Rangecart sits idle. Engine warm. Walls are black. Pipes are twisted, melted like me. Slow my charge. Slide and skid to a slippery stop. Throw open the hatch. What I see brings acid tears to my eyes.
Foundry Central is a shattered crater. Like it was hit by a meteor. Like a freshly butchered carcass. Beams bent like broken bones, bleeding fire. Entire floors collapsed like lungs. Black smoke billows. Explosions ripple throughout. All of it, centuries of innovation, in ruins. Screams, human and otherwise. And death. So much death.
Maybe I was wrong. My words to Mr. Goodwin back in the Depot weren’t true. This masterpiece. This, what lies before me. This is…beautiful.
THIS is my world.
Mehkans deposited machinery into a great mound at the middle of the demolished Foundry, moving to and from it in reverent, funereal lines. There seemed to be no end to the supply. Everywhere they looked, there was another piece of metal that had been stolen from their world. The pile rose throughout the night, a growing mountain of sorrow and injustice awaiting Makina’s cleansing fire.
Dollop carried several armloads from a ravaged building, but his heart wasn’t in it. He acknowledged the salutes of Covenant soldiers, who knew the part he had played in their rescue at the Depot, and of the chraida, who now viewed “Big Lump” in a mystical light that rivaled that of the Ascetic.
There had been splashes of bright red blood among the ruins, and he heard mehkans cheerfully bragging about hunting down terrified bleeders. Dollop could not ignore the screams—human screams—that echoed around him.
This was all wrong, both the destruction and the sadistic glee that his brethren were deriving from it. The Foundry deserved to be punished, of that there was no doubt, but not like this. The Children of Ore were not merely righting a wrong, or ensuring the safety of Mehk, they were relishing in the cruelty of it. Perhaps they were not so different from humans after all. Were the mehkan atrocities being committed here any less horrid than the crimes committed by the Foundry?
A gear cannot exist with teeth alone, said edict eighteen, mark three from the second accord. It must also contain emptiness. A gear has no function without equal parts of both. War balanced with peace. The Way was quite clear on this matter.
Phoebe and Micah too were a mix of light and darkness. He knew that they had committed a grave sin in colluding with the evil Uaxtu, but he had also seen their friendship and bravery, even their true devotion to Makina.
Was She right to have banished them?
He couldn’t believe his own sacrilegious questions. Fearfully, Dollop looked up at the Everseer’s towering white form, aware that She knew his every thought. But surely mere doubt wasn’t blasphemy. He didn’t understand the Great Engineer’s silence at this moment. How long would She tolerate this savagery? It went against every tenet of the Way. Yet there She stood, seeming to condone the violence committed in Her name. The discovery of this new world should be an opportunity to spread the Way. Mehkans and humans could interlock, not despite their differences, but because of them. Only then would the strife between them cease.
But who was he to question Her infinite and infallible plan? If the actions of the Mother of Ore seemed wrong to him, it must be because he was a mere child, incapable of understanding.
Beyond the mountain of corrupted mehkan corpses, Dollop saw a golden figure descending, lowered to the ground by Makina’s flowing hand.
Of course! The Ona could give him the guidance he so needed.
With a new lightness in his step, Dollop bounded across the rubble-strewn ground toward the shining figure of the prophet. Around her stood the Aegis, forming a protective circle at Makina’s feet. He saluted them on his approach and was thrilled to see one of them tip her head to him in acknowledgment.
Then Dollop saw why the Ona had descended. As he neared, Overguard Orei came into view, bowing low before the prophet.
“—task is done,” the kailiak said in her clipped voice.
Not wanting to seem like he was eavesdropping, Dollop tried to look like he was seeking out more machines for the pyre.
“I urged the Everseer to spare them,” the Ona said gently. Her golden skin was more vibrant than it had been in the Depot, and much of the white casing that crusted her body had peeled away. “But in Her infinite wisdom, She made Her decision clear.”
“Am Her servant,” Orei replied.
“And know that She is pleased, Overguard,” the Ona said, her voice misty. “The human children had been defiled, so She was forced to douse their tainted embers.”
“In Her name,” Orei said with another deep bow.
Horror seized Dollop. He staggered away, all thoughts of seeking guidance from the Ona evaporating. Around him, death, and mehkans thirsting for revenge. He could not endure it any longer. His head swam.
His friends were dead. Makina hadn’t merely ordered them to be banished—She had sent them beyond the Shroud.
The Great Engineer, whom he held most dear. Did She know his pain?
Dollop looked back over his shoulder, the holy tower of cloud and fire blurred through his tears. Makina was rising, raising the Ona high into the air, placing her atop the massive arch that straddled the bridge leading to the mainland. It looked like the sunburst symbol of the Foundry, but ruined, with magnificent twisted shards splayed in all directions. Foundry cranes and other construction equipment were gathered around the site, abandoned mid-repair. He wiped his eyes and looked at the prophet, astride the world, with the Mother of Ore standing behind her.
Makina would rain Her judgment down upon this world as ruthlessly as She had upon Phoebe and Micah. He couldn’t bear it. Had to escape, flee back home.
So Dollop ran.
The door closed behind Phoebe and Goodwin, softly hissing on pneumatic hinges. They entered a bare white vestibule identical to the hallway, and another portal in front of them parted. And then, inexplicably, they were outdoors.
The sun was shining, casting prismatic rainbows through a burbling waterfall that tumbled from a precipice of sparkling, quartz-speckled boulders. Leading out from its base was an ornate mahogany bridge that curved over a pond dotted with lily pads. The happy trill of birds and the soothing buzz of bees were everywhere. The crystal waters shimmered with schools of turquoise-and-orange fish. A footpath wound through tree-filled glades and meandered over little hillocks that dotted the landscape. There was even a gentle floral breeze, a chilling reminder of Makina’s demands.
But of course, they weren’t outside at all. This was a beautifully constructed illusion. The wildlife and vegetation were real, although the open sky, brilliant sun, and vast landscape were fabrications achieved with lighting and special effects. Every flower, twig, and pebble within this huge biodome had been staged for maximal effect. This tranquil grotto was just another Foundry lie.
Goodwin looked around, as if trying to make sense of the space. Beneath the serene ambien
ce, they could hear the faint wom-wom-wom of the Radial generator.
“This way,” spoke a disembodied voice.
The waterfall wobbled, then parted like a curtain to reveal a passage through the quartz-flecked precipice.
“You will remain silent,” Goodwin warned Phoebe, and grabbed her by the elbow.
“I will not,” she growled as she tore her arm from his grip, boldly marching across the bridge and through the opening. With a faint growl, he limped after her.
Phoebe and Goodwin emerged into a large oval chamber of sterile white linoleum and polished chrome, with light so bright that it took their eyes a moment to adjust. It had the unpleasantly antiseptic smell of a hospital. There, assembled before them in a semicircle, were five robotic Foundry devices she had never seen before. They were ergonomic recliners so elegant they appeared to float. Each device was fitted with an array of technology in constant motion, a palliative suit of armor that consisted of swiveling Computator panels, blinking monitors, hydraulic arms, pumps in glass enclosures, and slender vials of fluids and medications.
Cradled within the sophisticated wheelchairs were five mummified people so frail and ancient that they barely looked human. They were connected to webs of tube and wire, making them appear more machine than flesh and bone. Slivers of naked skin lay exposed behind the complex appliances, fish-belly white and fragile as wet tissue paper. Their hair was a gauze of wispy yellow, exposing scalps threaded with veins as blue as the familiar Radial conduit that interconnected their devices.
Five toothless mouths hung on flaccid jaws. Ten milky eyes stared blankly.
“Welcome, James. Miss Plumm,” said a voice. No one’s lips had moved, but one of the wheelchairs pivoted and whispered forward. The shriveled thing within twitched, as if in some gesture of greeting, while his voice emanated from an embedded speaker near his head. Although it must have been generated by a Computator, the tone sounded convincingly human. “You have the pleasure of being our first guests.”
