The First Book of Ore: The Foundry's Edge (33 page)

“They must be close,” he said.

“Will not engage,” she growled. “Move, bleeder. Or Entakhai will carry.”

At the sound of his name, the wounded crane claw mehkan snapped his heavy fist closed with a clang. The other Covenant warriors tensed.

“You need me,” Jules shot back at her. “You only managed to infiltrate the Citadel because of my information. Defy me, force us to leave, and I will tell you nothing more.”

“We must save them,” Phoebe insisted, stepping beside him.

Orei thrust her lethal, bladed head inches from Jules and Phoebe. The Covenant commander's measuring apparatus clicked and surveyed, clacking and stretching out from her body toward the humans to size them up.

They didn't flinch. Phoebe squeezed her father's hand.

Orei turned and barked insistent Rattletrap orders to her warriors. They responded instantly, fanning out to assume a battle formation. With a swish of cable, the chraida jetted up into the shadows above the deactivated lighting grid. Another ominous mehkan, who appeared to be draped in a cloak like the Grim Reaper, leaped up and careened off the walls toward the ceiling. As it bled into the darkness, Phoebe could see its undulating robe was a muscular membrane like that of the syllks, hiding a cluster of spring-loaded javelin legs.

The gecko mehkan slinked up to Orei, and its long beak splayed open like a pronged radar dish. It scanned its head and gurgled to the commander.

“Korluth has a signal. Must evacuate in minus sixteen ticks,” Orei's voice reverberated harshly. Jules nodded and readied his humming Dervish rifle.

“Or what?” Phobe asked.

The Covenant commander seemed to turn her attention to Phoebe, though her featureless face of arcs and planes made it impossible to be sure.

“Or we all die when the Citadel falls.”

In the shadow of the great headless effigy of Kallorax, the control center buzzed like an angry hornet nest. Goodwin stood at the heart of it all, the axis around which every operation orbited. Engineers barraged him with analyses of system schematics. Technicians reported every development as they worked to restore the Omnicams and Dervish turrets in the affected areas. Watchman Coordinators updated him as they deployed and managed their military units.

Goodwin studied an illuminated map of the Citadel with his crystalline blue eyes. The three military executives surrounded him, arguing and shouting as they formulated a strategy. Kaspar stood nearby, rigidly at attention.

“And I'm saying they sealed off four minor sectors on four different floors with no rhyme or reason,” one of the executives insisted as he pointed to the red highlighted specks scattered throughout the gigantic map. “Until we know their objective, there are no priorities. Retake all four at once.”

“It's too random,” said another. “This attack feels desperate. Like they just disabled whatever they could manage.”

“I wouldn't even call it an attack,” the first dismissed. “It's sabotage, just a hack job. Our sensors detect no unidentified heat signatures in the affected areas. We're chasing ghosts.”

“Then what's that?” replied the third executive, pointing to a giant screen above them that flickered with incomprehensible footage, flashing shadows and gunfire. “That's a Watchman unit optic feed in Sublevel-C. Who are they shooting at? And why are all eighteen units off line now?”

“Their targeting systems are buggy in the dark.”

“Don't be naïve,” Goodwin said. “This is Plumm's work. It is an invasion.”

The military executives considered the Chairman.

“They have circumvented our defenses. They have isolated specific areas and used our own security apparatus to lock us out.” Goodwin smiled wryly. “They are even masking their body heat to cloak their presence. Jules gave the Covenant everything they need, make no mistake.”

“To what end?” one asked. “Their incursion is aimless.”

“Decoys. To distract us from their target.”

A captain approached, shouldering his way through the barrage of messengers. He saluted the Chairman.

“The remaining Watchmen sealed in the detainment block are moving into tactical formation Delta-Five, sir.”

“How many total?” Goodwin asked without looking up from a memo.

“Forty-seven, sir.”

“Put the live feeds on display. I want active operator control of every unit. And I want those surrounding doors open. Mobilize the platoons.”

“We are still working to disengage the emergency locks, sir,” the captain explained. Goodwin looked at him. “The enemy has overridden those circuits. It will take another—”

“Retake the sector. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir. What about the captives?”

“Expendable. I have what I need. No one escapes.”

A grin slashed across Kaspar's lips as the captain marched away.

“All this just to rescue Plumm?” an executive mused.

“Hardly. He's only half of it,” Goodwin muttered and pointed to the map.

“Level Three?” one of the pin-striped men scoffed.

“If any of these are decoys, it's Three,” said another. “Offices, nothing more.”

“And through a couple of walls?” the Chairman said, sliding his finger slowly across the building schematic. They looked at Goodwin in unison.

“The Armory?”

“Impossible. It's too well fortified.”

“Are you certain?” Goodwin asked. “With everything Plumm knows?

“It's the only target worth this effort,” another said.

They nodded. It was unanimous. Time was of the essence. The military executives broke from their huddle and began to bark orders at their subordinates. Goodwin supervised the Foundry in motion, as perfectly polished a machine as they were ever likely to create.

“All units on Level Three,” came a voice over the intercom. “Take up defensive positions around the Armory immediately. Repeat, take up defensive positions around the Armory.”

The giant screen lit up with a grid of flickering windows, each displaying a live feed from the optical sensors of a single Watchman. The military executives relayed orders to coordinators, who were manually issuing commands to the automated Foundry soldiers.

“I will see to Plumm,” Kaspar growled.

Goodwin turned to him. “No. I need you at the Armory. Organize the defenses there and hold off the Covenant.”

“But the intruders are below.”

“They are not my concern. The real threat is above.”

“Get your sheep to supervise that. I want Plumm.”

“I said no.” Goodwin's baritone rang out, and his icy eyes glared. Nearby Foundry workers turned to look. “Plumm is no longer your concern.”

Kaspar gritted his teeth and clenched his gloved fists.

“You said I could have him when the time came.”

“Do as you are told,” the Chairman commanded.

Their eyes locked.

“Do it!” Goodwin snapped.

A hush descended on the command center. The grotesque soldier bowed his head and departed. Goodwin turned his attention back to the monitors.

Kaspar marched stiffly away from Goodwin. He loomed over the urgent rush of Foundry workers and cut through the pesky flood. Throwing open a pair of reinforced platinum doors, he strode down a reflective, brightly lit hallway toward the bank of elevators. Other employees made way for him, staring and yet trying so hard not to stare.

He hit the call button hard enough to crack it. Kaspar looked at his hand, pulsing, bulging beneath his glove. The other workers waiting for the elevators backed away. The car dinged, and he stormed inside.

As soon as the doors closed, Kaspar unleashed his wrath. He pulverized the walls with a whirlwind of crushing blows, denting and rending. He threw crashing kicks and butted wildly with his head, crumpling the elevator car. Everyone in the hall could surely hear, but he didn't care.

The rage was in control. He was just a vessel.

But the fit soon passed. He stood there, panting and flexing his hands, feeling the colossal swell of living machinery within him subside.

He looked at the panel of buttons.

Kaspar made his choice.

ollop knew he should be thankful. His death would be mercifully quick.

The giant suspended containers chugged along their cables toward Kallorax's furnace. Their bases were hinged on one side, and they crashed open, spilling out refuse like beasts being disemboweled. The crater below devoured the scrap hungrily, erupting in searing splashes that fragmented into galaxies of molten, glowing droplets. The emptied bins then closed and clattered backward to be filled up once more.

The grate that he clung to at the base of the container grew hot as he approached the flames. The stifling, sulfuric air stung his insides.

Dollop wept. In a mere tick, he would be snuffed out. This was the end. The gears of fate had brought him here. It was Makina's will, and at long last, he would return to Her.

Wasn't that worth the brief moments of unbearable pain?

He searched his fractured mind for anything that might give him courage. At the housing of the Waybound where he had been raised, the axials used to praise the final moments of the Ona, holy prophet of the Great Engineer killed by CHAR four hundred phases ago. It was said that she embraced death unflinchingly, and that her ember blazed brightest of all. That is how he wanted to depart the ore—fearless, faithful, and content. He racked his memory for the Ona's final words.

The Waybound called it “The Martyr's Prayer.”

“O M-M-Mother of Ore, return my ember to Thy bosom, embr-r-race me in Thy Forge,”
Dollop chanted in Rattletrap.
“I—I commend my span to Thee, for Thou art the Creator of the sacred machine, and only You can fathom its gears.”

Dollop's tears spilled through the drain. He longed for his dynamo, but his precious symbol was lost in the scrap.

“I—I—I am blind in your presence, O Everseer, and—and in Thy infinite and infallible plan, my f-function is at an end.”
Dollop coughed against the rising heat.
“Um, l-lead me gently beyond the Sh-Shroud.”

The Ona had not feared death. She had met it with the same serenity in which she had lived. Of course, she was a vital component and died knowing Makina would welcome her with open arms. Dollop would not have the same fate. Still, invoking her sublime name gave him strength.

Though not enough to keep him from trembling.

“May You deem me w-w-worthy to interlock with Thee, O Divine D-D-Dynamo,”
he yelled over the raging flames,
“and may You welcome my-my ember with infinite l-love so that I may blaze with Thee eternally ev-v-ver after.”

CRASH!

Another container slammed open up just ahead, jolting him from his reverie as it emptied into the furnace. The air was sweltering, unbearable. Nearly there now. His liquefied body would blend with the scrap. He would be reunited with his beloved dynamo within the flames, oozing together down the molten streams for Watchman workers to attend to.

Dollop shook violently, disturbing the precarious pile of refuse above him. It shifted and fell, squashing him hard against the hot grate. His hand tore down the middle, fingers passing through gaps in the mesh.

He screamed. Desperate panic sundered him. He wasn't going to die in a sudden scorching burst—he was going to melt slowly, agonizingly, before he even got to the furnace. It had already begun.

Then, all of a sudden, he quieted.

There was no pain. That was curious. The two halves of his hand wiggled outside of the bin. A strange new sensation tingled within him. The pieces of his body were speaking in unison, a chorus of life, and he heard every note distinctly. A dawning realization washed over Dollop. He was suddenly conscious of the many connections in his anatomy, ones he had never known or perhaps had long forgotten, all held together with a powerful, intangible energy.

He rammed his other hand against the drain, and it too split open, pieces parting to pass through the narrow holes. Concentrating, he willed his hands to detach from his wrists. They wriggled through the opening, fingers shifting and swapping places to cling to the grate. Outside the container.

Could it be?

A second ago, he had been preparing to die. Now Makina was showing him the way. He had been wrong all along, seeing it backward for his entire span. He was used to falling apart, his slipshod body always separating at the worst time. But it was not a curse, not a weakness. It was a talent. A blessing.

Dollop was more certain of this than anything he had ever felt before. It radiated with a brilliant clarity brighter than the murderous crucible below.

He had found his function. Now was not his time to go.

His container was almost above the furnace. He popped off his forearms and jammed them through the diamond-shaped gaps, where they linked to his waiting hands. In a flash, he disassembled pieces of his slender arms and legs, fit them through the drain holes, and then reconstructed himself outside the bin. With trembling focus, he split his torso and head into smaller chunks. It was a bewildering feeling, some of his segments so sensitive that he got woozy just handling them. But he pictured himself as fluid, vesper spilling through the grate. His connections loosened and released, and his body let go.

Yet it wasn't enough—his last pieces were too big to fit. The solution presented itself with tranquil simplicity. Hanging below the container, his parts stretched out, forming a long chain of limbs. Despite the separation and irregularity of his form, he felt an astonishing wholeness, an innate understanding of where every bit of his modular body was in space.

There was a squeal, then a bang as the latch released.

The bottom dropped away.

Dollop plummeted, weightless. Tons of scrap shoved and bashed against him. He fell toward the furnace's molten heart. His eyes closed, but not out of fear. He honed in on every section, fully aware of himself. Parts tumbled through space. His long chain of limbs reached out to grab falling segments, summoning himself back together through the tide of trash.

He reassembled himself, complete and clinging to the outside of the bin. Dollop was an unrecognizable, jumbled assembly. Sections of his chest stuck to his feet, and bits of head joined to his rear end like doll pieces glued at random. Holding fast to the grate, he swung loosely from the hinged bottom as the container unloaded junk into the bubbling brew.

Before he could rejoice, an eruption splashed up. Scalding metal droplets sprayed Dollop, searing his soft metal flesh. He cried out. Excruciating pain shook him. The agony was so sudden that he nearly lost his grip.

But still he held on, shortening his chain of body parts to avoid any more molten backsplash. His mind reeled from the burns scattered across his body. The bottom of the bin swept up and snapped closed. He dangled beneath while it reversed on its cable pathway, the scorching air growing cooler as he was carried away from the furnace.

The empty container moved fast and plunged back into its shadowy recess in the wall. He let go and dropped down a few feet to the floor of the niche, crumpling into a misshapen ball as the deathtrap clattered off. The air shook with a cascading roar as tons of scrap began to refill the container. Dollop huddled for a moment, rocking back and forth. He caressed his wounds, bright spatters of hardened silver dotting his chest, shoulder, and the back of one leg. He prodded gently at his scars and winced at the pain.

The snarl of machines and a clamor of activity drew his attention. He crept to the edge of the tunnel and looked down. Lit by the rivers of fire, an army of Watchmen workers in shiny protective suits labored over the troughs of liquefied metal. They poured the molten scrap into molds to create beams, sheets, and ingots. There were hundreds of pallets piled high with gleaming, symmetrical stacks of brand new metal.

The Foundry had turned Kallorax's furnace into a smelting factory.

Far to the right, he spied cargo trains speeding about, whisking the metal shipments away through busy tunnels. It was some sort of shipping zone, bustling with workers, but it looked like a way out.

Dollop began his descent to the factory floor, extending in a long chain of parts again, hoping that the Watchmen were too consumed with their jobs to notice. His wounds still flared, but he gritted his teeth and swallowed down the pain, focusing on the task at hand.

He was alive.

He had invoked the name of the Ona, and Makina had spared him. She had given him a second chance, and he would not fail Her.

He was going to find his friends and escape the Citadel.

“Pr-praise the gears,” he said, beaming in triumph.

Distant rumbles. Heavy clangs like a battering ram. The Foundry was forcing their way into the detainment block.

The Covenant team, bathed in the red glow of the emergency lights, stalked down the curved corridor. Phoebe stayed close to her father, who carried his Dervish rifle at the ready. It was strange to see a weapon in her gentle father's hands, but he held it expertly. There was so much about him she didn't know, so many secrets he had kept from her.

Orei led the five mehkans in a tight formation on the ground while the chraida and the mysterious Grim Reaper figure scouted above like falcons, invisible and silent. The Covenant commander held up a hand, and they flattened against the wall to hide from enemies who might be lurking around the blind curve ahead. The rings and sliders on her arms ticked out some sort of calculation. Satisfied the coast was clear, Orei gestured for them to proceed.

The corridor opened into a hexagonal distribution hub where six hallways converged. It was an expansive cave populated with towering stacks of steel crates and racks loaded with supplies. There were blocks of massive batteries, organized tanks of pressurized gas, and tire-size spools of conduit. A fleet of Mini-lifts was parked inside docks in the walls.

The Covenant team spread out with practiced precision to secure the hub. The gecko mehkan named Korluth scuttled atop a stack of trunks, splaying his long beak into a pronged radar dish to scan the area. He gurgled a report and gestured to a corridor on the opposite side of the chamber.

That must lead to Micah, Phoebe realized with a rush.

Orei barked orders, and the team swept toward their destination, slinking and swinging, lumbering and running.

Suddenly, the commander tensed, sliders on her apparatus in a frenzy. They all froze, awaiting her command.

“Back!” she snapped. “Twenty-two puppets. Incoming!”

She hurled Jules and Phoebe out of the way as the Covenant warriors dove for safety. A whistling torrent of muted gunfire came at them, storming out from the corridor that led to Micah. Orei issued orders to a tumorous hunchback mehkan with spindly arms that reached the ground. Jules pulled Phoebe behind the cover of a giant crate. An explosion pounded the air.

She felt the hot, concussive whack of wind. Her ears rang, and her vision rippled. She braved a glance just as the hunchback mehkan ripped a seeping growth off its own bulbous body. The thing wriggled in his hand and bleated as the warrior bit down on it. With a snap of its arm, the mehkan hurled the blob at the squadron of Watchmen spilling from the corridor. Another blinding detonation, so hot it burned blue. She saw a couple of enemy soldiers disintegrate, their pieces blasting apart in every direction.

The hunchback was covered in living grenades.

“Stay,” Orei ordered Phoebe and Jules, forcing them back.

Rifle fire hissed at Orei, but the rings of her body twirled and parted, and the bullets flew harmlessly through the gaps. She spun away to command her team, and Jules provided cover with a burst of whistling rounds from his gun.

With a fearsome bellow, the huge crane claw mehkan called Entakhai charged the Watchmen, his I-beam arms held up as a shield. They peppered him with bullets, but he was too fast. Entakhai collided with a pair of soldiers, smashing them against the wall like a bulldozer. He grabbed another with his one good hand and crushed it as if it were made of papier-mâché, and then launched the broken body at the other attackers.