The First Book of Ore: The Foundry's Edge (2 page)

Phoebe had visited her father's office at Foundry Central lots of times, and driving on the bridge beneath the Crest was always a thrill. No matter what time of day it was or where you were in the city, it was always the most brilliant point on the horizon. It was said that the sunburst could be seen from twelve hundred miles away, causing many to wonder what kind of metal it could possibly be made from.

The Crest of Dawn was perfection.

Phoebe didn't register the icy jet of water until it smacked her face. It blasted the cup from her hands, dousing her with hot coffee. She staggered back and looked down, mouth agape. Her burning eyes scanned the courtyard for her assailant.

There he was, in the mud beside the irrigation pipes, wheezing for breath. The filthy little twerp tossed aside the tools he had used to crank up the water pressure and clutched his belly in hysterics while the garden hose thrashed like a gutted snake. He was laughing so hard that his stupid, freckled face turned a grotesque, blotchy shade of purple. He pointed one muddy finger at Phoebe before collapsing backward in a snorting spasm of laughter.

“
Gotcha!” he managed to squeak between choking guffaws.

It was Micah, Mrs. Tanner's ten-year-old son and the grease monkey of Plumm Estate. Phoebe wanted to scream curses in his ear until he was deaf, then strangle him with that stupid hose.

Mr. Kashiri, the Plumms' doughy gardener, ran up and grabbed Micah by the collar to reprimand him, but the lunatic hose sprayed him as well, which sent Micah flailing into another fit of giggles. At last, Mr. Kashiri snatched Micah and dragged him away through the hedges.

Phoebe knew what would come next, because it had happened too many times to count. Whenever Micah antagonized Phoebe, he had to answer to his mother, who used a heavy hand in her discipline. The next time Phoebe saw him, he'd have a fresh bruise or some awful new chore. Normally, she felt a twinge of guilt when Mrs. Tanner punished Micah.

Not this time,
she thought as she looked at the coffee stain on her shirt.
This time he's gone too far.

Now, any dimwit could play a joke, as Micah had proven time and time again. But Phoebe didn't do
jokes
. Her attention to detail elevated her above the average prankster, which was why she referred to her careful art as “sniping.” She always made her attacks appear accidental, like a dose of rotten luck. For example, she might separate the supports in a recliner so the person sitting in it would slip between the cushions, or maybe she would file notches in the keys on someone's key ring to render them useless.

But Phoebe was righteous with her snipes, using them only on people who truly deserved it—like Micah. He was obnoxious and clumsy, and he had absolutely no respect for anyone. She had hated the little jerk ever since his first day on the job, when she had caught him trying to pop birds around the feeder with his slingshot. He was the ideal target.

At first, Micah had thought the snipes were his older brother Randall's doing, but eventually he caught on to Phoebe. He tried to expose her as the culprit behind things like the hot pepper in Tennyson's cereal and the earwigs in Mr. Macaroy's pillow. When that didn't work, he resorted to pestering her any chance he got. Unfortunately for him, it won him a whupping every time.

As she used the tablecloth to wipe herself off, her mind raced through all sorts of vengeful scenarios, and the minute Micah's laughter faded, she leaped into action. Phoebe rushed off the veranda, leaving the mess behind for the staff to sort out, and flew down the steps to the manicured courtyard. She glanced around to make sure no one was watching, and then marched through the silver arbor that led to the lane of servants' quarters.

Phoebe's golden brown eyes sparkled as she headed for Micah's work shed.

Gotcha,
she thought.

he scents of rich, oily brass polish and old smoke from the fireplace put Phoebe at ease the instant she entered her father's study. Dr. Plumm was not an orderly man, and the floor of his office was piled with stacks of books and ledgers that seemed to defy gravity. The dark iron shelves were precariously overloaded, and the narrow Computator tower on his desk sat atop a nest of scattered papers and files. Blue shards of light streamed through stained glass windows and raked across the bronze wall panels, illuminating drifting motes of ash and dust.

This was Phoebe's favorite place in the whole house. It felt like her father was lingering just out of sight, hard at work on some inscrutable project. She settled into his pillowed reading chair upholstered in luxurious Durall, a premium material made from velvety-soft metal fibers. Phoebe tousled her hair, which was still damp, and pushed a button on the armrest to start the chair's rocking function.

Her eyes drifted across the walls crowded with certificates, commendations, awards, and accolades for the great Dr. Jules Plumm. She could never remember exactly what her father did for the Foundry, but it was something really important, she knew that much. Not just anyone could get their photograph taken with the president. Phoebe studied the picture, though she knew every nuance of it by heart. Her father was in the middle, a lean rake of a man with a wry grin, the sunlight glinting off one of the lenses of his glasses. He was shaking the hand of President Saltern, who was on the right, boasting that winning smile of his. But her father wasn't looking at the president—instead, he was gazing to the left. To Phoebe's mom.

She wore a sleeveless, ankle-length dress made of overlapping silver rectangles that looked like shimmering scales, and there was a splash of lemonade-colored diamonds in her black bobbed hair. Her eyelashes, thick with mascara, were pinched tight in laughter, and her head was slung back with her mouth wide. She was clutching her husband's arm with both hands. It looked like they were sharing an inside joke at the expense of the most powerful man in the world.

Out of the corner of her eye, Phoebe saw the dimpled copper door of the study swing open. It was Micah, wearing heavy-duty cleaning gloves and muttering to himself. He dragged a sloshing bucket with one hand and clutched a filthy toothbrush in the other, not noticing Phoebe as he trudged toward the private lavatory in the corner.

“Get out of here,” Phoebe said coldly.

Micah startled and almost toppled his bucket, but he quickly regained his composure. He chuckled and took a few moseying steps toward her. The splatter of freckles on the twerp's round face stretched in a snide, lopsided grin that made her skin crawl.

“Costume change, eh, Plumm? What happened to your other shirt there?”

“Some stupid little garden gnome thought he was cute. He was wrong.”

“Ha-ha! Testy, testy. Did I spoil your
pwetty widdle
outfit?”

“Don't you have a toilet to scrub or something?”

Micah glanced down at his toothbrush and bucket and shrugged with feigned indifference. “It was worth it. Anything's worth it to see Freaky scream,” he said, doing his ugliest impression of Phoebe's reaction to the hose.

She rose to her full height and leered down at him. Not only was Phoebe two years older than Micah, but she was also a glorious six inches taller. “Enjoy it while it lasts,” she muttered ominously.

“What's 'at supposed to mean?”

“I guess I'd have to explain it to an inbred hick like you, wouldn't I?” She stepped close enough to make Micah uncomfortable, but he didn't back down. He brushed his rusty blond hair away with a stubby hand and wrinkled his pug nose.

“You're a stuck-up snobby kook, you know that?”

“Better than a crap farmer like you. Is that why you love scrubbing the pot so much?”

“You think you're
so
smart,” he said, starting to go red.

“Ooh! I have a new name for you. Toiletboy. Has a nice ring to it.”

Micah scrambled for the words. “Shut up! You're a…”

She raised her eyebrows, waiting for a brilliant comeback.

“…a stupid freakin' idiot!” Micah finished lamely.

“Wow,” chuckled Phoebe sarcastically. “Such wit.”

“FREAKY!” Micah shouted, his fat mouth bent into an angry scrawl.

A horn blared outside.

“Gotta go, Toiletboy,” Phoebe said, casually breezing past him. She clicked the yellow brooch on the band of her hat, and a spray of fine golden tendrils swished out like a metal ostrich feather. “Oh, and if I were you, which I'm glad I'm not, I'd watch my back…and front, come to think of it.”

“Bring it on. I ain't scared of your stupid tricks!”

She flashed him a smile and left the study.

Phoebe skipped across the foyer, feeling a surge of elation. She so wished she could be around to see Micah stumble upon her snipe. As she approached the copper-plated front doors, she checked the time on the grandfather clock, a family heirloom shaped like an ornately filigreed skyscraper. Seven thirteen a.m. She was late for school and couldn't care less.

The horn bleated again, and she rolled her eyes.

She hefted open the great front doors and hurried down the wide slab steps. On the hammered-steel driveway below, Tennyson the chauffeur was finishing up a quick polish of the long, smoke-gray Baronet with his chamois.

The Plumms had seven Auto-mobiles in all. Phoebe's favorite was the classic, electric-blue Flashback her dad had named Shameless. Tennyson, however, preferred the Baronet, which was the largest and most impressive of the collection. It was a silver arrow of aerodynamic design, with sweeping fenders whose curves reminded Phoebe of brushstrokes. Parallel grooves ran along the body, giving the impression that the Auto-mobile was speeding, even when it was at rest. The Baronet was quite a sight, but it was no match for Shameless.

Tennyson ignored Phoebe and headed for the driver's seat without opening the door for her—their relationship no longer included even that basic formality. She stretched out across the oiled black and silver leather, her foot knocking up against the book bag she had left under the seat.

The Baronet hushed quietly out of the driveway and onto Shimmering Crest, which made a steep series of zigzagging switchbacks all the way down the hill. Tennyson whistled as he drove, clinking his wedding ring on the aluminum steering wheel. Phoebe assumed he was doing that to annoy her.

Two can play at that game,
she thought. So Phoebe activated the Trinka strapped to her wrist and let the toy's spinning tentacles clatter across the ceiling. She did it again and again and looked in the rearview mirror to see if she was getting a rise out of Tennyson, but the chauffeur just whistled and clicked his ring that much louder.

Phoebe lolled her head to the side and gazed out the window as they whizzed from the hills and approached downtown. They plunged in and out of long shadows thrown by the forest of skyscrapers, making it seem like someone was flicking the world's light switch off and on. Phoebe craned her neck to try and see the tops of the buildings they passed.

There was the bronze Lion's Mane Hotel, whose sharp spires seemed to jab at the sky like the prongs of a trident. Then there was the Uniton Tower, home to Phoebe's favorite Televiewer network, which boasted gold windows that slanted in overlapping ribs, reminding Phoebe of a titanic stalk of wheat. Then the Opal District, a plaza of art galleries made of copper covered in a lush green patina. And the Central Library, which resembled the prow of one of the Foundry's impressive ocean liners. And the five silver pillars of the National Museum.

Phoebe rolled down her window to absorb the commotion of morning—the symphony of horns, the clamor of traffic, and the bustle of sharply dressed pedestrians, some walking dogs that were just as elegantly attired. These steely streets were the veins of the city, flowing with thousands of polished Auto-mobiles and pulsing with hordes of hurried people. The Link-Way hubs were packed, as riders hooked their Cable Bikes on to the lines and zipped across the intricate web of aerial wires. Phoebe counted three new building projects, with Over-cranes and Earthshakers hoisting beams into position.

She imagined what wonders these new structures would add to the world-famous skyline. Every year the capital grew more and more magnificent.

“Keep it closed,” grumbled Tennyson as he rolled up her window from his control panel. “Got the air on.”

Phoebe glared at the back of Tennyson's square head and then mashed her button to lower the window again. She slung her arms out of the Auto to prevent the chauffeur from rolling it back up.

As they drove through Paragon Park, Phoebe admired the chrome statue of Creighton Albright at its heart. The legendary inventor of the modern age was holding the globe aloft and gazing upon it with fierce pride. Every Dudscrub and Microcounter, every Auto-mobile and Megatanker, from the tiniest pin to the mightiest skyscraper, every glorious new advancement served as testament to his genius.

She wondered if Albright could have imagined the impact he'd have on the future. That four centuries later, his greatest invention of all, the Foundry, would remain the unrivaled source of progress and innovation.

“Hey!” Phoebe yelped as the window started to close on her. She yanked her arms back into the Auto and pulled the golden tendrils of her hat inside as the glass was sealed tight. She kicked the back of Tennyson's seat.

“I said, keep it closed,” the chauffeur grumbled. “And no kicking.”

Phoebe pressed the button repeatedly, but he had locked her window.

“You can't tell me what to do,” Phoebe huffed.

“That's not what your father said. He told you to be a good little girl and obey me, remember? Upsetting the driver is a hazard.”

Phoebe kicked Tennyson's seat harder.

They emerged from the shelter of the park, and Tennyson turned onto the road that hugged the coastline. As she did every morning at this spot, Phoebe slid to the opposite side of the Auto and stared at her feet. The Baronet was blasted with an intense light, a reflection from the Crest of Dawn, which towered over the island of Foundry Central.

Phoebe squeezed her eyes shut, but not because of the glare.

They were driving on a high bluff above the dark churning bay. Though the Baronet was soundproof, Phoebe could feel the crash of the waves, malevolent and hungry. She trusted that the guardrails would prevent the Baronet from going over the edge, but she could not bear the sight of the water below. Her heart pounded, and she tasted bile at the back of her tongue. She closed her eyes and counted backward from ten, knowing that when she reached zero, the ocean would no longer be yawning, waiting right below her.

Ten. Nine. Eight.

She thought of her father. How when she was little, she couldn't wait to see what gift he had brought her when he returned from his business trips. Nowadays, she just wanted him. She pictured his open arms.

Seven. Six. Five.

She imagined Micah's stupid face turning bright red as he discovered the snipe she had set up that morning. That made her smile.

Four. Three.

They were definitely past the worst part of it by now, but Phoebe didn't like to take any chances. She searched for other glimmers of happiness.

Two.

All at once, the strangest sensation overcame her. It was a prickling chill at the back of her neck that had nothing to do with the dreaded bay below. Phoebe had a powerful urge to look, but she resisted it.

Just one more second to go.

One.

She opened her eyes. Foundry Bay was gone from view as the busy street angled around a bend. But the weird feeling was still there. Phoebe looked out the back window.

Behind the Baronet was an unfamiliar model of Auto-mobile. It was jet-black with a dark bronze stripe down the middle. A row of oval headlights wrapped around the front of the Auto below a narrow, tinted windshield. For an instant, she glimpsed a face behind the smoked glass.