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Book: The First Book of Ore: The Foundry's Edge by Cameron Baity, Benny Zelkowicz
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Authors: Cameron Baity, Benny Zelkowicz
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three. Now two.
He dove.
er father was gone.
Phoebe was alone, a prisoner in the Foundry.
Sodium lamps blared overhead as the bronze-striped Auto drove through a dull concrete parking structure. She could see hundreds of identical Autos lined up in neat rows or stacked atop one another like the shoes in her Carousel. The driver pulled into a narrow berth, and three of the Watchmen climbed out. They hauled her fatherâs files from the trunk, then vanished down a long, shadowy corridor. The last Watchman grabbed Phoebeâs wrist and half-dragged her through the concrete lot, passing pillar after massive pillar until she was nauseous from the monotony.
She wanted to collapse, to give in and surrender to despair, but she knew the Watchman would just pick her up and carry her. The thought of him, or it , grabbing her, holding her close, was the only thing that kept Phoebe going.
Ahead, she could see a steep stairwell descending into darkness. This must be âthe penâ that Kaspar had mentioned. What was waiting for her down there? Were they going to lock her up? Or kill her?
Enough moping.
Phoebe could handle a single Watchmanâshe had already managed to escape one that day, after all. But what was her strategy? She slowed her pace and looked around. If only she could slip away, she could hide in any number of shadowy niches, and thenâ¦what?
She needed a distraction. Shoelaces. A primitive trick, but she had sniped Charlie Towers last summer by tying his laces to an Insta-mow. He didnât notice a thing until the automated grass trimmer turned on and hauled him across the athletic fields, kicking and screaming.
They were almost at the stairs. Phoebe could see a low ceiling and a dense nest of pipes. A boiler room. Not a place she wanted to experience.
âOuch!â she yelped and stumbled. The Watchman tried to catch her, but she tore away from his grasp and sprawled on the ground, whimpering as if she had hurt herself. Phoebe angled her body to block the Watchmanâs view while she reached for his shoes.
They were gleaming, seamless black metal. No laces.
Her hope drained away.
âHey, Whiskers!â
Her captor drew up sharply and turned toward the voice.
Something smashed the Watchman and sent him reeling over Phoebe, who was still on her hands and knees. The Watchman toppled over her back, turning a full rotation in the air before crashing down the stairwell with a sound like a trash bin being overturned. She sprang to her feet.
Disheveled and peppered by oak leaves, clumps of white paint still gumming up his hair, Micah flashed a cockeyed grin. He was so out of place here that it took her a second to recognize him.
âRun!â he shouted, and bolted away.
Phoebe stood rooted to the spot. Then she saw a white-gloved hand reaching from the darkness, clawing up the stairs. Her senses cleared in a snap. She chased after Micah.
They darted and dodged through rows of Autos, clambering over waxed hoods and leaving smears on windshields.
Click-clack-click-clack. She glanced back.
The Watchman was gaining on them, weaving through obstacles in single-minded pursuit. His bowler hat had fallen off, and his right cheek was smashed, so half of his curled mustache dangled limply. Instead of blood, dents puckered his face, revealing the glint of metal. There were no eyes behind his shattered spectacles, only black optical sensors.
The kids dashed down the nearest passageway, through a thick steel door, and slammed it shut. Micah barely had time to lock the bolt before their pursuer collided against the other side. There was a flurry of jarring blows as the Watchman pounded on the heavy door, which rattled against its hinges. Micah flattened himself against it as if his meager weight could hold it in place.
And then, abruptly, the assault stopped. There was a long moment of silence followed by the sound of the Watchmanâs metal shoes clacking away.
Phoebe huffed for breath
He dove.
er father was gone.
Phoebe was alone, a prisoner in the Foundry.
Sodium lamps blared overhead as the bronze-striped Auto drove through a dull concrete parking structure. She could see hundreds of identical Autos lined up in neat rows or stacked atop one another like the shoes in her Carousel. The driver pulled into a narrow berth, and three of the Watchmen climbed out. They hauled her fatherâs files from the trunk, then vanished down a long, shadowy corridor. The last Watchman grabbed Phoebeâs wrist and half-dragged her through the concrete lot, passing pillar after massive pillar until she was nauseous from the monotony.
She wanted to collapse, to give in and surrender to despair, but she knew the Watchman would just pick her up and carry her. The thought of him, or it , grabbing her, holding her close, was the only thing that kept Phoebe going.
Ahead, she could see a steep stairwell descending into darkness. This must be âthe penâ that Kaspar had mentioned. What was waiting for her down there? Were they going to lock her up? Or kill her?
Enough moping.
Phoebe could handle a single Watchmanâshe had already managed to escape one that day, after all. But what was her strategy? She slowed her pace and looked around. If only she could slip away, she could hide in any number of shadowy niches, and thenâ¦what?
She needed a distraction. Shoelaces. A primitive trick, but she had sniped Charlie Towers last summer by tying his laces to an Insta-mow. He didnât notice a thing until the automated grass trimmer turned on and hauled him across the athletic fields, kicking and screaming.
They were almost at the stairs. Phoebe could see a low ceiling and a dense nest of pipes. A boiler room. Not a place she wanted to experience.
âOuch!â she yelped and stumbled. The Watchman tried to catch her, but she tore away from his grasp and sprawled on the ground, whimpering as if she had hurt herself. Phoebe angled her body to block the Watchmanâs view while she reached for his shoes.
They were gleaming, seamless black metal. No laces.
Her hope drained away.
âHey, Whiskers!â
Her captor drew up sharply and turned toward the voice.
Something smashed the Watchman and sent him reeling over Phoebe, who was still on her hands and knees. The Watchman toppled over her back, turning a full rotation in the air before crashing down the stairwell with a sound like a trash bin being overturned. She sprang to her feet.
Disheveled and peppered by oak leaves, clumps of white paint still gumming up his hair, Micah flashed a cockeyed grin. He was so out of place here that it took her a second to recognize him.
âRun!â he shouted, and bolted away.
Phoebe stood rooted to the spot. Then she saw a white-gloved hand reaching from the darkness, clawing up the stairs. Her senses cleared in a snap. She chased after Micah.
They darted and dodged through rows of Autos, clambering over waxed hoods and leaving smears on windshields.
Click-clack-click-clack. She glanced back.
The Watchman was gaining on them, weaving through obstacles in single-minded pursuit. His bowler hat had fallen off, and his right cheek was smashed, so half of his curled mustache dangled limply. Instead of blood, dents puckered his face, revealing the glint of metal. There were no eyes behind his shattered spectacles, only black optical sensors.
The kids dashed down the nearest passageway, through a thick steel door, and slammed it shut. Micah barely had time to lock the bolt before their pursuer collided against the other side. There was a flurry of jarring blows as the Watchman pounded on the heavy door, which rattled against its hinges. Micah flattened himself against it as if his meager weight could hold it in place.
And then, abruptly, the assault stopped. There was a long moment of silence followed by the sound of the Watchmanâs metal shoes clacking away.
Phoebe huffed for breath
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