he throne room was hacked from tarnished gold and streaked with rust-red veins. Barbed columns and gnarled buttresses wove together like gilded serpents and formed a twisted ceiling overhead. Hundreds of roosts protruded from the rough-hewn walls, where flying courtiers had perched long ago, each niche sculpted to look like the sun. In the middle of the chamber stood a headless statue eighty feet high, posed in fierce triumph, its luster dulled with age. Dozens of wings sprouted from the back of the monstrous effigy, layered in feathers splayed like saw-blade sunbeams.

This grim palace had lain dormant for epochs, a reminder of a more brutal time. Which was why the Foundry now used it for their headquarters.

The murky golden throne room was the center of operations, pulsing with the urgent activity of nearly a hundred personnel. It was outfitted with humming electric generators that ran banks of Computators and surveillance equipment. Workers and coordinators bustled about while dozens of black-suited Watchmen stood silently, poised to execute orders at a moment’s notice.

Mr. Goodwin stared at a map projecting up from an illuminated table, his fluffy white brows furrowed. Three military executives gathered around the Chairman, clad in steel-trimmed suits ornamented with shining badges, medals, and stripes that signified rank.

“Meridian needs us,” insisted one of the executives, locking his arms across his chest. “We can’t let that Lavaraud clown put our national security in jeopardy.”

“This is much more than rhetoric,” another added. “The Trels are itching for a fight.”

“Especially if these reports of the Quorum’s rearmament are true,” said a third.

“So let’s give President Saltern what he wants and show Trelaine we mean business,” the first said, pointing to the map. “We can divert resources from here, our stations along the Inro Coast. If we give the order now, reinforcements will reach Meridian within thirty-six hours.”

A warbling chime interrupted their conversation.

“Pardon me, gentlemen,” Goodwin said as he stepped away from his advisers to address a conical brass intercom on his desk. “Yes?”

“Mr. Goodwin, I have Captain Strauss reporting,” answered a tinny voice.

“Yes,” he sighed and leafed through a stack of papers. The intercom emitted a series of clicks, and another distorted voice came through.

“Strauss here, sir.”

“You are calling to tell me that you have the Plumm girl in custody.”

“Um, no, sir. We’re close, though. We have been reviewing the security footage. I just patched it through to you. It appears that she and the boy entered the Depot at approximately—”

“You let them cross over?” Goodwin interrupted.

“I…” Strauss trailed off. “Yes, sir. I take full responsibility.”

The Chairman was silent. His crystal blue eyes glowed with the reflection of a nearby Computator screen as he watched the grainy images of Phoebe running from the tunnel and losing her shoe.

“Sir? Sir, I am rectifying the situation as we speak,” Strauss said hastily. “They escaped on cargo truck number CR-0228. We have located the vehicle, and triangulated their potential location to a thirty-mile radius. My team is—”

Goodwin hung up on Strauss. He clicked a button on the intercom and spoke into it once again. “Get me Associate Captain Elias.”

The Chairman watched the footage again.

“Elias here,” came a different voice.

“Congratulations. You are our new Security Captain, First Class.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Take charge of Strauss’s team. Blanket the area in question. Detain the trespassers.”

“Yes, sir. It will be done.”

Goodwin clicked the intercom off.

“Strauss is a fool,” muttered a flat voice.

Goodwin glanced over to a fabric divider, a white hospital partition concealing the silhouette of a man. “Was,” the Chairman said as he approached the screen. “No matter, his mistakes will soon be corrected.”

“Were it me, there would be no mistakes.”

“Of course.” Goodwin smiled warmly. “But I have only one of you. The Dyad Project is still in its infancy.” He watched a group of scientists evaluate readouts from a bay of chirping monitors and check the diodes and leads attached to their subject. “How is he doing?”

One of the researchers checked the display. “Stable.” The man shrugged. “Perfect, really.”

“Perfect.” The Chairman nodded. “Did you hear that?”

The scientists unplugged their probes and retracted their cables. Goodwin watched the white divider as the man’s silhouette rose to its full height. Attendants flocked around it, strapping on a flak jacket and carefully securing long gloves.

Kaspar emerged, flexing and curling his fingers.

“Perfect,” the soldier agreed, devouring the praise and bowing low.

“So what of Jules?” Goodwin asked. “Anything to report?”

“Nothing yet.”

“He is unlikely to cooperate, but I believe with time we can convince him to give us what we need.”

“I can be very convincing,” Kaspar assured him ominously.

“Remember,” warned Goodwin, “Jules is a friend and a valuable asset, so this is still a hands-off directive.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good man.” Goodwin chuckled and clapped the soldier’s rippling shoulder. Kaspar’s face tightened into a sparse grin, and he bowed as the Chairman returned to his advisers at the control center.

“It’s decided,” one of the military executives proclaimed. “If we cut back on our exports by twelve percent for the next two weeks, we can meet Meridian’s military needs.”

“We are ready to make the adjustments.”

“Call off the lockdown,” Goodwin commanded. “Return our security status to Code Yellow and resume production.”

The trio of military executives stared at him blankly.

“What about the intruders?”

“And the reallocation? Meridian is vulnerable so long as—”

“The Foundry will not remain off-line for a couple of children.” The Chairman waved his hand. “They will be caught. As for the troops, we will not accommodate Meridian’s request.”

The advisers began to talk at once, their voices rising in an irritated crescendo that quieted the moment Goodwin spoke.

“I have heard your concerns, and of course, Meridian’s security is always our top priority. But what you fail to consider is that an escalation of forces combined with a decrease in output will be interpreted as an act of war by the Quorum. Would you really provoke Trelaine when they are already seeking confrontation?”

The military executives were listening.

“Not unless you want blood, and I for one do not,” he continued. “Every minute the Foundry remains on lockdown, we lose money. It has been nearly four hours now, and we must make up for these losses. I expect all sectors to double resource acquisition and distribution by the end of the week.”

“That’s preposterous!” one the advisers claimed.

“Mr. Goodwin, you’re being unreasonable.”

“On the contrary,” Goodwin argued coolly. “It is pure reason. Our enemies are organizing, gentlemen. And we know their demands all too well. More Foundry products, more Foundry metal.”

“So we’re just going to buckle and give the enemy what they want?”

“We are going to compromise and meet their needs before we find ourselves at a hostile negotiating table,” he corrected, “or engaged in another protracted war. And we will charge accordingly. Then, once Lavaraud calms down and Trelaine gets what they want? Once the Quorum is sated?”

The Chairman clasped his hands behind his back and turned to look up at the massive golden statue with sunbeam wings that dominated the control room. The menacing figure would have returned his gaze, Goodwin mused, had he not so carelessly lost his head.

“Business as usual.”