hoebe rocketed up the front steps of the manor and flung open the doors. The house was still and thick with shadows.

“Daddy?”

She blasted past the dimpled copper door to his study. He was standing before the fireplace with his back to her—a lean silhouette carved out by the low light of licking flames.

“Daddy!”

She ran toward her father to embrace him. He turned.

Her blood froze.

His skin was hard and fixed into an eerie grin that did not reach his dead, black eyes. His brittle smile cracked, and fissures snaked across his dented face, revealing the unmistakable shine of metal.

The fireplace roared. She screamed, but no sound came.

He began to grow, stretching, towering to fill the room.

“Cricket,” came his voice, vague and very far away.

She looked down at herself—her flesh was gone, replaced by overlapping scales of metal skin. She could feel a searing gush of life in her ductlike veins and a whirring engine where her heart used to be.

Phoebe was a mehkan.

“Cricket.” This time the word was a rusty peal.

In her father’s white-gloved hand was an enormous glass jar. He leered down at her, sparks crackling in his fractured eyes. She tried to get away, but her legs were bent backward like an insect, snapping in ways she did not understand. Phoebe pounced and flailed, but she was not fast enough.

The jar slammed down around her. She leaped like mad but only clanged against the glass ceiling. His monstrous hand tightened. Cracks shivered across the dome overhead. The gritty crunch of splintering glass.

Her father’s hand came crashing down.

WHOOMF.

The sound was like the ignition of a powerful gas jet. She threw back her tablecloth covers and scuttled away in a panic. Nearby, Micah laughed.

“Up and at ’em, Plumm!” The sparky he had befriended ran circles around him, bouncing on piston legs.

Her heart was pounding. She glanced around the room, trying to shake the dream from her blurry mind. The ballroom was transformed, now awash in streaming light, refracting rainbows through the crystal chandelier. Dollop sat with Mr. Pynch and the Marquis on the far side the room, gobbling up handfuls of glop from a hexagonal shell. The mehkans were huddling around a carefully arranged stack of little curved rods knotted with symbols.

“H-h-happy rise!” Dollop called over to her. Mr. Pynch waved, and the Marquis flickered a cheery hello. “Th-they’re teaching me how to play, um, Sliverytik. It’s gr-great fun, and I lost all five games, but—”

Mr. Pynch played his hand by adding pieces to the stack, which re-formed to an intricate new shape with a little ticking sound. Dollop’s shoulders sank.

“Uh, m-m-make that six games.”

“Peaches?” Micah said out the side of his crammed mouth and offered her a can. She took it and quickly devoured the remnants, letting the succulent fruit chase away her grogginess.

“What happened last night?” she whispered, eyeing the mehkans across the room warily. “You were supposed to wake me up, remember?”

“Eh, you needed your beauty sleep. No worries. Dollop and I kept watch.” He whipped the Lodestar up and twirled it around his hand in a practiced gesture. “’Sides, I had to get this puppy up and runnin’, didn’t I?”

The weapon was dented and held together with new scrap-metal additions, but she could tell Micah had spent all night repairing it. The coiled tip glowed with a purple light and emitted a steady hum. As she ate, he pointed the Lodestar at her and squeezed a trigger on the handgrip. The glow surged, and the can was whipped from her hand, drawn to the flaring coil with a clink.

“Fire in the hole!” Micah called out, aiming his club at the mehkans across the room. He fiddled with the knobs until he heard the cheery ping that announced that the Lodestar was ready. He squeezed the trigger again, and WHOOMF! A fuzzy bubble bloomed out of the purple coil, a pulse of wavering energy that launched the can like a missile. The sparky took off after it, squealing with delight, but the Marquis extended a telescoping arm and caught the can with the tip of his umbrella.

“Much obliged, Master Micah,” called Mr. Pynch. He scooped up the Sliverytik rods and shuffled them expertly while addressing Dollop. “You be quite the expedient learner, me lad. How’s about we toss a round for keeps?”

The Lodestar’s hum rose in pitch, ending with that pleasant chime. Micah beamed as brightly as his new toy.

“Worked up a new pulse switcher out of bits and bobs I found lyin’ around,” he boasted. “It’s the same as them big ol’ coil dealies—the ones we saw lined up around the train yard. The Foundry must have all kinds of crazy magnet weapons here. Pretty freakin’ sweet, right?”

“Yeah,” Phoebe said, chuckling. There was something new about him, like the Lodestar had fed his growing confidence. “I’m impressed.”

“I mean it’s no gun, or nothin’,” he mused, “but it’s wicked strong. I’m still gettin’ the hang of it.”

“Hey, what’s with the getup?” she asked, suddenly registering that he was decked out in a strange, oversized outfit that was bunched up and tied off at the arms and legs. His grin grew even wider as he hooked his thumbs under his collar, flipping it up. It was a singed, mismatched set of industrial coveralls, complete with gloves and protective pads. The jumble of yellow and gray was imprinted with a snazzy pattern of interlocking triangles. On the sleeve was a patch bearing the Foundry’s sunburst logo.

“Hundred-percent Durall. Musta cost a freakin’ fortune!” Micah squawked, his voice cracking awkwardly. He was too excited to be embarrassed. “Snatched ’em from a busted storage room downstairs. Now we don’t have to get all sliced up anymore. Go ahead, try ’em on.”

He gestured with his Lodestar to another set of gear that lay folded on the ground. She grabbed the pile and saw what was hidden underneath.

“Boots!” she gasped. Each scuffed shoe had come from a different pair, since the color and size didn’t really match, but it was a miracle. She could have hugged him.

Micah just shrugged.

“Thank you,” she said with a smile. Phoebe grabbed the metal jug and poured a little water into the empty canister. “Let me get changed. Can you gather up the food and—”

“Oh, you mean that?” he said, motioning to a heavy-duty Durall rucksack filled with their meager supplies. She laughed.

“You’re the best,” she said, lightly touching his shoulder. He looked down at her hand. “Give Dollop a heads-up we’ll be leaving soon. I’ll be right out.”

“Not a problem.” He grinned at Phoebe’s back, watching her hurry out of the ballroom with her cup of water. “I got it all under control.”

She wandered down a hall littered with debris, past a marred bust that might have once been Creighton Albright, and found a blackened washroom. The plaster walls were ripped to shreds, the stalls were leveled, and the silver sinks were crumpled, but it would do for a minute of privacy.

Phoebe slipped out of her skirt, tossed aside Micah’s stinky jacket, and pulled on the coveralls. Although it was heavy, the jumpsuit was surprisingly comfortable. It was made for an adult, a smoker, she guessed by the smell of stale cigars, and it draped over her willowy frame like a woven metal bathrobe. She zipped it up, then rolled the sleeves and cuffs, securing the folded material with the attached straps. After snapping the protective elbow and knee pads into place, she discovered a hood hanging in the back with a transparent shield for the eyes. This connected to the face mask that unfolded from the collar and contained a breathing apparatus. She tested the mouthpiece and inhaled, then coughed—yup, the previous owner was definitely a smoker.

Phoebe sat on a pile of rubble and unwrapped the wire and metal fronds that bound her blood-caked foot. The sight unnerved her. She couldn’t believe how far she had managed to walk on it. Her sock was crusty red and plastered to the wound. She bit her lip to keep from crying out as she gently removed it. The gash was nearly an inch long, swollen and tender, but thankfully it didn’t appear to be infected.

She didn’t know the first thing about dressing wounds, so all she could think to do was clean it with water. Phoebe found some tattered hand towels and tore them into strips. She wrapped the pieces around her feet and crammed the rest into her Durall boots, which were several sizes too large. The second she slipped her feet in and eased them down onto the soles, she let out a blissful sigh of relief.

Her eyes fixed on her sniping skirt, crumpled on the floor. There was a ragged tear from when she had squeezed through the barricaded door last night. After nearly two days in Mehk, the garment was covered in snagged seams and little punctures, but it was basically intact. She fished her needle and thread from one of the secret pockets that she had stitched into the pleats and set to work fixing the tear.

Phoebe’s mother had taught her to sew. They used to sneak into her father’s closet and steal clothes for her to practice on. Together, they would rip armpits and tear pant legs, giggling all the while. The challenge was for Phoebe to make the mend seamless so that her dad wouldn’t notice. She suspected he had been playing along the entire time, pretending to be oblivious.

Her mother had also taught her that some tears could not be mended.

Luckily, this was not one of those tears. She made quick work of it and pulled the skirt on over the industrial coveralls. The combination looked utterly absurd but she didn’t care. She grabbed her Durall gloves, the cup, and Micah’s jacket. As she turned to leave the washroom, Phoebe caught a glance of her reflection in a cracked mirror that remained on the wall.

Is that…me?

Her hair was a matted nest, her face sunburned and stained with sweat-streaked grease. She held her own gaze for a long moment, marveling at the hardened girl staring back at her.

She was doing this. She was going to find him.

Would her father know her? She barely knew herself anymore. He would recognize the skirt—all the more reason for her to keep wearing it. And what would her mother have said to him if she had learned the truth about Mehk? Would she forgive him, or was this a tear that could not be mended?

Phoebe looked down at the Foundry patch on the sleeve of her coveralls. She dug her bony fingers underneath the stitches, ripped it off like a scab, and tossed it aside before marching out of the washroom.