Author's note: I do not hate the Harry Potter series. I can understand how my previous note may have given you that misconception. On the contrary, I love the series. I create endless stories about it and wish that I was a character in the series. I do not object to any of it; in fact, I have a small shrine dedicated to J.K. Rowling in my basement. I have also named all of my Pokémon after HP characters (for example, my Oddish is named Neville).
I wrote that note in the middle of a furious war about a minor plot note in the fourth book; a friend and I were trying to figure out what the infamous plot hole that J.K. had to fix was. I was getting heartily sick of discussing it, and told my friend to go…ah, well. You can imagine the rest. The bottom line is, that note was written in a fit of anger with children's fantasy literature.
I still urge you to go and read the Discworld series, by Terry Pratchett; and The Iron Dragon's Daughter, by Michael Swanwick. I also did not intend to anger any Tolkien fans. I simply happen to dislike Tolkien for the simple reason that Tolkien's prose isn't even purple; it's indigo.
The Iron Dragon's Children
Chapter One
Ferrah of the Swancandle Dragon Factory, Moloch Division, was happy with her life. She is fifteen years old, and had just gotten a huge promotion, from Engine Assembly to Overseas Skills. She is loyal to the factory; she has the Greenleaf emblem tattooed on her arm, as did all of the workers; it is a stylized leaf inside of a many-toothed gear.
Ferrah has shaggy hair down to her back, originally black, but dyed a sticky orange by the fumes and chemicals of the factory. She has tanned skin from working in the heat of the foundries and under fluorescent lights all day long; she has steel-grey eyes, shiny from the protective lenses that she had gotten when she first began work. She is tall and lean, with muscles like thin steel cords from lifting heavy objects all day, and long, slim fingers. She usually wears a tight-fitting green dragonskin suit, the uniform of the industrial witch.
Ferrah works in the factory from 7 AM to 7 PM, a 12-hour shift. During the weekday, she rarely sees her family. Her father Jake works in the factory as well, grinding cogs. Her mother Beth is a schoolteacher, teaching children from 3 years of age to 10 years of age how to read and write. Ferrah has two younger siblings; Agren, a 9-year-old girl with silver hair and blue eyes, and Auren, a 7-year-old boy with gold hair and brown eyes.
Ferrah has her own little workshop, a 5-by-5 room with a phone, a table to set the engines on, a tool board, and chair. She works with three hobs, which they call house-elves in Europe. There's Libby, who has whiskers and a tail; Effie, who has hair in a bun and wears glasses; and Elias, who tells stupid jokes.
At least, she had it until yesterday. That was when Fata Greenleaf, the CEO of the company, called Ferrah into her office.
Flashback: Ferrah enters the Fata's office. At first, the room is completely dark. Then Ferrah's eyes adjust.
There are glow panels arranged in a square, hanging from the ceiling. Ferrah enters the boundaries of the square. The Fata is sitting in a high-backed chair, at her desk, a shiny black slab of marble that hangs suspended in mid-air.
Ferrah takes the only available seat, a brocade cushion that has been thrown on the floor. She looks at the Fata apprehensively.
The Fata is a tall woman, with milk-white skin and mirrored sunglasses. She has shiny black hair, pulled back into a tight, painful bun. She is wearing a tailored white suit, and white gloves.
The Fata smiles. "Ferrah. I have heard good things about you."
Ferrah nods, not daring to speak. She notices a faint ticking, as of a clock.
The Fata reaches underneath her desk and produces a slim manila file, seemingly from nowhere. She flicks through it. "You have a good record, child. You began cleaning gears at age eleven. You were promoted three times in three years, and you are now in Engine Assembly. Is that correct?"
Ferrah looks at her I.D. code tattooed on her hand. It is FJB-1-84-95-SCDF. That stands for Ferrah, first child of Jake and Beth, born in 1984, indentured to the Swancandle Dragon Factory in 1995. "Yes'm. I was—"
Fata Greenleaf cuts her off. "I know all that, Ferrah. We keep complete records on all of our workers." She puts the folder down on the desk. "Very complete records." She abruptly rises from the chair and walks to where Ferrah is sitting. "Stand up, child."
Ferrah obediently stands up, standing at attention as she has been taught to do. Her back is ramrod-straight, her hands at her sides. Her eyes look straight forward. She hears the ticking more clearly now. It's a regular tick, for the most part. Every so often, it ticks just a moment before you expect it, or a moment after. It's an eerie sound, and very unnerving.
Fata Greenleaf raises Ferrah's chin with one delicate hand. "You're quite lovely, my dear."
"Thank you, ma'am." Ferrah hardly moves her mouth. There is a faint hum of machinery coming from around the square of light, the clicking of waldoes and the grinding of gears. It's impossible to tell exactly how large the room is. It could be just big enough to contain the square of light, or it could be miles wide.
The Fata walks around Ferrah, appraising her. "What is your last name?"
"I don't know, ma'am." Ferrah is puzzled. She doesn't have a last name. None of the workers do. They identify themselves by their company and their position.
The Fata quirks one eyebrow. "Really. How long has your family been working for this factory?"
"Since it was built, ma'am." Ferrah is pretty sure of this. Her grandmother, who lives in Caer Viejo, the pensioner's apartment complex, tells stories about when the factory was first built, when the Flint auto industry faltered and the burnt-out assembly plants were gutted from the inside and new, magical equipment was installed.
"Hmm." The Fata stops, standing behind Ferrah. "You seem to have a penchant for magic. You should develop that talent."
"How can you tell, ma'am?" Ferrah asks. She is surprised; no one in her family has ever shown signs of magical talent. All of the factory workers, of course, must be able to use magic to some degree, but it is taught, not known.
"Instinct," snaps the Fata. "Ferrah, I am going to give you a test of your magical abilities." She returns to her desk.
Ferrah remains standing. "Yes'm."
Fata Greenleaf gives her a long, slow look. "What is beyond this desk?"
Ferrah squints. "I can't tell."
The Fata sighs. "Just stand there and look. If I'm correct, you'll be able to tell me exactly what I'm looking for."
Ferrah blinks. The outlines of vague shapes form in her mind. Ancient windup toys, broken beyond repair, appendages hanging off of springs while wheels and fans spin in perpetual motion. Smooth snakes made of springs slither across the floor, stretching themselves out beyond imagining. Ancient birdcages and grandfather clocks, silently dancing in a nonexistent breeze.
Ferrah describes this all to Fata Greenleaf, who seems unimpressed. "You have a small amount of magical ability," she says. "If you had been trained in magic before this, you would be able to see what's really there."
"What is really there, ma'am?" Ferrah asks.
The Fata sighs. "Luckily, you have enough magical abilities to qualify for our voucher system. You're a little old to be starting school, but they'll have to take you. It's the Lore."
Ferrah doesn't quite know how to respond to this. "Thank you, ma'am."
The Fata gestures for Ferrah to leave. "You may go. Return to your workshop and start packing. You will find a letter on your worktable telling you what you need for the school. If you are lacking anything, dial extension 975."
Ferrah turns and marches out of the room.
Right now, Ferrah has just finished packing her suitcase. She isn't taking much, just a few pieces of clothing and a few trinkets of sentimental value. Nobody that works for the factory has very much to call their own.
Ferrah slams down the lid of her suitcase. "All packed."
Libby is sitting on the tool shelf, swinging her legs idly and chewing gum. Elias is packing in sawdust some of the tools that Ferrah uses. Effie is making a pot of tea.
Ferrah turns to the hobs. "Okay, guys. This is the last time I'll see you for a while. Be good for your new worker, okay?"
Libby jumps off of the shelf. "Yes, lady. We'll be good." She winks at Ferrah.
Effie gives Ferrah a cup of tea. "Good luck, honey."
Elias lugs something up to the table and sets it on top of Ferrah's suitcase. "We made this necklace for you!"
Ferrah stares at it. It's a long, thin gear chain that's been woven into a choker of gears. "It's…lovely. What is it?"
Elias looks put out. "Don't you recognize it?"
"Do you remember the first engine you ever worked on?" Effie asks gently. "You know, the one where you stripped all the spark plugs by accident?"
Ferrah laughs. She does remember. "Yeah, and I had to take it apart again! It's the gears from that, isn't it?"
Libby nods. "We found it in the scrap heap. They'd torn it to shreds, but we thought we could give you our little protection."
Ferrah recognizes the logic behind this. Hobs equate gifts received with freedom, and gifts given with protection. They are setting her free from the factory, and, at the same time, imbuing her with their protection. "That's so sweet of you!" She puts the necklace on, looping it over her head.
The hobs clap. Libby gives her a kiss on the cheek. "Good luck, dearie. We'll be counting on you." After a long farewell, the hobs leave.
Ferrah picks up the phone and, after a moment of hesitation, dials 975.
After a few rings, someone picks up the phone. There is the clanking and grinding of machinery in the background, which is oddly comforting. "Blugg, assembly. Whaddya want?" a gruff voice asks.
"This is Ferrah," Ferrah says. "Fata Greenleaf said to call this number if I needed something."
There is a long sigh at the end of the line. "I'll send someone over."
After a few minutes, there is a knock at the door. Ferrah opens it to see a scrawny fey wearing an orange messenger's vest.
He is at least a year younger than Ferrah, has red eyes and blue hair that looks like dandelion fluff sticking out of his head. In spite of this, he is actually quite handsome. His motions are fluid and graceful, and he moves as though bouncing.
The fey nods. "Ferrah? Name's Ratjon. Blugg sent me with this." He holds out a thick wad of bills. "For what you need to get."
Ferrah is taken slightly aback. "Um…thank you."
Ratjon grins, showing his snaggleteeth. "De nada. So, you want me to come with you or what?"
Ferrah blinks. "Um…to where?"
"Royal Oak," Ratjon says. "Near Detroit." He jerks his thumb back. "Come on, the car's running."
With some misgivings, Ferrah picks up her suitcase and follows him.