The Guild Conspiracy (12 page)

There was no coming back from that.

Petra expelled a sigh of exhausted relief and lowered her control panel as Yancy stepped forward.

“We have our winner!” Yancy gestured to Petra with a grand flourish. “Miss Petra Wade will move on to the semifinals! And Carbrey Darrow is hereby eliminated!”

A cheer rang out, and Rupert joined her in the ring with a tight hug. “Bloody well done,” he said brightly. “Best fight I've seen—­hands down.”

“Are you kidding?” She laughed nervously. “I almost lost.”

“You pulled through in the end. That's all that matters.”

Students swarmed the ring then, a chaos of cheers, congratulations, and praises all around. She was swept up in the joy of it, bolstered on all sides by the respect and admiration of her fellow engineers. She had done it. She
beat
Darrow.

Yancy shepherded the crowd out of the ring for the next fight, and a pair of wash boys took to the floor to clear the mess Petra and Darrow had left behind. The rest of the students chatted enthusiastically about the fight as she carted her mech out of the ring, some of them calling out further congratulations as she passed by. She hadn't even won the tournament yet, and already she was gaining their approval, their respect.

Even Selby.

As the room cleared, she caught his eye on the other side of the ring, arms crossed, regarding her critically. Then he nodded, a flicker of approval in his usual dour expression. She just grinned.

The next fight began in a racket of clashing metal and groaning engines, and she left the recreation hall with Rupert and Braith, floating on her victory. Winning the second fight put her another step closer to the respect she so desperately desired. She belonged here, and she'd prove it one match at a time if she had to. Eventually, they'd see.

Once the mech was safely tucked away in the subcity office, Petra and Braith left Rupert behind to finish up some last-­minute homework and then rode the dumbwaiter back up to the main floor. As they navigated the overstuffed storage wing, the excitement of her win started to wear off, and she yawned, feeling the weight of sleep steal over her.

“You fought well tonight,” said Braith, holding the door open for her. It was the first he had spoken since the match.

Petra shrugged. “I wouldn't have won if not for you. When he brought out the sledgehammer, I thought I was done for. You deserve
some
credit.”

“It wasn't me who managed to restart an engine in under fifteen seconds or win a fight with a cracked fuel tank,” he said, following her down the hall. “You earned that win. You were smarter than him, quicker to execute your attacks—­the better engineer hands down.”

She smiled, a flush creeping into her cheeks. “Thanks.”

“I mean it,” he said. “It suits you, Petra—­the engineering, building things. I see now why you fight so hard for it. You belong here.”

She really did blush at that, unable to articulate a response. She was so used to being challenged, so used to having to fight for approval, she didn't know how to respond. Only one person since Emmerich had accepted her for what she was, and he was sitting three floors below, studying up on advanced aerodynamics. She never expected to find that kind of recognition in a soldier.

The sound of footsteps broke the awkward silence, and Petra stopped, the steps drawing nearer. “Someone's coming,” she whispered, touching Braith's arm. She stood, waiting, listening. Then voices followed, distinct in the dark, abandoned halls, and her body went rigid, every muscle turning to lead. She knew that voice, smooth and rich as honey but deadlier than snake venom.

She turned to Braith, a tremor coursing up her spine.
Julian
.

Braith heard him too.

He raised a finger to his lips and gently grabbed her hand, his touch like a jolt of electricity up her arm, unsticking her feet from the floor. Silent as a shadow, he dragged her back down the hall toward the wide staircase that led to the upper levels of the University and the main building. Nestled beneath the stairs was a narrow storage closet, the door ajar. They took refuge there.

Petra stumbled inside, squeezing between a pair of shelves, and Braith followed, leaving the door open just enough to let a crack of light in. There was hardly room enough to stand, much less to breathe, and she was aware of how close she stood to him, pressed together in the cramped storeroom, his clothes smelling of tobacco smoke and boot polish.

The men's conversation soon neared, and Petra shifted toward the door, brushing against Braith to better hear them, but he grabbed her firmly by the arm and held her there, as immobile as a statue. She glared up at him. His grip was almost painful, but she could barely make out his face in the dark, his jawline highlighted by the dim light filtering through the door. She didn't dare speak, but after a moment of rigid stillness, his grip on her arm eased and she turned her attention to the men's voices, growing louder by the second.

“ . . . having difficulties pursuing the usual paths for commissioning a project of this nature,” said another man, hesitant. “If we waited until the prototype was closer to completion—­”

“No,” Julian insisted, the anger in his voice evident. “Contact the manufacturers again and remind them of our agreement.”

“But without the proper authorization—­”

“To hell with the paperwork!” said Julian, drawing to a stop mere paces from their hiding place.

Through the crack in the doorway, Petra recognized the lividness in his dark eyes, and she shrank back into the safety of the closet, pressing closer to Braith. He touched her arm again, gently this time, and eased her away from the door, turning his face toward the light.

“I have spent too long preparing for this to be stalled by such miserable excuses,” Julian went on. “They have the designs now. They've long had their money, the materials, and the connections they need to build what I asked. We have an arrangement. See that it is done.”

The other man mumbled something unintelligible in reply, and their footsteps continued—­not further down the hall, but up the stairs. Their shoes thudded heavily against the steps as they climbed, shaking trickles of dust from the ceiling.

“What of the French machines?” asked Julian.

Petra frowned, turning her eyes to the cobwebbed ceiling. The men's voices were already beginning to fade as they climbed higher up the stairs, their conversation punctuated by their heavy footsteps. She craned nearer to listen.

“On schedule,” said the other man, his tone considerably more eager. “The manufacturers have already begun production, and the first consignment should be ready for deployment within the month.”

“Good,” he replied. “And Emmerich?”

Petra's breath caught in her throat and she stiffened.

“Cooperating as promised,” answered the other man.

“Nothing to suspect?”

“No, sir.”

Petra searched the dark shadows above her, aching to hear more, but the conversation slipped out of range. She sank down onto her heels, mind racing as she considered what Julian had said. Something about authorization issues, problems with a manufacturer—­that could be anything—­but the mention of French machines . . . and Emmerich . . . That could only mean one thing: his plans for war were advancing, and here she was wasting time with the mech fights.

Pressed against her in the cramped quarters, Braith cleared his throat, his breath close enough to brush her hair from her cheek. She started, realizing her fingers were twisted in the folds of his shirt, so wrapped up in her thoughts, her fears, she had forgotten he was there. She let go and flattened against the shelf behind her, bumping into a row of paper boxes. Her skin tingled where she had touched him, and a flush crept up her cheeks, the air in the closet suddenly impossibly warm.

“Sorry,” she sputtered. “I didn't—­”

“We should go,” he said softly, his hand suddenly guiding her toward the door. “Before someone else comes this way.”

Petra nodded, grateful he couldn't see her face in the dark. “Right.”

Braith peered through the gap in the door, waited a beat, and then ushered her out of the closet and down the hall. Their steps were quick and fleeting over the hardwood floors as they hurried back to the dormitories in tense silence, taking care not to make any noise as they crept up the stairs to the seventh floor. It wasn't until they reached the door to her room that either of them dared to speak.

Braith slid his key into the lock, releasing the deadbolt with a loud click. “We need to be more careful,” he said, pushing the door open. A muscle twitched in his jaw, his mouth set in a firm line. “We could have been caught.”

Petra only nodded, her stomach still in knots. If Julian caught them out of bounds together, they could both lose their heads.

“What was the minister doing here so late?” he went on, turning toward her. “What were he and his associate talking about?”

Her heartbeat slowed to a crawl.

“You know something about it, don't you? The way you reacted . . . I'm not blind.”

Petra chewed on her lip. What could she say? When Julian had mentioned machines in France, and Emmerich . . . She swallowed thickly, a pressure rising up her throat. How could she not react?

“I don't know what you mean,” she said stiffly, her voice breaking. She pushed past him into her room, but he touched her arm, holding her in place.

“You do,” he said gently, releasing her arm. “And I hate that you don't trust me enough to tell me what it is.”

“It has
nothing
to do with you.”

He regarded her carefully. “I'm not your enemy, Petra.”

“No? Last I checked, you take your orders from Julian.”

“What does that have to do with it?”

She seethed. “Everything! That's what you completely fail to understand! That man has taken
everything
from me. You know
nothing
of what he's done, what he plans to do. He—­” She bit off the rest of her words, her hands shaking. She could almost tell him everything—­about Julian's plans, the conspiracy, the false accusations against her—­but she didn't. She couldn't. Braith was a soldier. He couldn't be trusted. Not yet.

He held her gaze, his touch gentle. “I'm not him, Petra.”

“No. You just do what he tells you to,” she snapped, jerking her arm away. “You're not on my side, Braith. You're on
his
, whether you want to be or not.”

“I didn't realize there were sides to choose.”

Her anger faltered then, and she searched his face, his blue-­gray gaze like a bleak morning rain. She wanted to trust him. She did. But he was still a soldier. If it came to choosing between her or his duty to the Royal Forces . . . she knew which one he'd pick.

“There are always sides to war,” she said quietly, the fight gone from her voice. “You're a soldier, Braith. You should know that by now.”

He leaned against the doorframe and crossed his arms, standing less than a foot away. “And what makes you think we're at war?”

“What makes you think that we aren't?”

 

CHAPTER 9

J
ust a few days later, Petra received the official summons to begin production of the quadruped prototype—­three weeks ahead of schedule.

She should have had more time to prepare, but Julian had plans of his own. Barely a fortnight since the Guild approved the flawed designs, she now stood on one of the upper catwalks of her new workshop, taking in the spectacle of engineers and equipment below. The room was packed full of construction vehicles, crates, toolboxes, and supply carts, the nearest wall lined with rows of desks and cabinets.

“Should we head down to the floor?” asked Braith. He stood rigidly beside her, hands clasped neatly behind his back. He wore his full military garb today—­jacket and trousers crisply pressed, boots polished, his hair combed, and face clean-­shaven—­the perfect image of a dutiful soldier.

Petra wrinkled her nose and headed down the ser­vice ladder, her shoes clanging loudly against the metal rungs. She preferred him off duty.

She reached the ground floor and surveyed the busy workshop. Her engineering team unpacked sheets of plating, linkage rods, wires, gears, axles, and pistons from the collection of crates, sorting the machinery by system. Leg mechanisms to the east workstations, electrical and engine parts to the center, control cabin to the west. Yancy Lyndon directed the handling of the weapons, placing the massive cylinders and automatic hoppers against the north wall, where they would remain until the final stages of production.

Overseeing their progress was Professor Calligaris.

Yancy caught sight of her and hurried over. “Glad to see you could make it,” he said, tucking a stack of papers under his arm as he reached out and shook her hand. He glanced at Braith beside her, taking in his spotless red uniform and polished boots. “And you are? I don't believe we've formally met.”

“Officer Cadet Braith Cartwright, Miss Wade's military escort for the quadruped project.”

Yancy turned back toward Petra with a frown, the furrow in his brow so like his father's. “He wasn't the one with you at the last match, was he?” he asked, his voice low.

Petra winced. “About that . . .”

“You've got to be kidding me,” he said flatly. “If the other blokes found out you dragged a Royal Forces officer to—­”

“You won't tell them, will you?”

“The fights are supposed to be a student thing. If he tells anyone . . .”

“He won't,” she said. “Trust me. We'll both be in trouble if anyone finds out about that.” She glanced at Braith beside her, his stoic posture betraying nothing. His gaze remained on the working engineers, but she knew he was listening to her every word. She turned back to Yancy, keeping her voice to a whisper. “Having him along is the only way I get to fight, and he's risking a lot even letting me do that. Please don't tell anyone. I can't quit the fights, not now.”

Yancy eyed the soldier with a deep sigh. “Fine. I won't say anything. But I can't stop anyone else from finding out themselves. You're on your own there.”

“Thank you,” she said.

He waved the comment away. “If that's what keeps you in the tournament, so be it. You're a good fighter. I'd hate to see you quit before you're beat.”

“Who says I'll be beat?”

“John, for one. And others. Bellamy isn't happy with your win against him in the first round.”

“Well, maybe he should have fought better.”

“Maybe,” he said with a shrug. “But you're up against Fletcher next, and he took second place last tournament. Just don't get ahead of yourself. You still have one fight to go before the finals, and I'd bet my stipend that John will be in the final round. He's the best we have.”

“We'll see.”

Yancy shook his head with a laugh. “Anyway, Calligaris has already briefed the team on the agenda for today, but if you want, I can catch you up on everything.”

Petra scowled at Calligaris across the workshop. Just like him to start without her. “Thanks,” she said. “I'd appreciate it.”

Yancy guided her through the workstations then, explaining the engineers' initial assignments. “Once we finish unloading the crates, we'll split into two groups and start on the leg mechanisms. Calligaris estimates a week to build up the frames and fit the inner cables. Then we'll move onto the base. We're estimating a month for the first stage of production.”

She nodded, calculating estimates of her own. Assuming the engineers didn't run into any complications, the quadruped prototype would be completed within three months.

She had that long to find a way to stop Julian's war, that long to come up with a better plan—­or else face the consequences of her sabotage.

They moved on to the north side of the workshop as Yancy explained the latest developments to the quadruped's weapons—­an improvement in the automated hopper mechanisms—­but they were soon interrupted by a courier, one of the messenger boys that ran letters and missives within the Guild.

“Message for you, sir,” he said, thrusting a letter into Yancy's hand. “Urgent. From the vice-­chancellor.”

Yancy turned the letter over and tore it open. A small envelope slipped free and tumbled to the floor as he read.

Petra knelt to retrieve it, inadvertently reading the address stamped across the brown paper. She froze, her pulse stuttering in her chest as she reached out and touched the thick black ink.

119 Farringdon Crescent

Emmerich's house.

“Petra, are you all right?” Braith crouched beside her and touched her arm. “You're shaking.”

She collected herself and nodded, forcing a feigned smile to her lips as she stood, the telegram clutched in her trembling hand. “Of course. Sorry, I—­” She hesitantly offered the telegram to Yancy. “You dropped this.”

Yancy met her eyes. “Actually, it's for you.”

“What?”

He offered her the letter, and she looked it over, the message written in the vice-­chancellor's familiar lean scrawl:

Y—­

Please deliver the enclosed telegram to Miss Wade. I understand the matter contained within may be of some urgency to her. Inform her she may use my office telephone at her earliest convenience, should she wish to make enquiries about its contents.

—­HL

Curious, she turned her attention to the telegram, cautiously removing the yellowed paper from its envelope, the seal already broken. The telegram itself was addressed to the Goss household, sent from a telegraph office somewhere near Taverny—­wherever that was.

The thick letters glared up at her from the crinkled paper:

Urgent information. Phone telegraph office at once. Caution. Uni comms monitored. E.

She stared at the words, her pulse echoing mutely in her ears.

The telegram was from Emmerich. She had no doubt of that. Only he would send her something so cryptic, or go to such lengths to avoid Guild interception, routing the message through someone at his household, then through the vice-­chancellor, who had sent it to Yancy rather than risk sending it to her directly, not with Calligaris watching her every move.

But what could be so important? Something he didn't want the Guild or the Company to know . . . Something about the war? The conspiracy?

“What does it say?” asked Braith, suddenly standing at her shoulder.

She clasped the telegram to her chest. “It's nothing. I—­” She swallowed thickly, considering her next words. If Braith thought she was doing anything to undermine his orders, anything to do with the quadruped or her previous crimes, however indirectly, he would report her to Julian. And if Julian discovered that Emmerich had contacted her . . . “I need to make a telephone call,” she said, forcing her voice flat. “Personal business.”

“Is something wrong?”

“I don't know,” she admitted. “It doesn't say, but I should go now. I don't think this can wait.”

“Would you like me to escort you to the public telephones?”

“No,” she said, glancing from the telegram to the letter from the vice-­chancellor. Every telephone call in the University was directed through the Guild switchboard, which Julian was certainly monitoring, but if the vice-­chancellor had offered his telephone, knowing her and Emmerich's situation, he must have a secure line out of the University, hidden from Julian and his allies. Perhaps Lyndon was not as submissive as she once thought.

“The vice-­chancellor has a telephone,” she said finally, folding the telegram and the letter. She stuffed them in her pocket. “We'll go there.”

B
raith stopped her not far from the door to Lyndon's office. “Petra, what is this really about?” he asked. “What did the telegram say?”

She looked him in the eye, her heart beating like a drum in her chest. What could she say? She couldn't tell him the truth. She couldn't risk him reporting her to Julian for this. If Julian found out she had telephoned Emmerich, if he thought they were conspiring against him, it would be her head.

“Petra, who sent the telegram?”

“I can't tell you,” she whispered.

Braith let out a frustrated sigh. “Why not?”

“I just can't.”

“You realize how suspicious that is, don't you?” he asked. “Why can't you just tell me what's going on? What are you so afraid of?”

She didn't answer. She couldn't. But the fear in her eyes must have given her away.

“You're afraid of
me
. . .” he said, his voice breaking. “You are, aren't you? Afraid of what I might do, what I might say.” He drew away from her, a pained look on his face. “Petra . . . don't you know me better than that? You know I wouldn't report you to the Guild unless I had to, unless I had no other choice. Have I not earned at least some small measure of trust by now?”

She bit her lip. “It's not that I don't trust you, Braith,” she whispered, a knot stuck in her throat. “It's just . . . It's better you don't know.”

“Because it's something to do with my orders?”

“I didn't say that.”

Braith combed his fingers through his hair. “Damn it, Petra . . . Think about what this looks like. If anyone found out about this, if they suspected you of conspiracy or sabotage . . . There's only so much I can do.”

“You could choose to trust me,” she said. “I never said this went against your orders, only that I couldn't tell you. That's not a crime.”

He turned away with a shake of his head and let out a deep sigh, slowly kneading the center of his brow. “Sooner or later, Petra . . . there's going to come a time when I have to choose between you and my responsibilities as a soldier. Don't force me to make that choice. Please.”

She started to say something in reply but then stopped herself. She could make no such promise, and he knew it as well as she did. There would always be that dividing line between them, the threat of that choice—­and they both knew which one he would choose, as blatant as his red uniform.

“I have my orders,” he said. “If you say anything suspicious, anything at all about the quadruped, I will have to report it.” He stepped aside and gestured down the hall toward the vice-­chancellor's door. “Just remember that.”

“You're letting me use the telephone?” she asked.

“You asked me to trust you,” he said. “All I ask is that you afford me the same courtesy in the future.” He softened then. “You have enough enemies here, Petra. Don't make me into one too.”

She nodded without speaking, the sincerity in his gaze achingly clear. She had no idea what awaited her at the other end of the telephone call with Emmerich, if it had anything to do with the quadruped or his father's conspiracy, but in her heart, the last thing she wanted to do was make an enemy of Braith Cartwright. She needed someone like him on her side.

“Just be careful,” he said. “For your own sake.”

“I will.”

Braith gestured toward the door again, and Petra turned toward the vice-­chancellor's office, her heart pounding fast at the thought of contacting Emmerich after all this time. It had been too long.

Exhaling a steady breath, she walked up to the door and knocked.

“Enter.”

She turned the handle and went inside.

Vice-­Chancellor Lyndon glanced up from his desk as she walked in, his brows drawing together as he spotted Braith behind her. “I gather Yancy delivered my message?”

She nodded. “Can I use your telephone?”

“Of course,” he said, standing up from his desk. “Let me connect you through. Do you have the address?”

She withdrew the telegram from her pocket and handed it over.

The vice-­chancellor glanced at it briefly and picked up the handset from the telephone box on the wall, turning the crank to ring the switchboard. He waited a moment and then smiled. “Hello, darling. Yes, the reserved channel, if you please.” He looked down at the telegram again. “A telegraph office in Taverny.” He recited the address. “Bypass the congested channels if you can. Thanks, Maude.”

He lowered the telephone receiver and glanced at Petra, his gaze flitting suspiciously toward Braith. “She's connecting us through now. It shouldn't be long.”

Petra nodded, nervously twisting the stem of her mother's pocket watch, the familiar motion a comfort to her. It had been months since she had last spoken to Emmerich, months since she had last heard his voice. Would she even recognize it now? So much had changed since he left. Had he?

Finally, Lyndon spoke again into the telephone, first in French, then English. “Yes, I received a telegram from your office this morning and I believe there may be a young man expecting a telephone call in return?” The vice-­chancellor paused and then gestured for Petra. “Yes, she's here.”