The Guild Conspiracy (24 page)

The fleet of British warships slowed to a halt in midair, stopping a mile north of the French camp. A large town claimed the distant countryside, following the curve of the river. The yellow glow of gas lamps illuminated the streets and bridges and the clusters of riverside buildings, and a great cathedral loomed high in the center of the city, its windows and narrow arches glowing almost silver in the moonlight.

“Prepare the quadrupeds for deployment,” said the lieutenant-­general, his gaze on the camp of soldiers and war machines, men scrambling to mobilize in response to their arrival. The banners of the British Empire flew from the sides of each ship, proudly declaring their allegiance.

There was no question as to why they were there.

“Should we signal the other ships to begin their approach, sir?” asked one of the bridge officers.

The lieutenant-­general nodded. “See that it's done.”

The officer flipped a few switches across the dash, typed his message, and waited. A few seconds later, a light flickered from the window of the nearest ship, the flash of a shuttered spotlight. “Message received, sir,” reported the officer; then, after another sequence of flashes, “All ships ready to deploy.”

As if in response, the ships visible from the bridge inched forward, drifting ahead of the flagship as they descended toward the ground.

The lieutenant-­general stepped forward and stood at the front of the bridge, clasping his hands behind his back. “Forward sail, Captain, and lower the ship for deployment.”

“Yes, sir.”

Petra watched, horrified, as her worst fear unfolded right in front of her. She shifted toward Braith and sought out his hand, clasping his fingers tightly as the hum of spinning engines thrummed through the cabin. The warship lurched forward, sailing downward at a steady speed. The landscape rose up around them as they approached the French camp, the towering brass titans now crawling with men in navy uniforms. Between the camp and the advancing ships, a line of soldiers marched forward with rifles at the ready.

“Nearing one hundred feet above ground,” reported an officer.

Another officer grabbed a second telephone from the communications dashboard and listened intently to whoever spoke at the other end. “Soldiers at the ready, sir. They await your command.”

“Not all of them.” The lieutenant-­general slowly turned around, his shrewd gaze landing on Braith. “I believe you have somewhere to be, Private.”

Petra whirled toward Braith, holding tightly to his hand. “Braith, no . . .” she whispered. “You can't.”

“I don't have a choice,” he muttered, his face hardened by the practiced stoicism she was so used to, his inner turmoil betrayed only by the tense line of his shoulders. He let go of her hand and saluted the lieutenant-­general, the line of his jaw hard, resolute. “At your command, sir.”

“Then I suggest you get into position.” The lieutenant-­general turned and nodded toward one of the attending officers, who brought him the telephone receiver. He raised the mouthpiece to his lips. “Open the bays.”

A bell rang overhead, and a heavy thrum burrowed through the floor.

“Bay doors open,” reported one of the officers.

“Steady the ship.”

The captain pulled the pilot's controls in reverse and halted the advancing warship, the French camp close now. The sound of rapid gunfire popped far below, but their bullets pattered harmlessly off the hull.

The lieutenant-­general cleared his throat. “Private Cartwright? I should not need to remind you the penalty for desertion.”

Every muscle in his body seemed to tense. “On my way, sir.”

“Braith . . .”

He turned toward the door, pausing only to spare her a passing glance. He parted his lips as if to speak, but no words came. Clenching his jaw, he tore himself away, heading through the bridge door without another word.

Petra started after him, but one of the lieutenant-­general's men grabbed her by the arm, pulling her away from the door as Braith slipped out of sight. She struggled against his hold. If Braith launched from the ship in one of her quadrupeds—­

“Let her go.” Lieutenant-­General Stokes's harsh voice cut through the bridge. “Let her say her goodbyes. She can't do anything to harm our mission now.”

The soldier let go of her arm, and she hurried through the door without looking back. She raced down the hall and clambered down the stairs to the cargo bay, praying he hadn't deployed yet.

She reached him at the bottom of the landing. “Braith, wait. Please . . . Don't do this.”

He hesitated with his hand on the door, the line of his shoulders rigid. “I have to,” he whispered. “I'm a soldier, Petra. These are my orders. I have to follow them. You heard the lieutenant-­general. I have no choice.”

“Braith . . . you could die down there.”

He clenched his jaw. “I know.”

“One minute to drop point,”
said a voice over the bay's loudspeaker.

“I have to go,” he said, hesitancy in his voice.

“Don't.” She reached forward and took his hand. “We can still fight this. Together. Please.”

Braith held her gaze for what felt like an eternity. There was regret in his eyes—­regret and something else, reflecting the storm of emotion she felt in her own heart at that moment, wondering if she would ever see him again.

“Thirty seconds
.
”

He glanced down at their hands with a frown. “I'm sorry,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “I can't. I . . . Goodbye, Petra.” Then he let go, pushing through the door into the cargo bay.

Wind gusted through her hair and slammed the door against the stairwell wall as Braith hurried across the catwalk ahead, halting at one of the few remaining machines. A pulsing red light bathed the metal dome and spidery limbs in flashes of blood-­red light, while below lay a dark green pasture, yet untouched by the ravages of war.

“Twenty seconds,”
blared the loudspeaker.

Petra left the safety of the stairwell and hurried forward, her footsteps clanging against the metal walkway, fingers sliding over the smooth railing. Braith stood at the foot of the access ladder, both hands gripping the railing, his eyes on the deadly war machine. He turned as she approached, and she stopped mere inches away, no words on her lips, only the ache of fear in her chest as the red light pulsed overhead.

“Fifteen seconds
.
”

He wavered in that moment. “Petra—­”

She stepped forward and crashed into him, throwing her arms around him in a tight hug. “Don't die, you idiot,” she said. “Don't you dare die down there.”

Braith gathered her into his arms with a weak laugh and hugged her close, breathing into her hair with a sigh. “I won't.”

“Promise?” she asked, her voice breaking.

The voice over the loudspeaker began to count the final seconds before the drop. “
Ten seconds . . . Nine . . . Eight . . .”

He drew away, his hand resting on the curve of her jaw, the two of them standing barely a breath apart. “I promise.”

He held her there for a second more, and then he turned away, climbing up the ladder and into the quadruped, hesitating only as he closed the hatch. Their eyes met for too brief a moment, and then he was gone.

“Prepare for launch
.
”

Petra stepped back, and Braith's quadruped jolted violently toward the bay doors. As the machine rumbled downward, she caught a glimpse of him through the narrow cabin window, strapping himself into the pilot's chair, and then he sank out of sight, joining the rest of the war machines below the central walkway, ready to drop through the bay doors and engage the French.

Petra clung to the railing, her knuckles white as she peered over the edge, her heart failing to beat as the red light pulsed ominously overhead.

“Launch
.
”

 

CHAPTER 17

T
he quadrupeds plummeted, falling like missiles to the ground.

Petra braced herself against the catwalk railing as the warship lurched upward, a terrible wrenching boom twisting through her gut as thunder awoke from the earth, several thousand tons of metal impacting the ground all at once.

A cloud of dust rose from the impact site, shrouding the army of war machines in a thick haze. Seconds ticking by in tense silence. Then, as the dust began to settle, there was the distinct discord of combustion engines igniting, the quadrupeds rearing to life in a cacophony of gears and pistons.

Petra watched as the first machines shifted forward, the pilots testing the controls one halting step at a time. The quadrupeds' brass hides glimmered in the ambient light of the airship fleet as they marched toward the French camp. She followed them along the catwalk, even as a bell rang overhead and the bay doors began to close, her view of the battlefield steadily shrinking. She couldn't tell one machine from the other, couldn't know which one was Braith. Then the doors shut with a loud thump and she could no longer see the army of quadrupeds below.

The airship started to rise.

She tore herself from the railing and hurried back up the stairs, trying not to think of whether or not Braith would survive this battle, if he would survive her sabotage, survive the war. She slowed to a stop halfway up the metal steps and gripped the railing, her stomach roiling as her every effort to stop this war crumbled down around her ears. Rapid gunfire sounded far below, peppering the airship's wooden hull with heavy thuds, the metal clank of her machines audible despite the distance of the warship from the battlefield.

How had it come to this?

Petra bowed her head, her hands shaking as she fought not to cry.

Even if the soldiers survived, even if the British forces somehow won this battle despite the quadrupeds' inevitable failure and returned to England in one piece, her sabotage would still be known. Julian would know the truth about what she had done—­the
world
would know—­and despite her every effort to reverse the damage, there was no hope of surviving the aftermath to come.

She closed her eyes, holding steady to the railing. But even so, even if she was doomed to whatever dark fate Julian intended for her, she could not give up, not yet. As long as there was a chance—­however slim—­that she might find a way to stop his plans from going further, she had to try.

She could not leave the world at his mercy, not without a fight.

She sucked in a shaky breath, a deep calm settling over her—­the kind of serene quiet that heralded the coming of a storm. Even though she had failed to stop the first battle, there might still be a way to stop the war.

There might still be a way to beat him.

Petra let her doubts and fears fall away, no time for them now, and she hurried up the rest of the stairs, renewed purpose pumping through her veins.

Rather than return to the bridge, she made for the lieutenant-­general's office on the opposite side of the hallway and tested the handle, finding the door mercifully unlocked. Once inside, she shut the door behind her and moved swiftly to the desk, the only furniture worth investigating in the sparse quarters. She sifted through drawer after drawer, digging through military briefings, missives, and official reports, searching for anything connecting the lieutenant-­general to Julian's conspiracy, anything that might give her a hint of his next move.

She stumbled across a telegram marked
CONFIDENTIAL
in the top drawer, addressed from the Guild to the airfield at London, dated just hours ago.

Proceed as planned. Keep her under guard and ensure she does nothing to subvert the mission. Imprison the officer until it is time to deploy. Make sure she is present during the battle. She needs to see how futile all her efforts against me have been. —­J.G.

She paused, staring at the words on the page, reading the message again. Was that why she was here? To see the battle? To see just how badly she had failed to stop his war? A bitter taste filled her mouth, and she gritted her teeth.
Bastard
.

A door opened somewhere down the hall, and Petra quickly folded the telegram and stuffed it into her pocket, returning her attention to the desk. She searched the rest of the top drawer and found another letter mentioning her by name, warning the lieutenant-­general that she might attempt to sabotage the mission if given the chance, and in another drawer, she found a missive detailing a rather large munitions shipment received by the lieutenant-­general the day before, as well as a dated update on the progress of some unexplained project.

She stuck the letters in her pocket with the telegram and crouched low, digging through the bottom drawer last. There she found a logbook of updates, a record of the growing conflict between Great Britain and France. Several events had been underlined, including the attack on the airfield just a week ago. She flipped ahead a few pages to today's date, and another telegram slipped from the logbook and fluttered to the floor.

She snatched it up, addressed from the Guild to the lieutenant-­general at Hasguard:

Prototype complete. Prepare the ships.

Petra read the date, the message sent in the late hours of the previous evening according to the timestamp. So they had finished it. The last piece in Julian's plan for war, finally completed.

For all the difference it made. The army already existed, ready to launch at a moment's notice. Why wait until the prototype was complete?

As she stood there with the telegram in hand, trying to puzzle it out, the lieutenant-­general's voice blared over the ship's loudspeaker, crackling with authority.

“Approaching French lines. All hands prepare to engage.”

Petra hastily placed the telegram back in the event log, knowing she needed to return to the bridge before anyone came looking for her, when she noticed the lieutenant-­general's entry for today's date:
Attack at Amiens
. Quadruped army destroyed by French aerial assault. Sabotage suspected. Aerial counterattack successful. Significant losses. British deaths estimated at
____
_
.

The last of the note was left blank, waiting to be written.

She read the words again to make sure she hadn't misread. Then her hands started to shake.

The attack on the French had only just begun, and the lieutenant-­general had already written how the battle would end . . . but none of this had happened yet. The quadrupeds still stood. They hadn't yet lost.

Heart pounding, she closed the journal and tucked the thin book into her pocket with the rest of the evidence she had gathered from the desk.

What on earth were they planning?

P
etra slipped into the hallway from the lieutenant-­general's office and carefully latched the door behind her, no plan except to keep moving forward. It was only a matter of time before the quadrupeds failed, and she needed to find out what Julian and the lieutenant-­general were planning. The evidence in her pocket was useless otherwise. She needed to know, needed to see it for herself. And then? Maybe she'd live long enough to escape the ship and find Braith . . . if he survived.

Exhaling a slow, steady breath, she faced the bridge door, curling her fingers around the handle. She had to believe he would. She couldn't bear the thought of losing him now, not after everything they had been through together, after everything he had done for her. She had to believe she would find him again.

She turned the handle and pushed inside.

Lieutenant-­General Stokes turned at her approach, his gaze sharp. “Miss Wade. Good of you to finally join us. I trust Private Cartwright left you well.”

“He's down there fighting your war,” she spat. “If that's what you mean.”

“As he should be.”

Petra bit back her anger, a hot fire prickling up her spine as she joined him at the front of the bridge cabin, the windows providing full view of the battlefield below. Praying for Braith's safety, she gripped the railing and watched the battle unfold in morbid fascination, counting down the seconds until the quadrupeds failed. How many minutes had passed since the machines launched? How long until her sabotage revealed itself?

The quadrupeds showed no sign of slowing down. They scuttled forward ahead of the British ships and fanned out around the French camp, men and machines reduced to miniature at such a distance. The muffled crackle of the Gatling guns and heavy boom of the Agars turned Petra's stomach, but the French machines easily deflected the quadrupeds' rapid gunfire. The hail of bullets ricocheted harmlessly off the smooth metal armor as the French machines raised their weaponized arms against the quadrupeds to return fire. Guns whirled out of hidden chambers, their arms jolting backward with the recoil before rotating ninety degrees with a freshly loaded barrel, volley after volley hailing on the quadrupeds. But the British pressed on, even as a barrage of cannon fire rained down on the metal domes.

Petra watched, horrified at the wake of destruction these machines left behind, several tons of metal and artillery storming across the battlefield. The rapid volley of automatic weapons punctuated the night with cracking gunfire and heavy blasts, the bullets pinging off reinforced hulls and ripping through weakened plating, rending the machines apart when they found their mark.

This was no longer a battle between men and nations; this was a battle of technology, the future of war—­the future of the
world
if Julian wasn't stopped—­displayed in all its brutal glory.

Her knuckles whitened around the railing. Every quadruped that fell, every French machine that split apart with the well-­aimed strike of an Agar . . . that was another man dead, another man who would not be returning home from battle.

And then it stopped.

The quadrupeds staggered, the sound of bullets dropping by half as one by one, the machines groaned to a halt. Petra leaned closer to the glass, her forehead pressing against the cool window as the French machines continued to advance, their heavy footfalls thundering across the earth as they rained bullets on the British. Hatches crashed opened as many of the British soldiers fled. They climbed out of their smoking quadrupeds, the glint of rifles and pistols in their hands as they fired on the advancing metal titans, but their bullets had no effect against the superior war machines.

“Sir . . . the quadrupeds have halted their advance. They've stopped.”

The lieutenant-­general eyed the battlefield, his broad hands gripping tightly to the brass railing as he surveyed the mired army, a muscle twitching in his jaw.

Petra swallowed hard. “I told you not to send them to battle,” she whispered, her voice wavering slightly as she wondered if Braith was among those to flee, if he was even still alive. “I told you they would fail.”

The lieutenant-­general stared out the window, the lingering silence in the cabin seeming to last an eternity. “It doesn't matter,” he finally muttered. “It will all end the same way.”

Petra faltered. “What?”

“What are our orders, sir?” asked one of the bridge officers. “Do we proceed?”

Stokes turned from the window and faced the bridge officer. “Proceed as planned. Signal the other ships and tell them to initiate blackout,” he ordered. “This changes nothing.”

“Yes, sir.”

The captain turned the wheel and directed the flagship away from the quadrupeds, away from battle. Across the sky, the lights aboard the other ships flickered out as the warships sank into darkness and drifted away, dark blots against the starry evening sky.

Petra turned to the window. “What are you doing?” she demanded, watching as the quadrupeds shrank away beneath them. She faced the lieutenant-­general. “You can still get them out of there! You can still save them!”

The lieutenant-­general glared down her. “Those are not my orders.”

Petra balked at the sheer malevolence in his voice, backing away a few steps. “This was your plan?” she asked weakly. “Leave them to die?”

“All ships ready, sir,” reported the bridge officer. “On your command.”

“Hold,” he ordered, staring down at the distant battlefield.

Far below, the French machines approached the rows of quadrupeds, a host of foot soldiers creeping up behind, rifles at the ready. Then, all at once, the French machines stopped, halting just short of the British lines.

Not a single one moved.

“Sir, the French are not engaging,” reported one of the officers.

“Damn it, I can see that,” the lieutenant-­general barked.

Petra pressed her forehead against the window and breathed a relieved sigh, her breath fogging the glass as every last bit of tension melted from of her body.
Emmerich
. This was his doing; she was sure of it. He had rebelled against his father's war after all, fighting the only way he could: by sabotaging the French war machines—­just as she had done.

“What are our orders, sir?”

The lieutenant-­general peered out the window again, flexing his hands across the brass railing. “Signal the other ships,” he said at last. “We proceed.”

The soldier nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Suddenly, out of the dark sky, the other airships flared to life, but for the ships on the south side of the battlefield, gone were the red and gold flags of the British Empire and the Royal Forces. The French
Tricolore
fluttered across the sky, banners of blue, white, and red dancing in the wind.

“Signal fire,” ordered the lieutenant-­general.

Weapon discharges rocked through the airship in a discordant rhythm, the metallic boom and clank of heavy guns firing and reloading overhead.

Petra gaped at him. “What are you doing?”