The Guild Conspiracy (25 page)

“Engaging the enemy, Miss Wade.”

Far across the open sky, the ships flying the French flag returned the assault with a vengeance, their cannons flaring like match-­lights in the dark. Petra braced against the railing, preparing for impact, but the shots went wide, bullets and cannonballs firing uselessly into the night. Empty cartridges rained down on the battlefield, falling past the bridge windows in a hail of smoking brass as black smoke clouded the sky in a gray haze, but if either side of the British fleet took any damage from the onslaught, the ships showed no signs of ruin. Far below, however, the soldiers fighting on the ground exchanged rifle shots and pistol fire, the battle between the two mechanical armies suddenly devolving into a desperate gunfight while the airships mimicked return fire overhead.

After a few minutes, the lieutenant-­general turned toward his communications officer. “Tell all ships to prepare mortar shells for drop,” he ordered. “And stand by for my command.”

“Yes, sir.”

Petra blanched. “Mortars?” She stared out the window at the battlefield, her heart pounding as she realized what he was planning to do. “You're going to bomb them.”

“A necessary measure,” said the lieutenant-­general, his voice flat. “We cannot allow the French to gain the upper hand.”

“But they're not—­” She cut herself short, gasping as she realized what was happening. “This was his plan all along,” she whispered, her mind racing. “He never intended to let them live.”

“All ships ready to launch the attack,” reported one of the officers.

“You would murder them? Your own men?” she asked. “Why?”

The lieutenant-­general inhaled a deep breath and raised his chin. “This is war, Miss Wade. Sacrifices must be made.” He nodded sharply to one of the men standing nearby. “Do it.”

“No!”

She started toward the communications officer. If she could stop him from sending the order, maybe she could save them. Maybe she could save Braith.

“Restrain her.”

Two soldiers grabbed her by the arms, reining her back before she could reach the communications officer. She struggled against them as he reached forward and pressed the switch.

“No . . .” she whispered, wilting in her captors' arms. “You can't.”

“It is already done, Miss Wade.”

The warship lurched upward, and she felt, more than heard, the explosions that followed. The sound ripped through the bones of the airship, and her heart withered inside of her as fire and smoke lit up the night sky.

And then there was nothing. No sound. Only silence.

Only death.

Braith . . .

She collapsed to her knees, her body shaking with rage and fear and grief, blinded by her own tears.

“Bring her here.”

Her captors forced her to stand, dragging her toward the window. She shook her head, feebly attempting to free herself from their grip, but her strength had left her.

Lieutenant-­General Stokes lifted a hand to her chin. She recoiled at his touch, but he dug his fingers into her jaw and forced her toward the window. “See the power of the British Empire,” he said, turning her face toward the ground below. “See the power of the Guild and the Royal Forces combined.”

Petra inhaled a shaking breath.

The world
burned
.

The battlefield was aflame, a crater of fire and blood marring the once idyllic landscape, the corpses of quadrupeds and French machines rent asunder by the barrage from above. Tears slid down her cheeks and she pressed her shaking hands to the glass, searching for some sign of life below, any sign of movement on the ground . . . But there was nothing. Only deathly silence.

They were dead, and it was all her fault.

“You cannot stop this war, Miss Wade,” said the lieutenant-­general, jerking his hand away from her face. “You were a fool to try.”

“Why?” she whispered, her voice strained. “Why would you do this?”

“For a better world.”

She tore herself away from the window, breathing hard as she leveled a glare at the officer. She had no words, only anger—­and grief. The pain of it raged through her like a storm, fire and lightning crackling through her bones. She curled her fingers into fists, pressing her nails into her palms until her hands ached.

“You're mad,” she spat. “Both of you.”

The lieutenant-­general regarded her coldly. “All a matter of perspective. Such a tragedy that the British soldiers could not retreat from the onslaught of French artillery, stalling midbattle due to a fault in the machine's system. Perhaps if the designing engineer had not tried so hard to sabotage the war effort, those men might still be alive.”

Petra shook her head and backed away. “No . . .” she whispered. “I didn't do this. I didn't—­”

Her breath fell short as she realized the truth: Julian meant to pin this massacre on her. The French flags, the bombing of the airfield, the timing of the quadrupeds' failure . . . She staggered away, shaking her head. How could she have ever believed she was capable of stopping him, of stopping this war?

“Sir, should we send in the recovery ships now?” asked one of the officers, his voice quavering slightly. “For the survivors?”

The lieutenant-­general glanced away from Petra and focused on the bridge officer. He hesitated a moment and then nodded. “Send the order,” he said. “Question any surviving soldiers for their account of what happened, and should any man attempt to undermine our mission, he is to be labeled a detractor and a traitor—­and killed on sight.”

Petra's heartbeat pulsed heavily in her throat. She had to find Braith. If he survived, if he still lived, then she had to get to him first, before they killed him for knowing the truth.

She turned away from the window and ran for the door, but she hadn't gone two steps before the pair of bridge officers seized her again. She fought against them, managing to free one of her arms and twist away before tumbling hard to the ground. Her head slammed sidelong into the nearest control panel. Not stopping to regain her bearings, she winced against the sharp pain and blundered forward, crawling under a raised dashboard before scrambling to her feet again, her vision still swimming with spots. She blinked, the ache spreading through her skull. Two men blocked her path to the door, and in her moment of hesitation, someone grabbed her from behind and twisted her arms behind her back, quickly securing her wrists with a pair of manacles. She struggled, every nerve in her body burning to break free, but she was trapped.

The lieutenant-­general approached, leaning close enough that his breath rustled against her cheek when he spoke. “The minister sends his regards,” he said icily, his voice low enough that only she could hear. Then he straightened and addressed the men holding her. “Take her to the brig and remain there as her guard until we reach London. The Royal authorities there will know what to do with an anti-­imperialist saboteur.”

“That's a lie,” she snarled, fighting against the two soldiers.

“I'm afraid it is my word against yours, Miss Wade.”

She bit back a frustrated scream, trying to wrench herself away from her two captors, even as they led her out the door and down the hall toward the brig. Her mind raced, wondering how she might get off the airship and find Braith before the lieutenant-­general's men did—­if he wasn't already dead. And if he was . . . No. She had to believe he still lived, that he survived.

They stopped outside the door to the brig once more, and Petra considered her options. Her hands were cuffed behind her back, and both her guards outsized her by a hefty margin, but she refused to admit defeat, not now when Braith needed her, not now when she finally had the evidence she needed to bring Julian down. The logbook weighed down in her pocket like an anvil.

She glanced around, inching slightly away from the brig door. There would be no escaping once the soldiers locked her in her cell. The hall was narrow, not much room to maneuver free, but she needed only the barest of head starts to escape, just enough to flee down the stairwell to the cargo hold and assume control of one of the remaining quadrupeds.

There was no other way off the ship, no other way to escape.

It was the only plan she had.

As one of her two guards turned the handwheel to open the heavy brig door, she made her move. Pivoting away from the remaining soldier, she kicked up her legs and pushed her feet against the wall, shoving them both toward the brig and the other soldier. They staggered backward, all three of them toppling to the floor. Petra landed on one of the men, knocking the breath out of him with a satisfying wheeze. Trapped atop a heap of tangled limbs, she struggled to stand, her arms still bound behind her back by the heavy manacles, the metal biting painfully into her wrists as she tried to get to her feet.

One of the soldiers cursed and tried to grab her, but she managed to get free, throwing enough of her weight forward to escape his outstretched hands. She scrambled to her feet and stumbled into the wall, tripping over the soldier's legs as he tried to stand. Staggering away, she landed a well-­aimed kick to the soldier's groin for good measure, and ran for the stairs.

She reeled left around the corner and slipped past the hall to the bridge, not daring to slow down. She hurtled down the stairs, shoes clanging loudly against the metal steps as she tried pulling her hands free of the manacles, but the rings were too tight. At the bottom of the stairwell, she stopped and turned her back to the door, awkwardly twisting the knob with her bound hands before shoving through to the cargo hold.

There were a pair of unused quadrupeds at the far end of the chamber—­her only chance of escape now—­but the bay doors were tightly shut, and with her hands still bound behind her back, she couldn't operate either.

One thing at a time.

Searching the cavernous hold, she found a large mechanical lever set into the floor not far from the stairwell, but she needed the use of her hands to activate it. Breathing hard, she leaned against the catwalk railing and forced her arms down her legs, wincing at the bite of metal against her already bruised wrists. Slowly, she brought the manacles low enough that she could step over the chain and bring her hands in front of her. A trickle of blood ran down her arm, and her wrists stung, but at least she had the use of her hands again.

She gripped the lever for the bay doors and put all of her weight against it, dragging the switch toward the floor until it locked into place. A bell rang out overhead, and with a mighty crack, the bay doors began to part.

Not wasting any time, Petra ran down the narrow catwalk to one of the few remaining quadrupeds, the red light pulsing ominously overhead as wind whipped up through the widening gap in the floor. Fires and broken quadrupeds lay scattered across the battlefield below.

She reached the nearest quadruped, and the lieutenant-­general's voice blared through the bay's loudspeaker, making her jump out of her skin.

“I do not know what you expect to accomplish, Miss Wade,” he said, “but you will not escape this ship.”

Petra climbed the access ladder to the quadruped. “Watch me.”

She dropped into the quadruped's body and pulled the hatch shut, the deadbolt clicking into place with a turn of the handle. Moving across the cabin, she fetched a large spanner from the toolbox next to the pilot's chair and braced her left hand against the dashboard, pinning the heavy manacle in place. Gritting her teeth, she slammed the head of the spanner down on the manacle lock and broke the tension spring inside, releasing the catch. The broken shackle fell from her wrist, dangling by the chain still attached to her right hand. Settling in the pilot's chair, she activated the descent mechanism, and the machine jerked violently, descending one lurching inch at a time.

Gunfire popped across the cargo bay and a spray of bullets pinged harmlessly off the quadruped's hull. Petra leaned forward as she strapped herself into the pilot's harness and peered through the narrow viewing window at the front of the cabin. There was a squad of redcoats at the other end of the bay, an assortment of rifles and pistols aimed directly at her. An officer signaled fire, and a second volley of bullets deflected off the quadruped's metal plating as she came to an abrupt halt. Then the ship shuddered all around her, and she heard the heavy groan of the bay doors activating. She looked through the window and saw a soldier standing at the mechanical switch near the cargo bay exit as the others advanced toward the quadruped. They were closing her in.

She sat back in the pilot's chair and curled her fingers around the quadruped's controls. Well, she certainly wasn't going to let that happen. Reaching across the control panel, she flipped the ignition switch and felt the rumble of the quadruped engine roar to life. Power flooded the machine, and she tested the controls she had designed all those months ago, knowing she had only a matter of minutes before the quadruped stalled.

Activating the weapon controls, she turned the wheel and pointed the Gatling gun straight at the band of soldiers on the other side of the cargo bay. She lowered the barrel and fired a spray of warning shots beneath them, striking the gears that powered the door mechanism. The bullets deflected harmlessly off the slowly rotating gears, but the soldiers predictably fell back from the catwalk and through the door, withdrawing into the stairwell.

Reaching above the pilot's chair, Petra gripped the release handle connecting the quadruped to the ship, her fear suddenly catching up with her, like a thousand pistons churning in place of her heart.

But she couldn't turn back now.

Inhaling a deep breath, she twisted the handle and fell.

 

CHAPTER 18

T
he quadruped slammed against the closing bay doors with a bang, tilting Petra sideways before finally tumbling over the edge, plummeting fast.

Her heart lurched into her throat, and she nearly choked on her own pulse as panic flooded her veins. Wind whistled through the gaps in the quadruped's plating as the machine righted itself midair, the shrill hiss of air punctuated only by the pounding rush of blood pulsing through her ears. She squeezed her eyes shut and gripped the straps of her harness, imagining the earth opening like a great maw beneath her, ready to swallow her whole.

Then the world crashed around her ears.

Her body jerked side to side. Her bones shuddered and the breath left her lungs. The crush of metal was deafening as the quadruped flipped and the cabin spun violently. She banged her knee on the dash, and hot blood ran down her shin, the pilot's harness biting into her skin as the straps strained against her weight. She retched suddenly, hot bile burning her mouth and throat raw.

Then the pressure from the harness eased and she leaned back into the pilot's chair, her head swimming, a cold sweat on her brow. Every muscle in her body ached, her skin already tender beneath the wide harness straps. Her head pounded, and she winced against the pain in her neck, aware of the gasp and sputter of the quadruped engine spitting beneath her, the sharp tang of petrol filling the cabin.

Swallowing against the raw ache in her throat, she unclasped the harness buckle and spat the acrid bile from her mouth, drawing herself to her feet. The quadruped had fallen onto its side, the floor tilting at an awkward angle, and she stumbled into the side of the cabin, stomach still reeling.

Pain whorled through her head in steady beats, and she reached a shaking hand to her forehead, blinking against the flickering light within the quadruped, the orange flames of the battlefield illuminating the inside of the metal cabin through the cracked window. Blood reddened her wrist where her manacles had been, the shackles now lying on the floor. The lock must have broken on impact.

Groaning against the ache in her bones, she blinked hard, her thoughts slowly reorganizing in her head as she remembered what had happened, why she was here—­Braith. Escape.

She inhaled a sharp breath and opened her eyes wide, a renewed burst of energy burning through her veins. The smell of petrol was sharper now. The fuel tank had likely cracked, not that it mattered. She couldn't pilot the quadruped across the battlefield with the sabotage still intact.

She clambered toward the access hatch and hoisted herself out of the cabin, a gust of fresh air filling her lungs with the taste of smoke and gunpowder and blood as she slid to the ground on the other side of the dome, landing hard on the dirt. Her trousers stuck to her leg where her knee still bled, and fresh bruises ached beneath the fabric of her shirt where the harness straps had been. But she was alive.

Which was more than she could say for the graveyard of machines and soldiers before her. Yet not all of them were dead.

A few men walked the battlefield, searching for survivors, supporting the injured as they headed north, away from the French camp and the destruction that had befallen the two armies.

If they lived, perhaps Braith did too.

Checking her pocket to make sure she still had the evidence against Julian, Petra left the wrecked quadruped behind and headed across the burning battlefield. She passed dead soldiers and sundered machines, calling Braith's name as she went, peering into fallen quadrupeds, searching for any sign of him among the dead and dying, asking any survivors if they might have seen him, but he was nowhere to be found. She walked for what felt like miles through mud and ash, and as night crept on, any hope she had of finding him began to wane. She feared he had been in the center of the attack where the bombs had fell hardest, obliterated into nothing without even a chance to escape.

A lump hitched in her throat, and she tried not to think about him dead.

She called for him until her throat ached.

No one answered.

Eventually, she reached the French machines, toppled and broken, the beauty of their artful design marred by the destruction of the mortar shells, smoking metal ripped apart and smoldering. Here, French soldiers lay just as dead as the British, the only difference the color of their uniforms.

But none of them were Braith.

Petra sank to her knees in the mud, the earth trampled by the soldiers and war machines, soaked through with blood and oil. This was all her fault.

She reached out and touched her hand to the warm metal of the nearest French machine, recognizing Emmerich's influence in the design. The thought of him put a knot in her chest—­their lives torn apart because of his father's conspiracy, both of them turned into pawns for his war. She gritted her teeth, fighting back tears.

It never should have come to this.

Something rustled nearby, and she glanced up to see a French soldier standing a few yards away, the barrel of his rifle pointing straight at her. She swallowed hard and shakily raised her hands in surrender, absently noting the blood soaking the soldier's dark uniform and the deep gash across his brow.

He said something to her in French, but she didn't understand.

She shook her head apologetically, and he gripped the rifle tighter, shouting something at her as he took a step forward. She squeezed her eyes shut, cursing her foolishness for wandering so close to the French camp. Not all the British troops had died in the attack; she should have known there would be survivors among the French as well.

The cold barrel touched her forehead, and she shivered, knowing she should be afraid, but all she could think about was how, for so long, she had feared dying at Julian's hands, sentenced to die at the gallows for her crimes, for sabotaging his plans. To be caught in the aftermath of a brutal battle, with a Frenchman holding a gun to her forehead and her hands raised in surrender . . . she didn't know how to be afraid of this. All she could think about was home, how much she missed it, how badly she wished to see her brothers and sisters again, visit Mr. Stricket in his shop, breathe in the smell of metal and hot steam and coal smoke and feel the subcity machines beneath her feet one last time . . .

And Emmerich.
Oh, God . . . Emmerich.

Tears slid down her cheeks in steady streams.

She should have listened to him, should have heeded his warnings.

Now she would die here, with all the rest of them. And maybe she deserved it—­to die for what she had done. Every man now lying in the ash-­streaked mud had died because of her mistakes, because of her selfishness, for thinking she could stop this war. They had died because of her sabotage. And Braith . . .

Braith was likely just as dead, and it was all her fault.

Footsteps approached from behind, and the gun left her brow, a split-­second reprieve that shocked the world back into motion. She breathed in a shallow gasp, her heart pounding as a renewed need to live flooded her veins.

Then a solitary gunshot rang through the night, jolting the breath from her lungs.

Someone collapsed in front of her, and she opened her eyes to find the French soldier lying on the ground, bleeding from an open wound in his chest. She stared at him unblinkingly, the wheels of her mind slow to understand what had happened.

Then a hand touched her shoulder and she inhaled sharply, instinctively reeling away as she climbed to her feet.

“Petra, it's me.”

She stopped and blinked, the light of the dying fires illuminating his face and bronze hair, reddened by the smoldering flames. Her chest tightened painfully, hot tears streaking down her face. She glanced at his hand, where he held a pistol, still smoking. “Braith?”

There was such pain in his eyes as he looked her, but then he sighed and the tension left his shoulders. He dropped the pistol in the mud, and the next she knew, his arms were around her, holding her close.

He didn't say anything. He didn't need to.

She shuddered with relief and buried herself in his chest, clinging to his uniform as the last of her remaining strength left her. He was alive. He was here, and he was alive, and she had found him.

“I thought you were dead,” she whispered. “I shouted for you, but—­”

“I know,” he said, his voice strained. He raised his hand to her face and gently brushed back her hair. “That's how I found you.”

A shiver stole through her, and she tightened her grip on his uniform, curling her cold fingers in the folds of his jacket, the body beneath warm and real and alive. She could still feel the chill of the gun barrel pressing into her skull, and she shuddered, closing her eyes against the burning battlefield, the countless dead that surrounded them.

She had almost been one of them.

Braith drew away suddenly, holding her firmly by the shoulders. “Petra, why are you here?” he asked. “Why aren't you on the airship?”

She swallowed hard, her heartbeat quickening as the events of the last hour finally caught up with her—­the lieutenant-­general's orders, Julian's plans, the evidence against them, her escape.

“I had to come find you,” she said, her chest tight. “I had to know if . . . if you were still alive, if you survived the attack. After the bombs fell, I thought—­I thought you were dead, Braith. The battlefield, it . . . it
burned
. I hardly dared to believe anyone could have survived, but . . . if there was a chance, the slightest chance you still lived, I had to know. I had to come find you—­warn you if I could.”

“Warn me? Of what?”

She bit her lip. “The battle, it . . . This was their plan all along—­the bombs, the deaths. You were supposed to die here, Braith. You weren't meant to survive.” She swallowed against the tightness in her throat and glanced toward the smoldering battlefield. “None of them were.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Julian . . . the lieutenant-­general . . . they orchestrated everything. They knew the quadrupeds would fail, knew I had sabotaged the army, but it only furthered their plans in the end, giving them someone to blame for the deaths they caused.” She shook her head, a shiver stealing through her. “All along they meant to bomb the battlefield, to lay waste to both sides of the skirmish.”

“But the French—­I saw—­”

“No. You didn't.” She withdrew the lieutenant-­general's logbook from her pocket and showed him the day's entry. “Those were British ships, Braith, disguised as the French. You only saw what they wanted you to see. All a part of their plan.”

He read the lieutenant-­general's handwriting, his frown growing deeper.

Somewhere in the distance, a gun fired.

“We should move,” he said suddenly. “We're too close to the French camp. It isn't safe here.” He left her side and retrieved his pistol from the mud, wiping the barrel clean on his trousers. “Let's find somewhere to talk. Then you're going to tell me everything.”

They left the French machines behind and found refuge in the shadow of a fallen quadruped, its dome rent apart by a mortar blast.

“Now . . . what happened?”

Petra sucked in a breath and then launched into a full account of the battle, everything that happened after the quadrupeds failed—­the airship blackout, the appearance of the French fleet, the exchange of fire, and the lieutenant-­general's orders to drop mortars on the battlefield.

“
This
was their plan from the start,” she finished, gesturing to the burning debris all around them. “All along they intended the battle to end in massacre.”

“But
why
?”

“Why do you think? For their war. ‘For a better world.' ”

He glanced down at the pages of the lieutenant-­general's logbook. “Where did you get this?” he finally asked.

“From the lieutenant-­general's desk. After the quadrupeds deployed, I thought I might find some evidence of Julian's plans in his office, something tying him to Julian's conspiracy, and I did,” she said, gesturing to the journal. “But even with the logbook and the other messages I found—­”

“What other messages?”

She dug the bundle of letters and telegrams from her pocket and handed them over. “Even with the evidence I gathered, I can only prove they were planning something together. I'm not sure it's enough to convince anyone of a conspiracy, especially of this magnitude.”

“It's a start,” he said, glancing over the collection of papers in his hand. “But we need to get this evidence to someone who can put a stop to the minister's plans before he does this again. He cannot be allowed to orchestrate a war as he pleases. We have to stop him.”

Petra frowned. “Don't you know that I've
tried
?” she said, her voice breaking. “I tried before to stop him, but—­”

“This time will be different.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Because this time, you have evidence,” he said, holding up the lieutenant-­general's logbook. “We may not be able to convict him outright, but we might have enough to launch an investigation into his affairs. If we can find someone who already suspects the minister, someone who will listen to our claims, perhaps they can bring an accusation against him in our stead. I don't know who, but—­”

“I know someone,” she said suddenly. “Someone who might be able to help.”

“Who?”

“Vice-­Chancellor Lyndon, the head of the Guild.” She had her misgivings about Lyndon, but at least he would believe her—­and she might even convince him to finally make a stand against this war. “If we bring him evidence of Julian's schemes, he will do what he can to get it into the right hands. He'll help us.”

“You're sure?”

She swallowed hard and nodded. She had to believe he would.