The Guild Conspiracy (6 page)

“Julian,” said Mr. Fowler. “You can't seriously—­”

Mr. Goss held up his hand, regarding Petra with a calculating gaze. “If anyone here wishes to call into motion the colonel's proposal, we will put the decision to another vote.”

Petra locked eyes with Lyndon, silently pleading for him to help her, to do this one thing. If he called this motion, she would never blame him for not helping again.

The vice-­chancellor sighed. “I call to bring the motion to the floor.”

“Seconded,” said another councilor.

She exhaled a breath of relief.

“Then we will put it to a vote,” said Mr. Goss, standing with a measure of authority. “The Guild moves for Miss Wade's application to be accepted on a probationary level. She will be allowed to work on the quadruped in accordance with the Guild's conditions. As such, she will have limited access to the project, and only under the supervision of a senior member of the Guild, as chosen by the council. She must report her progress weekly, as is required of all our engineers, and she will not be allowed access to any other Guild office or workstation besides her own, except with the permission of the respective Guild employee, her supervisor, and a member of the council.” He surveyed the room with a scowl. “Are these conditions acceptable?”

The entire bench exchanged glances with one another, some of the men nodding in agreement, others offering no more than a disinterested shrug, while the rest, including Mr. Fowler, remained sour.

“I would like to propose an addendum,” said Lyndon.

Julian's mouth twitched. “Yes, Vice-­Chancellor?”

“Should Miss Wade complete the quadruped as proposed, without any perceived treasonous action against the Guild during its development, I would like to suggest that she be offered a permanent position within the Guild, as an engineer of her caliber deserves.”

Petra turned toward Julian, her heart racing.

He hesitated a moment before replying. “Very well. We will put the motion to a vote.” He glanced around the council bench. “All in favor of allowing Miss Wade a probationary position during the production of the quadruped . . .” He raised his hand.

Petra held her breath. She needed only eight votes. Eight votes in her favor and she might actually have a chance to put a stop to Julian's war.

One by one, the councilors lifted their hands.

First two, then three.

A fourth, fifth, and sixth.

A grudging seventh.

Just one more vote . . .

A single vote to guarantee her position on the quadruped project, one more vote to ensure that her plan to delay the war could go forward. But if the vote stalled, if no one else voted to approve the amended application, she was doomed. Julian would not rest until she paid for this final defiance against him.

She swallowed thickly, glancing at the few members whose hands remained down. “Come on,” she whispered, willing them to vote in her favor.

Then the colonel cleared his throat, and three other council members reluctantly raised their hands.

She had the majority.

She had won.

It was a probationary position, but still . . . Her cheeks started to ache from grinning, and it took all her effort not to jump up and down with excitement right there in the council chambers.

Julian inhaled a deep breath. “Very well,” he said, his voice betraying only the slightest hint of a grudge. He turned toward Lyndon. “Vice-­Chancellor? If you would like to conclude our business here . . .” He sat down in his chair, a sour look on his face.

“My pleasure.” Vice-­Chancellor Lyndon cleared his throat and stood up from his chair. “Miss Wade, should you agree to the conditions laid out in this meeting, you will be hereby instated as a probationary member of the Guild. Once you have completed the quadruped project, we will take another vote to determine if you have fulfilled the terms of your agreement and then decide if you should become a permanent member of the Guild. Do you agree?”

“Yes, sir,” she said eagerly.

Lyndon turned toward the clerk. “If you would, Mr. Connolly, have a contract drafted for Miss Wade to sign, listing the conditions of her new position. I will want to oversee the terms of the agreement before the contract is finalized and signed.”

“As will I,” said Julian, raising his hand.

“Of course, sir,” said the clerk.

“Then this meeting is adjourned,” said Lyndon, giving the other council members permission to leave. “Miss Wade, I will contact you when the contract is ready for your approval and signature.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Petra turned on her heel to leave but then paused, catching Officer Cartwright's eye. She nodded appreciatively, silently thanking him for his intervention, and he returned the gesture with soldierly precision, a flicker of a smile at the edge of his mouth. It didn't matter why he had stepped forward, only that it had swayed the council in her favor.

She left the council chambers feeling triumphant, unable to keep from smiling. She had done it. She had earned her place within the Guild.

Yet it was a bittersweet victory.

She was one step closer to joining the Guild, but Julian was now one step closer to having his war.

“Miss Wade.”

Petra stopped dead in the center of the hall, the hair on the back of her neck bristling. She forced her face into a neutral expression and turned around, spying Julian Goss striding toward her without a hint of his usual pleasantries. She steeled herself against his anger, bolstering her resolve with her recent triumph over the council. “Sir?”

Julian gathered to his full height, a muscle twitching in his jaw. “Just because you delivered a war machine does not mean that you are no longer bound by our agreement.” He leaned closer. “If you do anything to slow the construction of the prototype or sabotage production in any way, I will not hesitate to have you removed from the Guild and sent to the Royal Forces in chains. Do you understand me?”

“Quite,” she said, not daring to let herself falter now.

She was done being bullied, done being scared.

It was time for her to fight back again.

Julian lowered his voice. “Make no mistake. This war machine will go into production, and I will have my war. Nothing you do will change that.”

Petra held her tongue, glaring back at him with as much loathing as she could muster.

“Tread carefully, Miss Wade,” he said. “Your defiance will cost you.”

With that, he turned and left, leaving Petra alone in the middle of the hall, pulse racing.

Tread carefully, indeed.

 

CHAPTER 5

A
nother week passed, packed with tedious class assignments and studying for meaningless exams, Petra's late afternoons devoted to working on the mech with Rupert. The quadruped project hadn't progressed any further since she signed the Guild contract, and while she felt a sense of triumph when she wrote her name next to Lyndon's, there was a sense of trepidation also.

Once construction of the prototype began, she was certain Julian would try to find any and every excuse to blame her for whatever delays occurred—­whether they were a result of her “mistakes” or not. At least she still had time to prepare for that eventuality. Her engineering team had yet to be assembled, so construction hadn't started yet—­and wouldn't until her team was finalized and the designs confirmed—­which was just as well to her. The longer construction was delayed, the better.

Until then, she had the mech to occupy her time.

Petra and Rupert sat in the floor of the subcity office, working on the mech's final systems. The first fight was only days away, and they had spent every afternoon entrenched in the hidden office, working to repair the busted machine, cobbling weapons together with whatever parts they could get their hands on, and adding as many modifications and attachments as they could cram inside. It looked a mess without its plating, a conglomeration of lifeless gears, cams, and linkage bars housed in the mech's bulky frame. Electric wires snaked through the machine like veins, affixed to various electric systems and powered by an electromagnetically charged battery. The machinery lacked elegance and order, but made up for it in power and versatility.

With Rupert's help, and both of them devoting as many hours as they could spare in the last two weeks, the mech was nearly complete. A few more adjustments to the mechanical systems, and they could start bolting the layers of plating to the frame.

“Hand me that screwdriver, would you?” said Petra, her voice muffled by the screws held between her lips. She took one of the screws and positioned it over the linkage joint, then held out her hand for the screwdriver. Rupert dutifully placed the tool in her palm, and she set to fixing the pieces together.

Rupert sat cross-­legged beside her, his chin propped on his fist as he watched her work. “I wonder who you'll be facing first,” he said. “It's supposed to be a random draw, but I bet Selby will arrange it so you're up against somebody like Darrow first, hoping to force you out early.”

Petra nodded absently, concentrating on making sure all the systems in the left arm were lined up properly, slowly rotating one of the gears to test the movement of the main drive assembly. She frowned, turning the gears again. The transference could be tighter. Some of the connections were loose, causing the gear teeth to click upon engaging. Digging both hands into the bare systems, she loosened a few bolts and slightly shifted the gears before securing everything back into place. Testing the motion again, she listened for the steady whir of tightly fitted gears—­no clicks or grinding—­and withdrew her hands, satisfied with the result. She wiped her greasy fingers on a rag and stood, lifting her arms overhead as she stretched out her stiff muscles.

They'd been working for a few hours already, and though she wanted to finish the mech tonight, there was still too much to do. It would take the rest of the week to complete, even with Rupert's help.

But it
would
be ready.

All but one of her weapon concepts now augmented the machine, the final design lacking only the pneumatic fist, and only because it would have left the mech's arm useless for anything else. Instead, she had fitted the mech's limbs with a wide array of hidden weapons, hopefully versatile enough to combat anything her opponents threw at her.

Petra sat down at her desk and rubbed her eyes. “What time is it?”

“Nearly midnight.”

She groaned, knowing she should probably head home. She had an exam in the morning and needed to cram in some last-­minute studying before the test. If she failed, she'd be catching up for the rest of the semester, or else have to repeat the course. She closed her eyes and sighed, listening to the steady thrum of the subcity, the sounds of machinery playing a mechanical lullaby.

When she opened her eyes again, Rupert had moved to the wall beside her desk, arms crossed. He smiled, his face weary.

Petra was sure she looked just as tired.

She stood up from her chair and stretched, eyeing the mostly finished mech. “Do you think we'll win?”

“We have a fighting chance, at least,” he said with a shrug, grabbing their things. “You're clever, and that will win you more fights than not. And with the surprises you've packed into this old machine, I feel bad for whoever you face first. Not one of them expects you to win—­or to put up much of fight.” He laughed and held out his hand to help her onto the dumbwaiter platform. “Their mistake.”

T
he night of the first fight, Petra stood at the base of the dumbwaiter shaft, less than an hour until the first match. She and Rupert had spent all of the previous night adding the final touches to the mech, hammering plating into shape and bolting it to the frame, staying up well past midnight as they made sure every system functioned properly.

She had been nervous testing the controls, worried she had made a mistake wiring the machine, especially the wireless receiver in the mech's brain chamber. Rupert's mech was corded like the others, but with a few adjustments, she had been able to house a wireless control receiver within the mech's body, a control apparatus like the one Emmerich had built for the automaton; though no one would know by looking at it. By all appearances, her machine was controlled via a direct wire between the control box and mech—­the wireless control apparatus a hidden advantage should she need to use it. A gamble, considering her inexperience with electromagnetics, but one she was willing to risk.

“You ready?” asked Rupert.

She inhaled a deep breath and nodded. “Let's do this.”

Petra helped him push the mech toward the dumbwaiter chute, and together they heaved it onto the platform. Rupert helped her onto the lift next, and she took a seat beside the hulking metal, glancing at the pulley cables that ran up the length of the chute.

“What's the weight limit on this thing?” she asked.

Rupert seemed to think about it for a minute, climbing up onto the platform on the other side of the mech. “Five hundred pounds?”

“You're not sure?”

He placed his hand on the lever that activated the pulley drive and swung it backward. “It'll hold.”

The dumbwaiter motor whirred, and slowly, the platform began to rise, groaning under their combined weight, but holding.

Rupert smirked. “Told you.”

Petra glared at him.

They reached the top of the chute and carefully lowered the mech to the floor before navigating their way to the dumbwaiter platform at the other end of the building. The second lift deposited them on the eighth floor, and as they neared the recreation hall, Petra's heartbeat quickened, pounding painfully against her ribs. She stopped a few feet from the door, the sounds of students and rumbling engines beyond. Several students milled about the hall, and a few of them cast snickering glances at her.

“What's wrong?” asked Rupert, slowing the mech to a stop.

She sucked in a deep breath. “Nothing. Just nervous.”

Rupert laid a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. “Don't be,” he said firmly. “You can do this, Petra. You can win.”

She nodded, ignoring the snide comments from the other students. All she had to do was prove it.

“All right,” she said, letting her breath out in a whoosh. “Let's go.”

Pushing past the other students, Rupert keyed into the recreation hall and shoved the door open, quickly navigating the mech into the room. Petra took another deep breath and followed.

The recreation hall had been cleared of furniture, the couches, chairs, and tables moved to the far side of the room. Already, the room had begun to fill with students and machines. Broad, hulking anthropoids of brass and aluminum stood at the edges of the room like metal sentinels, and Petra forgot her doubts and her fear, focusing instead on her potential opponents.

Some of the machines were crudely built, rough combinations of scrap parts. They looked as if they might fall to pieces with a well-­aimed hit, but Rupert had warned her not to underestimate any of her opponents. As ugly as their machines might be, the engineers here were some of the best in the world. She would be a fool to forget that.

Then there were the other mechs, finely crafted works of mechanical engineering. These stood like gleaming titans, far superior to the rickety machines the other students had cobbled together. Petra was unsurprised to see Selby standing next to one of them, a smug grin on his face.

Most of the mechs were powered by combustion engines, but she did see two steam-­powered machines among the combatants, hissing vapor in the far corner of the room. Of the smaller mechs, many were more vehicular than manlike, with wheels or treads instead of legs, and there were as many different types of weapons as there were machines—­blades for arms, extendable saw-­blades, broad-­faced hammers, and heavy cudgels. By the time the last of the combatants arrived, there were more than a dozen mechs in the small space and three times as many students.

At eleven o'clock, Yancy Lyndon showed up. He jumped atop a stool in the center of the room, and all but one of the lights went out, quieting the crowd of students. “If I may have your attention, gentlemen . . .” His dark eyes swept the room until he found Petra, and he inclined his head with a tiny, mocking bow. “And lady.”

Several of the other students snickered, but she refused to let it bother her, holding her chin high despite the flush in her cheeks. Let them laugh. A swell of prideful determination replaced the fear and doubt in her chest. She'd win this damn tournament and show them who was the better engineer.

Yancy spread his hands wide. “Engineers! If you will join me in the ring, I'll introduce our combatants.”

Petra exhaled a shaky breath. This was it.

Rupert nudged her in the side. “You can do this.”

“I know.”

As the students formed a circle, the other mech engineers elbowed their way to the center of the room. Petra followed, taking up position at the end of the line, the last to enter the spotlight.

“So you decided to come after all,” said the boy next to her—­Selby.

“Well, I couldn't let you boys have all the fun,” she said, keeping her voice low as Yancy introduced the first engineers to the crowd.

“You still have time to back out,” he said.

“Not a chance.”

Yancy reached the end of the line and introduced Selby to heightened applause. The engineer waved at the crowd. “I'm offering you the opportunity to preserve your dignity, Miss Wade,” he said, leaning close. “Once you step out onto the floor tonight, there will be no mercy for you. Fight, and you'll only make a fool of yourself. You would be wise to back out while you still can.”

The cheers and applause died down as Yancy introduced her to the crowd, the last engineer in the lineup.

“Funny,” she said, ignoring their jeers. She turned toward Selby, her brows raised. “I was going to say the same to you.”

He met her gaze with a scowl.

“Now if you'll excuse me, I have a tournament to win.”

She left him standing in the spotlight and joined Rupert at the edge of the room, quickly checking over the mech's systems one last time.

Once all the mechs were primed and ready, Yancy drew a sheet of paper from his vest pocket and cleared his throat. “And now for the first of our preliminary fights, the combatants will be . . . Reynolds and Fletcher!”

Petra released the breath she had been holding and relaxed.

“Bring forth your mechs,” said Yancy, “and let's get started.”

Fletcher ended up winning the fight within a matter of minutes, the first to move on to the next round. Then two boys named Crosby and Morgenstern battled it out in the ring, the match going to the latter. Rupert had mentioned before that the German-­born engineer was one of the top contenders for this tournament, and she could see why. Crosby's mech was nothing more than a smoldering heap of twisted metal by the end of the fight.

After Morgenstern's win, four more fights followed, impressive shows of mechanical force and clever maneuvering, adding Selby, Greer, Darrow, and Salamanca to the winning engineers.

Only two fights left.

“And now,” said Yancy, stepping aside as one of the losing engineers carted his mech out of the ring. “Against towering odds, Miss Petra Wade and her wee mech will face Daniel Bellamy and his colossal mechanical construct, a titan of titans among machines.”

Petra swallowed, her blood suddenly cold.

“So, lady and sir . . .” he said with a genteel bow. “Ready your mechs and prepare for battle!”

Sucking down a deep breath, Petra closed her eyes and tried to calm her nerves, curling and stretching her fingers, focusing on the movement of each joint, each muscle. She itched to put them to work.

Rupert nudged her arm and handed her the control box to her mech. “You'll do fine,” he said. “Bellamy is a dolt. You'll win, no contest.”

Petra absentmindedly nodded, her throat dry as she took the control box. She tested the switches, going through the motions of maneuvering the mech as she mumbled the controls to herself.
Forward, back, right, left, crouch, dash . . .
The weapons interface was labeled with a square of paper beneath the array of switches. She glanced over the list, whispering the names under her breath.

“Miss Wade . . .” called Yancy. “If you care to join us?”

There was a scattered titter of laughter among the students.