The Guild Conspiracy

by Brooke Johnson

  “And what exactly has he done?” she asked, her chest growing tight. “At least I’m trying. While you and Emmerich sit there, I’m still fighting, still trying to find a way to stop him. Which is more than I can say for either of you.”

  The vice-­chancellor removed his glasses and kneaded the crease in his brow. “I know you’re frustrated, Petra. I know you want to fight back, but it isn’t the right time. We must be patient. We must wait until we have the evidence we need, only acting when the opportunity is right,” he insisted, the same argument she had heard a hundred times before. “Emmerich understands this. I wish you would.”

  She glared at him. “And when will it be the right time? The longer this goes on, the harder it will be to stop him—­don’t you see that?”

  “The time will come. We just have to be ready when it does.”

  Petra wanted to growl her frustration at him, but she bit back the urge. It was no use arguing. She wasn’t going to change his mind. She had tried enough times before to know that nothing she said was going to make any difference.

  She stood up from her chair and started toward the door.

  “Just be careful, Petra,” he said, his voice soft. “You’re all that’s left of your mother. She’d never forgive me if I let anything to happen to you.”

  Petra hesitated at the door, her fingers outstretched, hovering over the curved handle. “I would think she’d rather you helped me.”

  “I’m doing what I can, Petra. I wish you could see that.”

  She swallowed against the tightness in her chest and curled her fingers around the rigid brass handle. “It’s not enough,” she whispered, pushing through the door into the hall.

  It would never be enough.

  Petra arrived first to the conference room, ten minutes before the scheduled review meeting with the rest of her engineering team. She took a seat at the far end of the table and waited, her stomach in knots. If the other engineers found her sabotage, if they recognized it for what it was . . . She clutched her bag in her lap, gripping the fabric until her knuckles turned white. No, she had been careful, deliberate. They wouldn’t find it—­couldn’t. Her sabotage was meticulously hidden. She was safe.

  As four o’clock neared, the others began to arrive, eyeing her with equal measures of curiosity and suspicion. She wondered what they’d been told, if they knew what project they would be working on, or who had designed it. Yancy was one of the last to enter. He spotted her at the end of the table and nodded in greeting before taking the seat across from her, a bemused look on his face.

  At precisely four, Professor Calligaris entered the room, and conversation settled to a quiet murmur as he took up position at the head of the table. “Afternoon, gentlemen,” he said, pointedly ignoring Petra. “Now that we are all here, I would like to—­”

  The door creaked open, cutting Professor Calligaris short, and everyone turned their attention to the man standing in the doorway. Petra’s mouth soured, a cold chill creeping up her spine. Of course he’d show.

  “Oh, don’t let me interrupt you, Alonzo,” said Julian, his charismatic smile almost venomous as he took the nearest open seat. He surveyed the assembled engineers with a genial expression, casually crossing one leg over the other. “I am merely here to observe on behalf of the council. Please continue.”

  “Of course, Minister,” said the professor. “As I was saying . . . now that we are all assembled, perhaps we may make introductions. Then we can get on to discussing the project.” He gestured to the nearest engineer. “If you please.”

  The engineers introduced themselves one by one, giving their name and expertise. When the circle of introductions reached Petra, Calligaris did the honors for her. “This, as you may have guessed, is Miss Wade,” he sneered. “She is here on probationary appointment by the Guild to observe the development of the project and provide whatever input is required of her. Though I should like to impress upon you all that she is not an active Guild engineer—­student or otherwise. She is our project consultant, nothing more.”

  “Consultant?” said one of the older engineers. “And what expertise could she possibly have for a project of this caliber?”

  Petra bristled at his tone. “Well, I know exactly how it’s supposed to work, for one. I’m the one who designed it.”

  Across the table, Yancy arched an eyebrow at her.

  The engineer scoffed. “She can’t be serious.”

  “She is,” said Julian, regarding the engineer with a sedate stare before rising from his seat. He walked the perimeter of the room in silence, each step deliberate and precise. He stopped just behind Petra and rested his hands on the back of her chair. She heard him take a deep breath, his imposing presence drawing the attention of the entire room. “As the quadruped’s designing engineer, the Guild believes her expertise will be vital to the project’s success, and I am sure Miss Wade will more than prove herself in the months to come,” he said, his words edged with double meaning—­she would prove her loyalty, or else. “If you have any issue with her designs, now would be the time to address them,” he went on. “We can afford no mistakes.”

  The pressure of his shadow loomed over her, and she struggled not to shy away from his close proximity, her skin prickling like mad. Finally, after an eternity of smothering silence, he withdrew and returned to his seat on the other side of the room, but the itch between her shoulders remained.

  “I trust you will all do your part to ensure the production of the quadruped proceeds to the best of your ability,” he said, surveying the table of engineers with languid ease. His copper eyes wandered to Petra then, and she felt the full impact of his weighted words. “Now, please . . .” he said, gesturing for them to continue. “I should like to see what you think of this machine and its capabilities.”

  With a nod from Julian, Calligaris withdrew the copies of her schematics from his leather portfolio and divided them among the engineers. The collected men examined the pages with undivided scrutiny, retrieving pencils and drafting paper, mechanical calculators, slide rules and mathematical compasses, writing notes in the margins of the schematics. Petra distracted herself from Julian’s keen stare and glanced over the familiar designs. Her imperfect calculations and measurements were still there, the numbers determined within a hairsbreadth of an error. The failsafe remained intact.

  No one had found the faults in the design.

  Yet.

  And if they did . . . she hoped her errors would seem genuine, not the deliberate mistakes of a desperate plan. The others already doubted her as an engineer; perhaps they would expect such faults, or write them off as a product of her supposed inexperience.

  After several minutes of concentrated silence, Yancy was the first to speak up. “What sort of combat are we expecting this particular model to see? I assume active battle rather than defense, judging by its proposed mobility,” he said, glancing at Julian and then Calligaris for affirmation before turning back to the designs. “In that case, according to these load calculations, we could mount two Agars on either side of the control cabin here,” he said, pointing to the designs, “using rotating barrels to compensate for overheating. Without a gunner, I’ll need to equip the interior with hoppers for reloading and maintenance, but I should be able to fit both guns with an automatic firing mechanism instead of a manual crank. For reload, we can design an automatic system to repack the shells and feed them back into the hopper at a rate of . . .” He scribbled some figures down on a piece of paper. “Sixty rounds per minute. Maybe ninety if I divided the reload between two chutes.”

  He drummed his fingers across the design. “Now, if we’re looking for more firepower, we could hang a Gatling gun underneath, mounted to the base of the leg frame here,” he said, pointing to the empty space between the machine’s four crablike legs. “Anything larger and the recoil will knock it off balance, but a Gatling and a pair of Agars should b
e enough for general battle, with smaller sidearms attached for close-­range combat. While the Agars are slower, the Gatling more than makes up for it. Up to ten times the rate of fire with an automatic ammunition feed.”

  Petra blanched at the thought.

  Julian spoke up from the far end of the table. “That should suffice. The quadruped is intended for general combat, designed to equip one soldier with the firepower of a dozen.”

  Yancy nodded. “The Gatling will do that and more.”

  “Then we will focus on equipping the quadruped as you suggest,” said Julian. “Does anyone else have suggestions for improvement?”

  One of the older engineers adjusted his glasses on his nose and pointed to a roll of calculations printed by his mechanical calculator. “Not arguing the particular layout of the design, but some of these calculations don’t add up. The error is slight, mere millimeters in most cases, but enough of a difference that it could lead to malfunction in the primary gear system.”

  Petra froze, heart pounding as she tried to keep her expression neutral. “Could I see your calculations?” she asked, reaching out her hand.

  The man nodded, standing up from his chair and circling the table to where she sat. “See here,” he said, pointing to the gear train between the transmission and the driving mechanism for the legs. “It’s a simple mistake, but the alignment here is off, see? And these two gears don’t quite match up.”

  She nodded absentmindedly, acutely aware of Julian glaring in her direction. “I see what you mean,” she said, poring over the engineer’s notes. “All right, so if we adjust this one here . . .” She glanced at his calculations, though she knew the exact adjustment that needed to be applied. “ . . . a two-­millimeter expansion in the gear’s diameter should fix the drive issue. And if we lengthen this axle according to your numbers, that should fix the alignment issue, yes?”

  The engineer nodded. “That’s what I was thinking.”

  The meeting went on that way for hours, the engineers all working together to draft a fresh set of schematics to accommodate the adjustments to the quadruped’s design, but with each mistake the engineers pointed out, Petra’s heart sank a little lower in her chest. Every mistake they found was one less hiccup in the quadruped’s manufacture, counteracting the extended deadline she had so desperately tried to buy herself.

  She tried not to react, tried not to show her fear, but inside she was terrified, worried that Julian could see through her guarded responses and false excuses as the engineers found mistake after mistake.

  If he suspected the truth, she was doomed.

  When the meeting finally ended a few hours later, the quadruped design approved and finalized, Petra exhaled a shaky sigh of relief. Not one of the engineers had discovered the clockwork failsafe she had built into the machine. It was a bittersweet victory after the unfortunate discovery of her less subtle sabotage attempts, but a victory nonetheless.

  As the other engineers gathered their things to leave the conference room, Petra slung her bag over her shoulder and stood, looking forward to spending the evening with Rupert, repairing the damage to her mech and preparing the machine for the next fight, just a few days away now. She felt Julian’s eyes on her as she headed for the door, but she didn’t slow down, hoping to escape him before he thought to threaten her again. She squeezed between two of the older engineers and pressed against the door, already thinking of how she might equip the mech against Darrow’s underhanded tactics.

  “Miss Wade . . .” Julian called after her.

  Petra faltered, and the pair of older engineers brushed past and stepped into the hall. As much as she wanted to trail after them, her feet were cemented to the floor, a chill crawling up her spine as she lowered her hand from the door.

  “Stay a moment,” said Julian, his tone betraying nothing. “I would like a word in private.”

  She swallowed against the tightness in her throat, hardly daring to turn around for fear of giving herself away, but she could not hesitate, not now.

  Clutching her bag with tight fingers, she strode away from the door and pressed herself against the opposite wall, Julian’s gaze following her with the patience of a viper. The remaining engineers filed out of the conference room, until there was only Petra, Julian, and Professor Calligaris, who exchanged a few muted words with Julian before he too slipped out.

  Julian closed the door behind him, and the latch clicked loudly in the empty conference room.

  “Do you take me for a fool?” he asked, breaking the silence. His voice was calm, but there was a deadliness lurking beneath the surface. She could feel it. “Did you think I would not see what you were trying to do?”

  Petra shook her head. “I don’t—­”

  “Do not lie to me,” he hissed, a muscle twitching in his jaw as he drew away from the door and faced her. “I warned you what would happen if you tried to sabotage this machine, what would happen if you continued to defy me.”

  “I did as you asked,” she said, her knuckles white. “I designed your war machine.”

  “A faulty war machine,” he snapped. “You may have deceived the other engineers into thinking those errors of yours were nothing more than miscalculations, but I know you better than that. You do not make mistakes—­not like this. No, this was intentional. This was sabotage.”

  “And why would I sabotage the design?” she countered, determined not to let her fear of him show. “You made it clear what would happen if I tried.”

  “Yet you seem to need a reminder,” he said, his voice rising. “I offered you a chance to cooperate, Miss Wade. I offered you amnesty. And yet you continue to rebel, to defy me at every turn. That ends today.”

  She faltered, her mouth suddenly dry. “What do you mean?”

  “I have allowed you too much freedom,” he went on, his voice hardening. “But no more. From this point forward, you answer to me. No more distractions. No more opportunity for disobedience. You want to be a part of the Guild? Very well. But you will operate on my terms.”

  A soft knock sounded at the door, and Julian crossed the room and turned the handle, opening the door to reveal a pair of black-­uniformed coppers in the hallway, the chief enforcers of Guild justice—­and fiercely loyal to Julian.

  Julian turned toward her again. “It is time you face the consequences of your actions,” he said, his voice firm. “Consider your studentship at an end. You are hereby transferred to the custody of the Royal Forces. Everything you do now will be reported directly to me.”

  Petra glanced from the coppers to Julian, her heart sinking. “You don’t have the authority.”

  “I think you’ll find that I do,” he said with a grim smile. “And if I discover any further attempt to obstruct the completion of the quadruped prototype, if any evidence of sabotage reaches me, I will not hesitate to have you hanged for treason.” He let the weight of his words linger in the air for a moment. “Do we understand each other?”

  “You can’t do this,” she said, shaking her head. “Vice-­Chancellor Lyndon—­”

  “The vice-­chancellor has no power here,” he said. “The Guild is my domain now, Miss Wade. You would do well to remember that.” He turned toward the coppers waiting outside. “Take her to the Royal Forces office at once. Colonel Kersey will know what to do with her.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Without further preamble, the two men grabbed her and ushered her away from the conference room, their gloved hands forceful, unyielding. She stumbled forward, risking a glance over her shoulder. Julian watched her go, his expression hard and calculating.

  What did he mean to do with her now?

  “Petra?”

  The familiar voice wrested her from her thoughts, and she turned around to find Rupert leaning against a niche in the wall, his hands in his pockets. He stepped away from the wall as they approached, his eyes sweeping over the bl
ack uniforms of her two escorts, their tight grip on her arms.

  “Petra, what’s going on? What’s happened?”

  One of the coppers detached from her side and blocked him from coming any closer. “Nothing of your concern. This is Guild business. Move along.”

  Rupert ignored him, quickly sidestepping the officer. “Where are they taking you?”

  “To the Royal Forces office,” she explained, before either of her guards could stop her. “My studentship has been revoked. Julian, he—­”

  The guard to her right silenced her with a hard squeeze. “Quiet.”

  “Julian?” Rupert paled. “The minister?”

  She nodded, wincing as her guards dragged her forward at a faster pace, their hands like iron vices on her arms. Rupert hurried to catch up.

  “Petra, talk to me,” he pleaded. He knew the implications of that name, knew the vendetta Julian had against her, the threats he had put on her life. “Tell me what’s going on.”

  “I—­”

  “One more word, and I’ll report both of you to the minister,” answered the copper to her right. They came to the end of the hall and stopped in front of the lift shaft. The guard pressed a button to summon the lift.

  But Rupert persisted. “Yancy said you stayed behind after the meeting. What happened?”

  Petra stared at the blinking lights above the lift doors, her heartbeat quickening as the elevator sped up toward them, cables and gears whirring behind the metal gates. What could she say? What could she tell him that wouldn’t land her in even more trouble? She couldn’t tell him the truth, not here, not in front of her guards. Any word about the quadruped or her supposed sabotage would be equal to admitting treason.

  The bell above the doors rang, and the lift slowed to a stop in front of them. The circular glass doors revolved open, pushing the lift gates aside, and the coppers shoved her forward, forcing her into the mechanical cylinder of glass and gears. Rupert watched helplessly, unable to stop them.