The Guild Conspiracy

by Brooke Johnson

  “What happens now?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

  She shook her head as the two Guild coppers joined her in the lift. “I don’t know.”

  “We’ll fight it,” he said, stepping forward as the glass door slowly closed between them. “I’ll go to the vice-­chancellor, appeal to the council if I have to. He can’t take away your studentship just because it suits him.”

  The door slid shut, and Rupert pressed his fist against the glass, the line of his shoulders tense. “He can’t do this to you,” he said, his voice muffled. “He can’t.”

  With a low hum, the lift gears whirred to life, and with a shuddering jolt, the platform began its descent, slowly sinking below the floor.

  Petra met Rupert’s eyes, her fate sealed. “He already has.”

  CHAPTER 7

  Petra drifted through the University in a trance, faces and voices blurring into an indistinct haze. The vibrant brass-­and-­copper world she had inhabited for the last several months bled of all color and sound, leaving only the noise of her rapidly beating heart, pulsing through her ears like an executioner’s drum.

  She stopped suddenly, held fast by the tight grip of her twin shadows, and the world spiraled back into motion. She faced the door to the Royal Forces office, branded by the thin, brass plaque affixed to the door. Her worst nightmare made real.

  Julian had caught her in her sabotage, had seen through the guise of her miscalculations and recognized the intent behind the mistakes.

  She should have known it would never work.

  One of her black-­uniformed escorts knocked on the office door. “Miss Wade for you, sir.”

  “Send her in.”

  The stoic officer turned the handle and pushed open the door, gesturing Petra inside. With no other choice, she sucked in a deep breath, gritted her teeth, and entered the room, the door shutting soundly behind her.

  A large desk sat in the middle of the room, and behind it, the broad-­shouldered officer she had often seen at her Guild proposal meetings, his red uniform decorated with a multitude of ribbons and medals. The nameplate on his desk read COL. KERSEY.

  The colonel pushed aside his work and glared at her over his prominent mustache. “You’re the one Goss sent?”

  Petra nodded. “Yes.”

  “Stay here,” he said, getting up from his chair. He circled around the desk, cracked open the door, and peered into the hall. “Miles,” he barked. “Where’s Cartwright? I have a job for him.”

  Petra glanced around. She knew that name.

  “He’s in his bunk, sir,” answered the soldier in the hall. “I’ll get him.”

  “Make it quick.”

  The colonel drew back into the room, leaving the door ajar as he shuffled back to his desk. He sat down and leaned forward in his chair, the seat creaking beneath his weight. “To business, then. By the minister’s order, all activities in conjunction with your studentship shall cease at once,” he said dispassionately. “You will be moved into the engineer dormitories, where you will reside for the duration of the quadruped’s production. A letter will be delivered to your family, informing them of your residency at the University, and your professors will be notified of your suspension. Henceforth, you will be accompanied at all times by a military escort, who will supervise and report your activities to me and the minister as necessary.”

  Just like that, her freedom was gone.

  The few things she had worked so hard to achieve—­her studentship, recognition, respect—­gone. No more classes. No visiting family or Mr. Stricket now. No more nights working on the mech with Rupert.

  There was nothing left to her but the war machine.

  “Cartwright will keep an eye on you,” continued the colonel. “He will ensure you obey the minister’s restrictions and escort you to and from your workspace. He is a junior officer, but his word comes from me, and by that extension, the minister. You will obey any orders he gives, understand?”

  Petra nodded slowly.

  “Good.”

  There was a knock on the door. “Sir? It’s Cartwright.”

  “Come in.”

  The soldier stepped into the office, his uniform jacket unbuttoned and golden-­brown hair disheveled. His gray-­blue eyes swept the room as he entered, focusing on Petra for a moment before turning his attention to the colonel. The corner of his mouth quirked up into a smile, but then he cleared his throat and assumed a rigid posture. “You wanted to see me, sir?”

  Colonel Kersey appraised him with an arched brow. “I know you’re off duty, lad, but that’s no excuse for coming to my office in such a state. Button your jacket and do something about that hair.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The junior officer raked his fingers through his hair, tucked in his undershirt, and did the buttons on his jacket, his movements fluid and precise. When he had his uniform to rights, he clasped his hands behind his back and stood at attention. “Sir.”

  Colonel Kersey assessed him with a gruff nod of approval. “Better.” He rested his elbows on the desk and folded his hands together over the mess of paper and envelopes. “You’ve been temporarily reassigned,” he said, not bothering with idle chatter. “You are now Miss Wade’s official military escort for the next several months, effective immediately.”

  Cartwright frowned. “A military escort? What for?”

  “A matter of internal security regarding the quadruped project,” said Kersey. “The minister to the vice-­chancellor informs me it is necessary to the interests of the Royal Forces that she be monitored for potential actions against the Guild and the quadruped project. Since you were the one to propose her probationary position, I leave her supervision to you. She is to be restricted to University premises, barred from all classrooms, offices, and workshops unless otherwise dictated by the Guild council. Once construction of the quadruped prototype begins, she is to report to her appointed Guild office to perform her duties under the supervision of Mr. Calligaris, and then you will return her to her room. Quarters are being cleared for her as we speak; nearby accommodations will be prepared for you as well.”

  “And my other duties?”

  “Henceforth suspended,” said the colonel. “Your primary concern is the supervision of Miss Wade. She must not do anything to jeopardize the success of the quadruped. Understood?”

  Cartwright hesitated before answering, glancing at Petra with a flicker of suspicion. “Yes, sir. I understand.”

  “Good. Now escort Miss Wade to her dormitory—­room 738,” he said, turning his attention back to the letters on his desk. “I will update you as needed. You may go.”

  The soldier nodded stiffly and gestured to the door. “After you, Miss Wade.”

  She glanced back at Colonel Kersey, but he had already turned his attention back to his work. Despairingly, she left the office, and the junior officer followed, closing the door behind him.

  The latch clicked loudly, punctuating the finality of her punishment.

  She turned away, eyes stinging at the injustice of it all. Emmerich, her studentship, her friendship with Rupert, her home—­all taken away because she refused to participate in Julian’s war. Because of him, because of his dogged determination to use her, she had lost everything. And now she was a prisoner, a captive in the University she had so long strived to join, forced to work on a project that shouldn’t exist—­that wouldn’t exist if not for her.

  Officer Cartwright watched her warily, folding his arms across his chest. “Are you going to tell me what this is about?” he finally asked. “Or should I guess? From what the colonel said, it can’t be good.”

  Petra glared at him. “By all means,” she said, gesturing grandly to the colonel’s door. “Ask him.”

  “I’m asking you.”

  “Is that an order, officer?”

  Cartwright uncrossed his arms, the tension in
his shoulders easing. “No,” he said, his voice gentler. “It’s not an order, but—­”

  “Then forgive me for not answering.”

  She turned her back on him, cursing herself for being so careless, for falling under Julian’s power yet again. She scrubbed her hands over her face and combed her fingers through her hair, her mind a fog. She was trapped, and there was no escape, no clever way to maneuver herself free of Julian’s never-­ending web. She was alone, and there was no one left to help her.

  Sudden footsteps drew her attention down the hall, and she turned to find Rupert rounding the corner.

  “Rupert?”

  He collided into her with a tight hug. “I came as quick as I could.”

  “But what are you doing here?” she asked, pushing him away.

  He withdrew a step, still clinging to her shoulders. “I went to the vice-­chancellor,” he explained. “Told him what happened. He’s gone to talk with the minister to set things right. You can’t have your studentship taken away like that, not without reason.”

  Petra frowned. Julian had a reason, she thought bitterly, but she couldn’t tell Rupert that, not with her military shadow hovering behind her. “Rupert . . .” How could she explain? Even if Lyndon spoke to Julian, nothing the vice-­chancellor said could save her now. He had warned her not to cross Julian again, and now it was too late. “Thank you,” she finished weakly, knowing it was useless. Nothing would change Julian’s mind now.

  Rupert glanced at the red uniform beside her. “Who’s this?”

  “This . . .” she said, gesturing toward him with a dismissive wave, “is my military escort.”

  The soldier straightened and formally offered his hand. “Officer Cadet Braith Cartwright,” he said. “I’ve been assigned to supervise Miss Wade during the production of her Guild project.”

  Rupert eyed the officer but didn’t shake his hand. “Your Guild project?” he said, turning toward Petra with the flicker of grin. She knew that look. “Where are they taking you now?”

  “Engineer dormitories,” she said quickly, before Officer Cartwright could interrupt her. “Room 738.”

  A brief smile lifted the corner of Rupert’s lips, but he quickly suppressed it. “For how long?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “The length of the project, I think.”

  His expression faltered. “And then?”

  She shook her head, her chest sinking as she considered the possible futures ahead of her. She croaked out an answer, barely able to force her voice above a whisper. “I don’t know.”

  Rupert gripped her shoulders, a solid physical comfort anchoring her to the world. “We’ll fight this, Petra. We’ll get your studentship back. We’ll set things right. You’ll see.”

  Holding his gaze, she nodded, not daring to speak.

  He pulled her into another tight hug. “If you get a chance,” he whispered, “give him the slip and meet me in the office. We’ll talk more then.”

  She hugged him back, breathing a little easier. “I’ll be there.”

  He withdrew. “I have to go,” he said gently. “But I’ll send word if anything changes. Hopefully, the vice-­chancellor can do something about this—­and soon.”

  Petra nodded again.

  “Take care,” he said, offering her one last reassuring squeeze before letting go. He glanced once at Officer Cartwright and then departed, hurrying back down the hall and out of sight.

  The junior officer watched him go. “Who was that?”

  “A friend.”

  “What did he say to you just then?” he asked.

  She swallowed against the tightness in her throat. “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “He whispered something to you before he went. Don’t think I didn’t notice. What was it?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Petra—­”

  “No,” she said, whirling on him. A fire burned in her chest. “You do not get to call me that. Not now.”

  He didn’t back down. “I’m not your enemy, Petra.”

  “No, of course not.” She scoffed. “You’re just my prison warden.”

  “I didn’t ask to be,” he said acidly. “So stop acting like it’s my fault you’re here. You seem to have managed that well enough on your own.”

  “You don’t know anything about it,” she snapped. “You haven’t the faintest idea of what’s really going on.”

  “Maybe not,” he said, holding her gaze. “But I stood up for you. I risked my position and the esteem of my senior officers to help you convince the council—­and the Royal Forces—­of your allegiance. And now I’m supposed to make sure you don’t sabotage your own project? Why? What did you do?”

  “I didn’t ask for your help.”

  “No, but I gave it anyway,” he replied. “And maybe that was my mistake. You said you weren’t what they claimed, and I believed you. I wanted to believe you. I thought you were different. Was I wrong?”

  “What do you want me to say?” she demanded. “I’m not a traitor. I’m not what they say I am.”

  “Then why are you here?”

  Petra pressed her lips together and glanced away. The answer was simple—­Emmerich, the automaton, the decision to bring down a conspiracy, letting Julian turn her into a pawn for his war, and then trying to sabotage his plans . . . There was only person to blame for where she stood now.

  “Bad choices,” she muttered. “That’s why I’m here.”

  And now she was paying the consequences.

  Petra sat in the darkness of her new quarters, her pocket watch open in her hand, ticking soundly against her palm. It had been hours since Officer Cartwright led her up to the seventh floor and deposited her in the lonely dormitory—­nearly midnight now. The hall outside was silent, her room so far removed from the rest of the students and engineers that she hadn’t heard a single door shut or a pair of footsteps pass by, apart from her guard’s pacing. She had the entire floor to herself.

  She stared at the door to her room, considering whether or not she dared sneaking out to meet Rupert. Cartwright had retired to his room thirty minutes ago, and she hadn’t heard a sound from him since.

  If there was a time to escape, it was now.

  She hadn’t forgotten Julian’s warning—­she knew what would happen the moment he discovered her sabotage on the quadruped project—­but the mech fights were not a part of that. Rupert was not a part of that. The respect she was so close to earning from the other students had nothing to do with it, nothing to do with the quadruped or Julian’s plans for war.

  She’d be damned if she’d give it up now.

  The next fight was no more than a few days away, and she still needed to repair the damage she’d earned in the fight with Bellamy, as well as reconfigure the hidden weapons and replace the broken blade in its left arm. She couldn’t do any of that as long as she was stuck in this room.

  Steadily getting to her feet, she crept silently to the door and withdrew her mother’s screwdriver from her pocket, twirling the familiar tool between her fingers. The bolt was locked from the other side, but it would take far more than a simple lock to keep her contained.

  Using the point of her screwdriver, she carefully jimmied the lock, and a moment later, the deadbolt slid open with a loud click, the sound like a hammer in the drowning silence. Petra closed her eyes and waited, listening for any sign of Braith, but the seconds passed in silence. Nothing.

  It was now or never.

  Holding her breath, she turned the knob and edged the door open, silently praying for the hinges not to creak. When she had space enough to squeeze through, she slipped into the hall, eased the door shut behind her, and set off down the hallway, her stocking-­clad feet padding silently across the hard floor. Behind her, the sound of a latch clicked softly, the gentle creak of unused hinges lighting a fire under her
feet. She hurried around the corner and gripped the handle to the stairwell door and pushed inside, careful to ease the door shut behind her. Perhaps she had only imagined the sound. Perhaps it was nothing. But she did not dare slow down. She sped down the flight of stairs, skirting past floor after floor.

  As she neared the fourth-­floor landing, a door opened a few floors above her, and the sound of heavy boot steps drawing down the stairs was unmistakable. She quickened her pace, reaching the ground floor with sweat on her brow, the footsteps treading nearer and nearer. Swallowing against her rapidly beating pulse, she grasped the handle and swung the door open, the taste of freedom just beyond.

  But then a slender hand forced the door shut.

  Petra didn’t need to turn around to see who it was.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” he hissed.

  “Nothing to do with you,” she said, not releasing her hold on the handle. “Now let me pass.”

  “No,” he said, positioning himself between her and the door. Officer Cartwright pushed her back a step, no longer wearing his red military uniform, just a plain shirt and trousers. “I have my orders. Now, where were you going?”

  “Nowhere.”

  “If that’s true, then I’m sure you won’t mind if I report this to the minister in the morning. Since you clearly have nothing to hide.”

  She glared at him. “If you report me, he’ll think I was trying to sabotage the quadruped project.”

  “But you’re not.”

  It wasn’t a question.

  “No,” she said slowly. “I’m not.”

  The tension left his shoulders, and he leaned his back against the door, crossing his arms over his chest. “Then why not tell me what it is you’re really doing?”

  “Because I don’t trust you.”

  “And if I promise not to report you?”

  “Isn’t that going against your orders?”

  He shrugged. “That depends on what you were planning to do.”

  Petra stared at him, this peculiar officer with his blasé manner and suspicious familiarity. Any other soldier would have dragged her back to her room and reported her to Julian in an instant. But not him.