She exhaled slowly, letting go of her uncertainties. She could win this. She had to. After what had happened with the quadruped, the mech fights were all she had left. She could not lose, not now.
Rupert took her hand, bolstering her confidence with a tight squeeze. “You ready?”
She nodded. “As ready as I’ll ever be.”
“Dammit!” Petra gritted her teeth, desperately flipping switches across the control panel. “Get up, you stupid thing!”
Darrow’s heavy block of a machine had hers pinned, its long, prong-ended arms holding her to the floor. His mech was a hunkered down contraption, a trapezoidal mass of metal on tracked wheels, with three layers of reinforced plating around the engine and a fully rotational swiveling cabin.
While she uselessly tried to wrest her mech free from Darrow’s grasp, a pair of panels slid open in the front of his mech, revealing a hefty straight-pane sledgehammer fastened to a pulley drive. Petra heard the grinding lock of a gearbox from inside the machine, and the hammer slowly began to spin. Faster and faster it went as Darrow increased the power output to the drive, until it was nothing more than a circular blur of metal aimed at Petra’s mech.
“Petra, move!” shouted Rupert, standing off to the side of the ring.
“I’m trying,” she growled, pushing the controls back and forth, trying to break free of the grapple.
The spinning hammer edged closer to her mech’s hull, dangerously close to pounding the outer plating of her main fuel tank. If the hammer broke through . . . at best, she would have a fuel leak to deal with; at worst, an explosion. She pressed her lips together and tried to think through the chaos of noise all around her. If she could push his mech off balance, give herself enough of an opening to maneuver her machine into a better position . . .
“Use your legs,” she heard Braith shout, his voice cutting through the excited cheers of the gathered students. “Break his stance.”
The hammer struck the plating with a cracking blow, sparks shooting off between the two mechs. Petra cringed against the sound, the rat-a-tat-tat of hammer blows shuddering through her bones as she focused her attention on her mech’s lower half. The mech’s legs were tangled beneath the front of Darrow’s machine, but not pinned. Sending a silent thank you to Braith, she rerouted power to the lower half of the machine, her thumbs dancing across the switches of her control panel.
With a deep breath, she planted her mech’s feet at the base of Darrow’s machine and kicked. Engines strained and tires spun, and with a wrenching scrape of metal, the sharp prongs holding her mech to the floor broke away, and the spinning sledgehammer veered off target, striking nothing but air.
And Petra was ready for it.
Flipping a switch, she extended the mech’s newly added claw—four thick blades crafted to withstand well over a hundred pounds of force—and forced the arm into the open panel in the mech’s body. Sparks flew as the spinning hammer glanced off the arm’s plating, but she held fast, using the edges of her sharpened claw to cut through the hammer’s pulley belt, shredding the rubber into paper-thin strips. The sledgehammer fell slack and crashed against her mech’s freshly plated arm, crumpling the metal.
That she could deal with. The leaking fuel tank was another problem.
She pulled back, and Darrow recovered, folding his mech’s prong-ended arms across the gaping hole left in the center of its body. The sledgehammer dangled uselessly, but it had done its damage. A trickle of petrol leaked from her mech’s body, the dark liquid dripping steadily onto the floor. The plating across its chest had buckled and split. Another hit, and she would lose.
She needed to finish the fight—and quickly.
Her best point of attack was the open sledgehammer panel, but she would never avoid Darrow’s prongs long enough to do any substantial damage. He’d trapped her twice already, and with her fuel tank leaking, she couldn’t survive a third grapple. But if she could jam the mech’s arms, prevent him from pinning her again, she might be able to break through the maintenance panel at the rear of its base and disable the mech with an electric shock.
It was the best plan she had.
Before Darrow could prepare a defense, she launched across the ring, reinforced claw at the ready. She slammed into the trapezoidal frame and shoved the claw into the machine’s shoulder joint, tearing through the mess of gears and wire beneath. Darrow tried to maneuver out of range, his rubber treads squealing, but Petra had the advantage. She curled her mech’s arm around the damaged joint, the harsh grating of metal and gears splintering the air. Then, with a crack like a gunshot, the prong-ended arm snapped free, tumbling to the ground with a clatter of gears.
Rupert let out a cheer, and Petra allowed herself a grin. She hadn’t expected that.
Darrow’s machine careened toward the edge of the ring, its remaining arm swinging dangerously off balance. Darrow fought for control, rubber treads spinning uncontrollably across the petrol-soaked floor as he aimed the machine toward hers. Petra sidestepped the reckless charge, but Darrow twisted around at the last second, swinging wildly with the one good arm. Not enough time to dodge, she flicked the mech’s controls to brace for impact, but her mech wouldn’t move.
She pressed harder on the switch, but no use.
Metal crunched against metal, sending her machine sprawling across the ring. It crashed hard against the floor and skidded to a screeching, sputtering halt at her feet, smoke rising from the hot metal. A heartbeat passed in tense silence, and behind her, Rupert cursed.
Petra jiggled the controls, pressing the switches to their limit, but nothing. Not even a twitch. She kicked the machine, and a flare of pain throbbed through her foot. “Come on, dammit, get up!”
But the engine only spluttered and wheezed, choking on fumes. The air was thick with it, the smell of leaked petrol and exhaust clouding the room. And then nothing. Just dead silence.
Then someone started to count.
“Shit.”
She had fifteen seconds.
Fifteen seconds to get back on her feet.
Fifteen seconds to stay in the fight.
Petra dropped to her knees and grabbed the start cable from its holster, quickly threading the cord around the crankshaft. Sweat dripped from her brow and sizzled on the hot metal plating, her blood thick in her throat, fingers stiff and clumsy as she fed the cable through.
Ten seconds.
Bracing her foot on the mech, she yanked hard on the cable, praying she still had some fuel left. The cord ripped free, and a faint guttering answered, but not enough. Blast. She threaded the cable again, exhaling a slow, steady breath as she looped it through, careful to wind it tight. She clutched the cord with both hands and breathed, her rapid pulse outpacing the dwindling countdown.
Three . . .
Two . . .
She pulled, yanking as hard as she could.
The cable ripped free with a metallic whirr, and she stumbled backward into the ring of spectators, falling hard to the floor. Strong arms dragged her to her feet, and the count dropped to zero, the whistle at Yancy’s lips. But then the engine rumbled musically, and the sound breathed life back into her bones.
She was still in the fight.
Someone thrust the control box back into her hands, and a familiar voice whispered in her ear. “He’ll strike hard and fast to catch you off guard. Be ready.” She felt a breath of warmth touch her cheek and then a gentle shove at her back, forcing her back into the ring.
She had less than a heartbeat to prepare before Darrow pressed his mech forward again, not waiting for her to regain her bearings. Reacting almost instinctively, she drew her mech to its feet, fingers flying across the controls as she narrowly dodged the first attack and pivoted hard, targeting a quick jab to the maintenance panel at the rear of his machine. The craggy, damaged claws of her mech’s right fist swiped across the
plating and ripped the panel free. The square of metal clattered to the floor, exposing a number of wires and glinting metal within the machine’s base.
Darrow countered, lashing out with his remaining arm, but she was ready this time. She braced and absorbed the force of the attack, plating crumpling like a metal bruise as she locked her mech’s arm around his shoulder, applying maximum pressure to the weak linkage joint.
The two machines skidded across the floor, treads squealing and metal screeching. Petra pressed her machine to the brink, engine whining, praying it would hold on just a little longer, and then, with a twist of the controls, the arm snapped loose, dangling by nothing but a bent rod.
Petra didn’t hesitate. His last defense compromised, she moved her mech into position and dug her bladed fist into the machine’s base, not daring to electrocute the systems lest a fire ignite all the leaked petrol in the ring. Darrow tried to escape, but he couldn’t gain traction on the petrol-slicked floor as she ripped through gears and wires with brute force, tearing his carefully crafted machine to pieces, not relenting until the telltale sound of engine failure brought the match to its end. She withdrew victorious, warped gears and bowed linkage rods littering the floor at her feet, soaked in petrol and glimmering iridescent in the electric light.
There was no coming back from that.
Petra expelled a sigh of exhausted relief and lowered her control panel as Yancy stepped forward.
“We have our winner!” Yancy gestured to Petra with a grand flourish. “Miss Petra Wade will move on to the semifinals! And Carbrey Darrow is hereby eliminated!”
A cheer rang out, and Rupert joined her in the ring with a tight hug. “Bloody well done,” he said brightly. “Best fight I’ve seen—hands down.”
“Are you kidding?” She laughed nervously. “I almost lost.”
“You pulled through in the end. That’s all that matters.”
Students swarmed the ring then, a chaos of cheers, congratulations, and praises all around. She was swept up in the joy of it, bolstered on all sides by the respect and admiration of her fellow engineers. She had done it. She beat Darrow.
Yancy shepherded the crowd out of the ring for the next fight, and a pair of wash boys took to the floor to clear the mess Petra and Darrow had left behind. The rest of the students chatted enthusiastically about the fight as she carted her mech out of the ring, some of them calling out further congratulations as she passed by. She hadn’t even won the tournament yet, and already she was gaining their approval, their respect.
Even Selby.
As the room cleared, she caught his eye on the other side of the ring, arms crossed, regarding her critically. Then he nodded, a flicker of approval in his usual dour expression. She just grinned.
The next fight began in a racket of clashing metal and groaning engines, and she left the recreation hall with Rupert and Braith, floating on her victory. Winning the second fight put her another step closer to the respect she so desperately desired. She belonged here, and she’d prove it one match at a time if she had to. Eventually, they’d see.
Once the mech was safely tucked away in the subcity office, Petra and Braith left Rupert behind to finish up some last-minute homework and then rode the dumbwaiter back up to the main floor. As they navigated the overstuffed storage wing, the excitement of her win started to wear off, and she yawned, feeling the weight of sleep steal over her.
“You fought well tonight,” said Braith, holding the door open for her. It was the first he had spoken since the match.
Petra shrugged. “I wouldn’t have won if not for you. When he brought out the sledgehammer, I thought I was done for. You deserve some credit.”
“It wasn’t me who managed to restart an engine in under fifteen seconds or win a fight with a cracked fuel tank,” he said, following her down the hall. “You earned that win. You were smarter than him, quicker to execute your attacks—the better engineer hands down.”
She smiled, a flush creeping into her cheeks. “Thanks.”
“I mean it,” he said. “It suits you, Petra—the engineering, building things. I see now why you fight so hard for it. You belong here.”
She really did blush at that, unable to articulate a response. She was so used to being challenged, so used to having to fight for approval, she didn’t know how to respond. Only one person since Emmerich had accepted her for what she was, and he was sitting three floors below, studying up on advanced aerodynamics. She never expected to find that kind of recognition in a soldier.
The sound of footsteps broke the awkward silence, and Petra stopped, the steps drawing nearer. “Someone’s coming,” she whispered, touching Braith’s arm. She stood, waiting, listening. Then voices followed, distinct in the dark, abandoned halls, and her body went rigid, every muscle turning to lead. She knew that voice, smooth and rich as honey but deadlier than snake venom.
She turned to Braith, a tremor coursing up her spine. Julian.
Braith heard him too.
He raised a finger to his lips and gently grabbed her hand, his touch like a jolt of electricity up her arm, unsticking her feet from the floor. Silent as a shadow, he dragged her back down the hall toward the wide staircase that led to the upper levels of the University and the main building. Nestled beneath the stairs was a narrow storage closet, the door ajar. They took refuge there.
Petra stumbled inside, squeezing between a pair of shelves, and Braith followed, leaving the door open just enough to let a crack of light in. There was hardly room enough to stand, much less to breathe, and she was aware of how close she stood to him, pressed together in the cramped storeroom, his clothes smelling of tobacco smoke and boot polish.
The men’s conversation soon neared, and Petra shifted toward the door, brushing against Braith to better hear them, but he grabbed her firmly by the arm and held her there, as immobile as a statue. She glared up at him. His grip was almost painful, but she could barely make out his face in the dark, his jawline highlighted by the dim light filtering through the door. She didn’t dare speak, but after a moment of rigid stillness, his grip on her arm eased and she turned her attention to the men’s voices, growing louder by the second.
“ . . . having difficulties pursuing the usual paths for commissioning a project of this nature,” said another man, hesitant. “If we waited until the prototype was closer to completion—”
“No,” Julian insisted, the anger in his voice evident. “Contact the manufacturers again and remind them of our agreement.”
“But without the proper authorization—”
“To hell with the paperwork!” said Julian, drawing to a stop mere paces from their hiding place.
Through the crack in the doorway, Petra recognized the lividness in his dark eyes, and she shrank back into the safety of the closet, pressing closer to Braith. He touched her arm again, gently this time, and eased her away from the door, turning his face toward the light.
“I have spent too long preparing for this to be stalled by such miserable excuses,” Julian went on. “They have the designs now. They’ve long had their money, the materials, and the connections they need to build what I asked. We have an arrangement. See that it is done.”
The other man mumbled something unintelligible in reply, and their footsteps continued—not further down the hall, but up the stairs. Their shoes thudded heavily against the steps as they climbed, shaking trickles of dust from the ceiling.
“What of the French machines?” asked Julian.
Petra frowned, turning her eyes to the cobwebbed ceiling. The men’s voices were already beginning to fade as they climbed higher up the stairs, their conversation punctuated by their heavy footsteps. She craned nearer to listen.
“On schedule,” said the other man, his tone considerably more eager. “The manufacturers have already begun production, and the first consignment should be ready for deployme
nt within the month.”
“Good,” he replied. “And Emmerich?”
Petra’s breath caught in her throat and she stiffened.
“Cooperating as promised,” answered the other man.
“Nothing to suspect?”
“No, sir.”
Petra searched the dark shadows above her, aching to hear more, but the conversation slipped out of range. She sank down onto her heels, mind racing as she considered what Julian had said. Something about authorization issues, problems with a manufacturer—that could be anything—but the mention of French machines . . . and Emmerich . . . That could only mean one thing: his plans for war were advancing, and here she was wasting time with the mech fights.
Pressed against her in the cramped quarters, Braith cleared his throat, his breath close enough to brush her hair from her cheek. She started, realizing her fingers were twisted in the folds of his shirt, so wrapped up in her thoughts, her fears, she had forgotten he was there. She let go and flattened against the shelf behind her, bumping into a row of paper boxes. Her skin tingled where she had touched him, and a flush crept up her cheeks, the air in the closet suddenly impossibly warm.
“Sorry,” she sputtered. “I didn’t—”
“We should go,” he said softly, his hand suddenly guiding her toward the door. “Before someone else comes this way.”
Petra nodded, grateful he couldn’t see her face in the dark. “Right.”
Braith peered through the gap in the door, waited a beat, and then ushered her out of the closet and down the hall. Their steps were quick and fleeting over the hardwood floors as they hurried back to the dormitories in tense silence, taking care not to make any noise as they crept up the stairs to the seventh floor. It wasn’t until they reached the door to her room that either of them dared to speak.
Braith slid his key into the lock, releasing the deadbolt with a loud click. “We need to be more careful,” he said, pushing the door open. A muscle twitched in his jaw, his mouth set in a firm line. “We could have been caught.”
Petra only nodded, her stomach still in knots. If Julian caught them out of bounds together, they could both lose their heads.
The Guild Conspiracy Page 12
