VICE-CHANCELLOR HUGH LYNDON stepped into Emmerich’s office, followed by two others with the Guild emblem pinned on their lapels. The tallest of the men glared at her with familiar copper eyes, completely devoid of kindness: Emmerich’s father. The other man, she did not recognize.
Emmerich wrapped his arms around her protectively. “Petra,” he whispered, keeping his eyes on Lyndon and his father. “As soon as you get the chance, run. Do you understand?”
She swallowed thickly and nodded, her heart pounding against her chest.
Lyndon stepped forward, surveying the automaton behind them, still whirring quietly. “I see you’ve finished it, then,” he said, admiring the machine. “A marvel of engineering, if you don’t mind the praise, Miss Wade.”
Petra’s eyes widened.
“Oh, don’t be surprised,” he said. “We have known for some time that you have been assisting Mr. Goss, and what splendid help you have been.” He inhaled a deep breath and then sighed, still eyeing the automaton. “It’s unfortunate, then, that your involvement must now come to an end,” he continued. “I am disappointed to learn of your inclinations, Miss Wade. You would have made a fine Guild engineer.”
She blinked, hardly believing the words she was hearing—actual praise from the vice-chancellor of the University.
“Enough of this, Lyndon,” said Mr. Goss. “She’s been found out, and it’s time to bring her to justice.” He gestured to the short man standing beside him. “Mr. Fowler, take her into Guild custody.”
“Don’t you dare,” said Emmerich, pulling Petra close. He reached behind her and fumbled his hand across the table’s surface, knocking tools and instruments aside, looking for something—but what, she couldn’t guess. Then she felt something press hard against her back.
Emmerich’s father stepped forward. “Son, the Guild is willing to forgive your transgressions involving Miss Wade, but she is not the girl she seems. We have reason to believe that she is passing information to enemies of the Guild.”
Petra met the man’s eyes. “That is a lie.”
“We have evidence against her, proving our claims,” said Lyndon.
Mr. Fowler stepped forward. “Come with me, Miss Wade. It’s over.”
“Emmerich, they’re lying.”
“I know,” he said softly.
Suddenly, the automaton sprang to life. Gears grated and whirred, and with a cavernous groan, the machine lunged forward, its immense bulk passing within a hairsbreadth of Emmerich and Petra. It stomped across the floor, rattling the metal plates beneath their feet as it came to a shuddering stop between them and the Guild men.
However destructive a force, the automaton was the most magnificent thing Petra had ever beheld—gears grinding and shifting, cranks spinning, sliders jumping like pistons, drive shafts whirring, and the fluctuating tick-tock of the balance wheel. Just being in its presence made her bones tingle. The automaton stood to its full height, towering over them like a terrifying brass gargoyle, an awesome sight looming up in the center of the workshop.
Petra knew its power was dwindling, running on only three turns, but perhaps with a few minutes of its help, they might overpower Lyndon and the other council members. They might escape.
Under Emmerich’s control, the automaton folded its right arm against its chest, and with a grinding sweep, knocked Mr. Fowler aside, throwing him hard against the wall.
Emmerich faced Lyndon and his father, holding the control aloft. “Stand back,” he warned. “I will not hesitate to use the automaton against you.”
Within the automaton’s back a grating snap signaled the transition to its second mainspring. With only three windings, and the bulk of its power already expended, Petra knew that Emmerich had maybe two minutes to use the automaton at full tilt. He was running out of time.
“What do you expect to accomplish?” Emmerich’s father asked him, his face devoid of fear. “Nothing good will come of this insubordination. She is a spy, trading Guild secrets to the enemy. Do you really want to align yourself with her?”
Lyndon stepped forward, eyeing the automaton. “There is no need for this sort of action, Mr. Goss,” he said to Emmerich. “Stand down, and let us take charge of Miss Wade. You do not need to become an accomplice in her treachery.”
The automaton’s gears slowed. Petra estimated that it had less than a minute of power left. Emmerich had wasted its energy reserves testing its functionality. Her heartbeat quickened. They hadn’t anticipated fighting their way out of the University, much less against the vice-chancellor and Emmerich’s father.
“They’re biding their time,” she whispered, gripping his shirtsleeve. “They’re waiting for it to run out of power.”
Emmerich glanced at the automaton, a calculating gleam in his eye. She could feel his muscles tense, the rapid beat of his heart. “Petra,” he said softly, the wireless control in his hands. “Remember what I said about running?”
His fingers flew across the control apparatus and the automaton crouched, bringing its large body as close to the floor as its joints would allow, emitting a screaming groan of gears and whirring belts. Lyndon and Emmerich’s father watched the machine warily, slowly backing toward the door as Emmerich flipped the controls, pressing the switches to max power. With a strained grating of gears, the machine vaulted.
Lyndon and Mr. Goss gaped as the machine soared upward, a dent left in the floor from the pressure of its jump. The automaton’s head just missed the ceiling and then came down, falling with the crushing force of a mortar shell. The crash was deafening, their ears bombarded with the shrill agony of metal tearing asunder. The floor buckled and warped on impact, splitting open with a screeching shear as the machine’s massive weight cleaved through the metal panels and dragged the room downward like a drain.
Petra lost her balance and her feet slid toward the center of the crater. Stuck halfway through the hole, the automaton’s exposed gears grated against the metal. Lyndon and Mr. Goss backed away from the automaton and the pitched floor, huddling in the door as Emmerich used the last of the machine’s power to widen the gap with a forceful punch.
The automaton fell through the floor then, landing with a deafening crash below.
Petra clung to Emmerich’s arm, scrambling to stay with him, unwilling to let go, but the soles of her shoes could not gain purchase and she slipped farther toward the gaping hole in the center of the room. “Emmerich!”
“Run, Petra! Get out of here!” Emmerich pried her hand from his arm and pushed her toward the crater, an apologetic look in his eyes.
She splayed her fingers across the floor, trying to stop her descent, but the surface was too slippery. The last thing she saw was Emmerich grabbing a spanner and heading for the office door.
Weightlessness seized her for a moment, the University tumbling across her vision as she fell. She crashed into the wrecked automaton on the floor below, landing painfully atop its exposed gears and hard metal frame, which pressed hard into her back and ribs. She winced against the aching pain that flared through her bones, white lights popping across her vision. Beneath her, the last of the automaton’s power dwindled, the machine whirring to a still and silent death.
Remembering Emmerich’s final words, she roused herself, blinking the room into view. Having fallen through the office floor, she was now in the upper workshop, sprawled across a heaping pile of metal and wood—ceiling timbers and bent brass plates, the damaged automaton, desks, tables, and half-finished machines all buried beneath her. A murmur rippled through the gathered crowd around her, a mob of faces gawking at the mess of gears and splinters, dozens more climbing the stairs from the lobby to stare at the girl and the fallen automaton.
She had to run. She had to escape. She wouldn’t let them take her.
She wouldn’t die, not so soon.
Petra started to climb to her feet, and blinding pain ripped through her leg. Panting, she forced herself to sit, and spied a sharp corner of metal sticking up through the side of her calf, blood soaking her trousers. Grunting with effort, she gritted her teeth against the pain and tried to lift her leg free of the metal, tears stinging her eyes. She clenched her hands into fists, gears biting into her wrists and knuckles as she shifted her weight away from her injured leg.
At the back of the workshop, the door at the top of the staircase flew open, and a group of men descended and pushed through the growing throng of students and Guild members. Petra panicked when she spotted Emmerich held fast between Lyndon and Mr. Fowler, who seemed to have recovered.
Then she saw Mr. Goss, Emmerich’s father, striding toward her from the other side of the workshop. “Seize her!” he shouted. “She is a spy.”
A murmur shuddered through the crowd, but no one came forward. If she could reach the mass of students, she might be able to hide among them and escape. It was her best hope.
Painstakingly, she lifted her leg off the cold metal, a fresh gush of blood dribbling from the wound. With her leg free, she scrambled to her feet and skidded to the bottom of the pile, leaving streaks of blood across the jumbled metal parts. She hit the floor, and as her injured leg took the weight of her body, nauseating pain seared up her leg and chilled her spine. She fell on her hands and knees, breathing hard as she tried to muster the strength to stand, to ignore the pain and run, escape.
Gritting her teeth, Petra started forward when a pair of strong hands grabbed her by the shirt collar and jerked her to her feet. Her legs were jelly and her head spun, the workshop whirling across her vision.
“Petra, run!” shouted Emmerich.
She watched vaguely as the crowd parted, the pain in her leg blazing. Emmerich’s father marched forward, and she remembered the danger, the need to escape. Her heart beating fast, she turned on her captor and landed a punch to his ribs, stumbling away as he released her. Staggering backward, she fell into the crowd and shoved a path through the swarm of students. The pain in her leg had dulled slightly, all her focus bent on reaching the stairs and escaping through the lobby. Her pulse thundered in her ears, the rush of blood drowning out all other sound. Hands gripped her shirt and pulled on her arms as she struggled to escape. She kicked, punched, and clawed, but a swift blow to her stomach brought her painfully to her knees. She coughed, feeling she would collapse from the effort of trying to move.
Petra stared at the floor, her body trembling. A boy spat in her face. They had no idea, no clue of the truth.
She was not the enemy. Lyndon. The Guild. Emmerich’s father. They were the enemies. They were the ones who had twisted the automaton into a war machine. Did no one understand? She only wanted to be happy, to have Emmerich, to be an engineer. Was that too much to ask?
Now there would be no more of that. No more Emmerich. No more Petra. Just stillness. Silence. Darkness.
PETRA WOKE IN a small, dark room. The heavy thrum of machinery reverberated through the walls and floor, rattling through her aching head. She pressed her fingers to her forehead.
She wasn’t dead.
The smell of grease and polish wafted through a vent in the floor, and she felt a faint warm breeze from the whirring gears beyond. She sat up, every muscle in her body sore, her back and sides littered with bruises. A bandage covered her leg where the metal had speared her calf, and her trouser leg had been torn away, cut off just below the knee. She could feel the pull of stitches sewn across the wound, itching like mad.
Kneading her temples, she surveyed the room she was in—a metal cube with a metal door, no windows, only the narrow, horizontal vent set into the floor. Through the vent grate she could see dim brass light, a familiar sight. She was below the city proper, held prisoner in the upper levels of the subcity.
The memory of the automaton and the attempt at escape came back to her in vague, unfocused thoughts, but she recalled the gist of what had happened. At least they destroyed the automaton. She could take solace in that.
Three days, she stayed in the cell. She counted the hours by the chime of the bell tower. The cell was not far from the tower, putting her somewhere beneath the first quadrant. Each day, she paced her prison, stretching her aching muscles, testing her weight on her injured leg, listening for the slightest sound apart from the subcity. Guards patrolled the hall outside her cell, stopping once in the morning to shove a meager breakfast through the door, and once in the evening to exchange her chamber pot and give her supper, before carrying on with their business. The Guild, or perhaps the police, had taken her screwdriver and pocket watch—and her shoes. She wished she had thought to hide the screwdriver before she was captured. With it, she could dismantle the floor vent and escape through the subcity channels. She tried to work the screws loose with her fingernails, but to no avail.
Finally, on the fourth day of her imprisonment, the door to her cell opened. Men in stark black suits dragged her from the subcity prison, up six flights of stairs, and into an imposing, dark wallpapered room. Several lanterns flickered above a high table, curving along the full width of the chamber. A dozen men sat behind it, their faces grotesque in the greenish gaslight, surveying her with a mixture of pity and disgust. The rest of the room remained in utter darkness.
The men in suits threw her into a hard chair in the center of the room and strapped her in, the leather belts cutting into her wrists and ankles as they secured her to the chair.
Half-starved and exhausted, she didn’t have the energy to fight them.
“Petra,” whispered a warm voice to her right. “Is that you?”
“Emmerich.” She stretched her hand toward him, struggling against the leather strap around her wrist. She wished to entwine her fingers in his, to feel him next to her, but she could not reach him.
“Petra, you need to trust me,” he whispered, his words rushed. “I—”
“Quiet!” bellowed a deep voice, shouting them into silence. “There will be no speaking between the accused.”
Someone behind the table cleared his throat and stood, his glasses reflecting the harsh electric light—Vice-Chancellor Hugh Lyndon. The light deepened the shadows of his face, and as he spoke, his gravelly voice echoed through the chamber, though not with the edge of triumph she expected. “Miss Wade, you have been brought before this tribunal to stand trial for vandalism, trespassing, and assault.”
A brief silence followed his words, and another man stood up, his face coming into the light as he leaned forward onto the long table. Emmerich’s father. “And treason, Vice-Chancellor,” he said. “Do not forget the worst of her crimes.”
Lyndon narrowed his eyes at Emmerich’s father, meanwhile worrying at the chain of his pocket watch. “And treason,” he said slowly, turning to face Petra again. “Do you understand the charges, Miss Wade?”
She stared forward, her heart thundering in her chest.
“Affirming your understanding of the charges is not an admission of guilt,” said Lyndon, the lines in his face softening. “We merely must establish the matters to be discussed here. The charges, Miss Wade—do you understand why you are here?”
Petra swallowed the lump in her throat and fidgeted in her chair. “Yes,” she said weakly.
Nodding gravely, Lyndon turned his attention to Emmerich. “Mr. Goss, you have been brought before this tribunal to stand trial for vandalism, assault, and treason. Do you understand the charges?”
There came no reply.
“Mr. Goss?”
“No,” he said quietly. “I do not.”
“Three days past,” said Lyndon, “with the assistance of Miss Wade, you destroyed Guild-owned machineries, assaulted three Guild council members—including myself—and through your indiscretion, passed classified information to Guild opposition. You deny this?”
“I deny voluntary involvement, sir,” replied Emmerich, his voice stilted. “I was forced into an arrangement with the anti-imperialist movement.”
There was a collective murmur across the table.
Petra turned her head toward Emmerich, but he was shielded by darkness. “What are you doing?” she hissed. He did not answer.
“Do continue,” said Emmerich’s father.
Emmerich released a heavy sigh and continued in the same stilted voice. “When I discovered that my relationship with . . .” He hesitated and cleared his throat. “ . . . with Miss Wade was in fact a plot by the anti-imperialists to obtain Guild secrets, I attempted to end my associations with her and report her to the Guild authorities, but she learned of my intent to betray her, threatening to end my life should I refuse to aid her.”
Petra listened in open-mouthed shock to the lies pouring from Emmerich’s mouth, unwilling to believe that he would betray her to the Guild like this, that he would condemn her to a traitor’s death, but still he went on.
“The plan was to obtain the designs for the defensive automaton, as commissioned to me by the Guild, deliver the schematics to anti-imperialist leaders, and then destroy the Guild prototype from within.”
“What objective did these radicals hope to achieve by stealing the automaton designs?” asked Emmerich’s father.
Emmerich remained silent, but Petra could hear him breathing forcefully beside her. She wished she could see him, if only to look into his eyes and discern the truth behind these lies, but the chamber remained dark, only the long table and the men behind it illuminated by the dim light.
Mr. Goss slammed his hand against the table. “Answer the question, or your allegiance will be of suspect. What was their goal?”
Emmerich exhaled a sharp breath. “War.”
The men behind the table exchanged heightened mumbles and meaningful glances. One of them leaned forward. “With who? What nation sent her?” he asked, gesturing to Petra.
She finally found her voice. “No one sent me!” she said. “I am not a spy!” She struggled in her chair, unable to move. “This is all lies!”
“Miss Wade,” said Vice-Chancellor Lyndon, his gravelly voice clear and sharp amidst the clamor of his colleagues. “Be silent.” She could not help but cower at the warning in his tone.
“How long have we known of this plot?” demanded one man.
“This cannot be the work of mere radicals,” said another. “France must be behind this.”
“The Luddites attack—it was led by an anti-imperialist, was it not?”
“We are vulnerable.”
“If war is coming, we must prepare.”
Lyndon smashed a gavel against the table, bringing the room to silence. “We will conduct further investigations to determine the truth of this matter,” he said, his eyes hovering on Petra. “Miss Wade, you are presently charged with vandalism, trespassing, assault, espionage, and treason. If you are found guilty after our deliberations—”
A man two seats to the right of Lyndon slammed his fist on the table—Mr. Fowler, the man who had confronted them at the University. “This requires no further investigation,” he said. “She is guilty, and she deserves death, Vice-Chancellor. The Royal Court would sentence her for no less than capital punishment.”
Hushed murmurs echoed throughout the chamber.
“She is only a child,” Lyndon said, defending her. He glowered at Mr. Fowler. “You cannot sentence her to hang, whatever her crimes.”
“She is a traitor to the Guild and to the Crown. She must be punished.”
“As Vice-Chancellor, I have decided that the matter requires more investigation,” he said firmly, banging his gavel against the table like a hammer. “Petra Wade will be detained in the subcity prison until further notice. Emmerich Goss is released from custody, all charges dropped. That is my final word on the matter.”
The Guild council descended into a low drone of murmured discussion as Mr. Fowler stormed from the room, slamming the door behind him. Vice-Chancellor Lyndon sat down behind the table, kneading his fingers across his brow, and Emmerich’s father looked triumphant in the ghastly glow of the dim lanterns, leering at her with a self-satisfied smirk.
They released Emmerich from his seat first, and his hand clasped around hers. “Petra, you have to trust me on this,” he said quietly. “I will get you out.” Then he was gone.
She fumed, anger rising up in her chest as the lies replayed in her mind. He had betrayed her, blamed her for everything so he could be a free man, and now the Guild wanted her dead for it.
As the men released the straps on her arms and legs, she did not fight them or try to escape. She kept her head down as they led her back to her prison cell—a doomed woman. With at least half the Guild council clamoring for her head, and the word of both Emmerich and his father against her, how could she hope to prove herself innocent? No one would listen to her word over theirs. It was all lies, from the very beginning. All along Emmerich must have planned to give her up if they were caught.
When they deposited her in her cell, Petra sat on the floor, her face in her hands. It didn’t make sense. Why did he betray her to such an elaborate lie? It was utter nonsense—the involvement with anti-imperialists, the threats on Emmerich’s life, the conspiracy to steal designs from the Guild . . . None of it was true, and yet the Guild council had believed him. She ran the court proceedings through her mind time and time again, trying to connect the hidden meanings behind Emmerich’s accusations, his lies, but none of it made any sense to her. She was torn between hating him for betraying her to the Guild and wishing he were there to tell her everything would be all right—a maddening dichotomy made worse by the fact that she hadn’t been able to see him at the trial. With but one glimpse at his face as he lied to the Guild, she knew she would have understood his meaning, what game he was playing, whether he truly was betraying her or lying to the Guild for some other end. He had told her to trust him, but how could she, after what he had said?
The only thing she could be certain of now was that the Guild was preparing for war—first, the corruption of the automaton, and now the anti-imperialist agenda against the Guild and Great Britain. If war was the goal, Emmerich had made certain to push the council to the brink of it, all with a handful of lies and someone to pin them on. But why?
She laid back on the hard metal and stared at the ceiling of her cell, wishing to talk to Emmerich. Right now, he was the only person who could begin to make sense of it all.
The day after the trial, the door to her cell opened. The sudden light blinded Petra, and panic seized her heart as two figures stepped into view. She expected the men in suits again, ready to take her to the gallows, her fate decided, but only one of them entered the cell, descending on her with a tight hug. She breathed in the familiar coaly scent and pushed him back in shock.
“Solomon?” She stared at her brother. “What are you doing here?”
“Emmerich sent me,” he said. “I came as soon as I could.”
Her heartbeat quickened at the name, and she searched her brother’s dark eyes, so full of concern. “What’s going on?”
“I don’t have long,” he said, pressing a parcel into her hands. “When you’re free, go to the boilers and hide in the alcove behind the foreman’s tower. I’ll meet you there before my next shift. We can talk then.” With his arms around her, his voice dropped to a whisper. “Emmerich’s sorry for what he had to do. He would have come himself, but—”
“Boy,” said a man at the door, his voice gruff. “They’re coming.”
Solomon took a step back and squeezed her shoulders. “Whatever Emmerich did, he did it to protect you. He wanted me to tell you that.” He brushed her hair from her eyes and planted a kiss on her forehead. “Good luck.”
As darkness once again descended on the cell, she clutched the package in her hand, recognizing the familiar weight of a screwdriver within the folded paper.