“Even now?”
With a weary, stitched sigh, he slowly edged toward her cell and settled against the wall beside her, just on the other side of the iron bars. Then he reached out his hand. “Even now.”
She glanced down at his outstretched hand, his wrists just as scraped and bruised as hers beneath the heavy manacles he wore. Delicately, she placed her hand in his, and their fingers entwined—as naturally as anything could. His touch didn’t send shivers over her skin or make her breath fall short, not like the rush she felt with Emmerich. It just . . . was, like breathing, or a heartbeat, steady and constant and familiar, as if it had always been. She leaned her head against the wall, a painful ache twisting her chest as she listened to Braith’s unsteady breathing beside her.
“What now?” she asked, her voice thick.
“I don’t know,” he said quietly, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles. “Once we reach Amiens, they’ll ready the ship for battle, deploy the quadrupeds, and then . . .” He trailed off into silence, both of them aware of what would happen when the quadrupeds were deployed.
“But what are they planning to do with us—with me?”
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “The lieutenant-general never said, but . . .” He dropped his gaze to their joined hands and cleared his throat. “Whatever happens now, I’ve got your back, and I . . . I’ll fight for you, to whatever end. All you have to do is ask.” He glanced up at her then, his eyes bright in the shadows of the brig, studying her face with surprising gentleness. “I’m on your side,” he said softly. “Always.”
She offered only a pale smile in reply and held tightly to his fingers, the only thing keeping her from sinking into the pit of despair that threatened to swallow her whole.
Whatever happened now, at least she had Braith.
It made facing the darkness ahead easier to bear.
Sometime later, they heard footsteps outside the brig. Braith let go of Petra’s hand and slowly pulled himself to his feet, still wincing with every movement. She stood next to him, gripping the bars of her cell as the handwheel set into the brig door started to turn.
“We must be over France,” whispered Braith.
Petra leaned close and reached for his hand, not ready to face this alone. Their fingers entwined, both of them holding tightly to the other.
“It’ll be all right,” he said, his voice low. “This isn’t the end. Not yet.”
She swallowed thickly. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because I’m not ready to give up on living yet. You shouldn’t either.”
The door creaked open on squealing hinges, and suddenly his touch was gone, her hand cold where his had been. She mechanically flexed her fingers and curled her hand into a fist, mustering the last of her inner fight as she raised her eyes to the redcoats now standing in front of her cell. She may be afraid, but she’d be damned if she let them see it.
One of the soldiers approached her cell, producing a key from his pocket. “You’ve been summoned to the bridge,” he said, quickly unlocking the door. He pulled the door wide and gestured one of the other men forward while he moved on to Braith’s cell. “Both of you.”
Petra and Braith had a moment to exchange a wary glance, and then she was being ushered from her cell and out of the brig, shoved step by step down the now-familiar passages to the warship bridge.
Lieutenant-General Stokes was waiting for them.
He stood at the front of the cabin, his back to them as they entered. The orange glare of the setting sun bathed the bridge in reds and golds, the fading light slipping steadily across the green countryside—what Petra assumed was northern France. Ahead, a river snaked through a wide stretch of trees and dark ponds, and thin lines of road wound through farmland and open pastures, the brief image of a small town highlighted by the setting sun. And then the sun dipped below the distant horizon, plunging the land in shadow.
Their guards dragged them to the front of the bridge, stopping at the wide windows overlooking the dark landscape below.
“Your prisoners, sir.”
The lieutenant-general turned briefly, his shrewd gaze sweeping over the two of them before he turned his back to them once again. “Remove their shackles and leave us,” he said to his officers. “Report to your stations and await my command. We will arrive at our destination shortly.”
“Yes, sir.”
The soldiers removed Petra and Braith’s manacles and then left the cabin as ordered, shutting the door solidly behind them.
“I apologize for the strict measures,” said the lieutenant-general, turning away from the window. He walked the perimeter of the deck, carefully observing the flickering lights and spill of tickertape emitting from the nearest dashboard, his hands clasped neatly behind his back. “But given your previous actions against the Guild and the Royal Forces, your containment during our flight was deemed necessary for the success of our mission.”
Petra rubbed the bruises circling her wrists. “And what mission is that?” she asked, flexing the stiffness out of her hands.
“A matter of military concern,” he said dismissively, glancing up from the table of mechanical instruments. “You are here to observe, Miss Wade. Nothing more.”
“Observe?” She narrowed her eyes. “Observe what?”
The lieutenant-general straightened. “The results of your hard work, of course,” he said icily, continuing his path down the line of tables mounted to the floor. “This mission would not be possible if not for you, after all.”
She shivered at his words, a cold chill stealing up her spine.
“We’re ten minutes out, sir,” said one of the nearby officers, sitting in front of a display of flickering gauges and instrument panels.
“Good,” said the lieutenant-general, turning toward another officer. “Signal the other ships. It’s time to give the order.”
Petra turned toward Braith. “We have to do something,” she hissed, a last desperate plan shaping in her mind. “Now. Before it’s too late.”
“But how? What can we do?”
She pressed her lips together. “Tell him of the fault. Beg him not to deploy the quadrupeds. Beg him to fix them. I don’t know . . . but we can’t just stand here and do nothing,” she whispered. “We have to stop this.”
“Petra—”
“I have to try.” She left Braith behind and stepped between the lieutenant-general and the communication’s dashboard. “Wait,” she said, her voice desperate. “Don’t give the order. Not yet. The quadrupeds, they’re—”
“Step aside, Miss Wade.”
“They’re faulty,” she said. “If you deploy those soldiers—”
“I will not ask you again.”
Braith stepped forward and gently pulled her away. “Petra . . . it’s too late.”
She wilted at his touch, at the sound of defeat in his voice. “No . . .”
The lieutenant-general spared her one last withering glare, stalked to the other side of the cabin, and plucked a black telephone from the wall. He drew the receiver up to his lips, and his voice pierced through every single deck with alarming volume. “This is Lieutenant-General Stokes, First Ardian of Her Imperial Majesty’s Royal Forces,” he said, his heavy voice transmitted through the entire ship by the electric speaker system. “We are presently approaching our designated target. Estimated time to arrival . . . eight minutes. Man your stations and prepare for deployment.”
Petra’s heart sank, seeing her last chance to set things right slipping through her fingers. She pulled away from Braith. “Don’t do this,” she said, curling her hands into fists as she approached the lieutenant-general. “The quadrupeds aboard your fleet will fail unless you fix the fault. If you send those men to battle now, they will die.”
“Stand by for my command,” he finished crisply, his voice ringing w
ith authority. He returned the telephone receiver to the wall and faced her. “A wasted effort, Miss Wade,” he said. “You will not sabotage this mission.”
“I’m not trying to sabotage anything! The quadrupeds are faulty,” she explained, panic twisting around her chest like a vice. “There is a defective axle plate in the quadruped’s base, one that will lead to systematic failure in the quadrupeds if it isn’t removed. You have to stop them from launching.”
“I will do no such thing,” he said dispassionately. “I have my orders. I intend to follow them.”
“If you send those machines into battle, your men will die!”
The lieutenant-general’s expression did not change. “This is war, Miss Wade. Men die. That is the way of things.” He turned toward the control dashboard. “Status report.”
“Signal received, sir,” said one of the officers. “The other ships are preparing for deployment. Five minutes from drop point.”
“Good.”
The darkening sky provided a cloak of concealment as they neared their destination. Ahead of the ship, Petra could see the dim glow of a sprawling camp on the other side of a copse of trees, numerous tents, shanties, and heavy lorries parked alongside. Standing sentinel at the forward of the camp was an army of humanoid machines, beautifully constructed, like brass titans out of ancient myth—so unlike the clunky, heavy design of her quadruped.
The fleet of British warships slowed to a halt in midair, stopping a mile north of the French camp. A large town claimed the distant countryside, following the curve of the river. The yellow glow of gas lamps illuminated the streets and bridges and the clusters of riverside buildings, and a great cathedral loomed high in the center of the city, its windows and narrow arches glowing almost silver in the moonlight.
“Prepare the quadrupeds for deployment,” said the lieutenant-general, his gaze on the camp of soldiers and war machines, men scrambling to mobilize in response to their arrival. The banners of the British Empire flew from the sides of each ship, proudly declaring their allegiance.
There was no question as to why they were there.
“Should we signal the other ships to begin their approach, sir?” asked one of the bridge officers.
The lieutenant-general nodded. “See that it’s done.”
The officer flipped a few switches across the dash, typed his message, and waited. A few seconds later, a light flickered from the window of the nearest ship, the flash of a shuttered spotlight. “Message received, sir,” reported the officer; then, after another sequence of flashes, “All ships ready to deploy.”
As if in response, the ships visible from the bridge inched forward, drifting ahead of the flagship as they descended toward the ground.
The lieutenant-general stepped forward and stood at the front of the bridge, clasping his hands behind his back. “Forward sail, Captain, and lower the ship for deployment.”
“Yes, sir.”
Petra watched, horrified, as her worst fear unfolded right in front of her. She shifted toward Braith and sought out his hand, clasping his fingers tightly as the hum of spinning engines thrummed through the cabin. The warship lurched forward, sailing downward at a steady speed. The landscape rose up around them as they approached the French camp, the towering brass titans now crawling with men in navy uniforms. Between the camp and the advancing ships, a line of soldiers marched forward with rifles at the ready.
“Nearing one hundred feet above ground,” reported an officer.
Another officer grabbed a second telephone from the communications dashboard and listened intently to whoever spoke at the other end. “Soldiers at the ready, sir. They await your command.”
“Not all of them.” The lieutenant-general slowly turned around, his shrewd gaze landing on Braith. “I believe you have somewhere to be, Private.”
Petra whirled toward Braith, holding tightly to his hand. “Braith, no . . .” she whispered. “You can’t.”
“I don’t have a choice,” he muttered, his face hardened by the practiced stoicism she was so used to, his inner turmoil betrayed only by the tense line of his shoulders. He let go of her hand and saluted the lieutenant-general, the line of his jaw hard, resolute. “At your command, sir.”
“Then I suggest you get into position.” The lieutenant-general turned and nodded toward one of the attending officers, who brought him the telephone receiver. He raised the mouthpiece to his lips. “Open the bays.”
A bell rang overhead, and a heavy thrum burrowed through the floor.
“Bay doors open,” reported one of the officers.
“Steady the ship.”
The captain pulled the pilot’s controls in reverse and halted the advancing warship, the French camp close now. The sound of rapid gunfire popped far below, but their bullets pattered harmlessly off the hull.
The lieutenant-general cleared his throat. “Private Cartwright? I should not need to remind you the penalty for desertion.”
Every muscle in his body seemed to tense. “On my way, sir.”
“Braith . . .”
He turned toward the door, pausing only to spare her a passing glance. He parted his lips as if to speak, but no words came. Clenching his jaw, he tore himself away, heading through the bridge door without another word.
Petra started after him, but one of the lieutenant-general’s men grabbed her by the arm, pulling her away from the door as Braith slipped out of sight. She struggled against his hold. If Braith launched from the ship in one of her quadrupeds—
“Let her go.” Lieutenant-General Stokes’s harsh voice cut through the bridge. “Let her say her goodbyes. She can’t do anything to harm our mission now.”
The soldier let go of her arm, and she hurried through the door without looking back. She raced down the hall and clambered down the stairs to the cargo bay, praying he hadn’t deployed yet.
She reached him at the bottom of the landing. “Braith, wait. Please . . . Don’t do this.”
He hesitated with his hand on the door, the line of his shoulders rigid. “I have to,” he whispered. “I’m a soldier, Petra. These are my orders. I have to follow them. You heard the lieutenant-general. I have no choice.”
“Braith . . . you could die down there.”
He clenched his jaw. “I know.”
“One minute to drop point,” said a voice over the bay’s loudspeaker.
“I have to go,” he said, hesitancy in his voice.
“Don’t.” She reached forward and took his hand. “We can still fight this. Together. Please.”
Braith held her gaze for what felt like an eternity. There was regret in his eyes—regret and something else, reflecting the storm of emotion she felt in her own heart at that moment, wondering if she would ever see him again.
“Thirty seconds.”
He glanced down at their hands with a frown. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, his voice hoarse. “I can’t. I . . . Goodbye, Petra.” Then he let go, pushing through the door into the cargo bay.
Wind gusted through her hair and slammed the door against the stairwell wall as Braith hurried across the catwalk ahead, halting at one of the few remaining machines. A pulsing red light bathed the metal dome and spidery limbs in flashes of blood-red light, while below lay a dark green pasture, yet untouched by the ravages of war.
“Twenty seconds,” blared the loudspeaker.
Petra left the safety of the stairwell and hurried forward, her footsteps clanging against the metal walkway, fingers sliding over the smooth railing. Braith stood at the foot of the access ladder, both hands gripping the railing, his eyes on the deadly war machine. He turned as she approached, and she stopped mere inches away, no words on her lips, only the ache of fear in her chest as the red light pulsed overhead.
“Fifteen seconds.”
He wavered in that moment. “Petra�
��”
She stepped forward and crashed into him, throwing her arms around him in a tight hug. “Don’t die, you idiot,” she said. “Don’t you dare die down there.”
Braith gathered her into his arms with a weak laugh and hugged her close, breathing into her hair with a sigh. “I won’t.”
“Promise?” she asked, her voice breaking.
The voice over the loudspeaker began to count the final seconds before the drop. “Ten seconds . . . Nine . . . Eight . . .”
He drew away, his hand resting on the curve of her jaw, the two of them standing barely a breath apart. “I promise.”
He held her there for a second more, and then he turned away, climbing up the ladder and into the quadruped, hesitating only as he closed the hatch. Their eyes met for too brief a moment, and then he was gone.
“Prepare for launch.”
Petra stepped back, and Braith’s quadruped jolted violently toward the bay doors. As the machine rumbled downward, she caught a glimpse of him through the narrow cabin window, strapping himself into the pilot’s chair, and then he sank out of sight, joining the rest of the war machines below the central walkway, ready to drop through the bay doors and engage the French.
Petra clung to the railing, her knuckles white as she peered over the edge, her heart failing to beat as the red light pulsed ominously overhead.
“Launch.”
CHAPTER 17
The quadrupeds plummeted, falling like missiles to the ground.
Petra braced herself against the catwalk railing as the warship lurched upward, a terrible wrenching boom twisting through her gut as thunder awoke from the earth, several thousand tons of metal impacting the ground all at once.
A cloud of dust rose from the impact site, shrouding the army of war machines in a thick haze. Seconds ticking by in tense silence. Then, as the dust began to settle, there was the distinct discord of combustion engines igniting, the quadrupeds rearing to life in a cacophony of gears and pistons.
Petra watched as the first machines shifted forward, the pilots testing the controls one halting step at a time. The quadrupeds’ brass hides glimmered in the ambient light of the airship fleet as they marched toward the French camp. She followed them along the catwalk, even as a bell rang overhead and the bay doors began to close, her view of the battlefield steadily shrinking. She couldn’t tell one machine from the other, couldn’t know which one was Braith. Then the doors shut with a loud thump and she could no longer see the army of quadrupeds below.
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