The air in Liège carried the scent of soot and molten iron. Sparks rained from the forge like tiny dying stars as Jean-Baptiste Maréchal stood before the glowing maw of the furnace, eyes narrowed, his mind already far from this workshop. Around him, blacksmiths worked rhythmically, unaware that the future of an empire was being shaped among their anvils.
He had spent weeks perfecting the specifications — not to make the best tools, but the most fragile lies. Blades tempered too quickly, metal cooled too unevenly. Manches with minute asymmetries that would strain the wrist after a few hours of labor. Ploughshares designed to fail just after a harvest began. All of it dressed in the appearance of honest craftsmanship. The deceit was not in the material, but in the mathematics — in tolerances so slight no inspection would ever reveal them.
Maréchal watched as one worker quenched an axe head in the trough, steam curling into the air. "Hold it two seconds longer," he murmured, in a voice that carried more authority than his modest coat suggested. "The carbon must not bind." The man nodded, unknowing, and obeyed.
Behind the façade of a contract for agricultural equipment lay the invisible architecture of sabotage. Each shipment that left Liège bore the mark of mediocrity disguised as excellence. It was not a weapon in the traditional sense, but it would do more damage than any musket. The Dauphin's war would be one of ledgers and logistics, a slow rot that began at the root.
The next phase required even subtler precision.
The British, in their colonial enthusiasm, were preparing to cultivate the untested soils of their new colony — New South Wales. Their ships would soon carry seeds, tools, and dreams of agriculture to the edge of the world. And Maréchal intended those dreams to fail before they ever sprouted.
In his office in Paris, maps and soil reports covered the study table. Maréchal, flanked by Jean Dupri, traced a quill across a map of Australia, which at this time was barely a rumor — a rough coastline drawn from Dutch accounts and wild speculation.
"Acacia, arid soils, unknown cycles of drought," he muttered, almost to himself. "And yet they plan wheat. European wheat." He smiled thinly. "Arrogance will make our work easier."
He had scoured the archives of the Académie des Sciences for reports on climate parallels and plant viability. From this, he built a list of seeds that looked promising — to the untrained eye. They were varieties that thrived in temperate France but perished in sandy, mineral-poor soils. He selected them carefully, labeling each batch with Latin precision.
But the final touch was the most elegant of all: he ordered the sacks to be stored in damp ship holds during transit, long enough for the moisture to trigger partial germination — a silent death that left the seeds intact in appearance, yet sterile within.
When Jean Dupri questioned him, Maréchal's answer was simple:
"A seed is the perfect soldier, Monsieur. It dies for its purpose quietly, unseen."
Meanwhile, "051" — the man who had become a ghost in London — reactivated old contacts across the Channel. His correspondence arrived through coded trade letters, signed under the alias of Adrien Morel & Fils, Vintners of Bruges.
But hidden within those bland documents were instructions for one of the most intricate smuggling operations of the decade.
The transport of the defective cargo was entrusted to ships that raised no suspicion: modest freighters sailing under Dutch or Danish flags, with crews who valued coin above conscience. These ships were recorded as civilian carriers, chartered for provisions and agricultural materials bound for the British colonial network.
At night, on the fog-choked docks of Rotterdam, 051 met with an old associate — Captain Willem Groet, a grizzled man with a limp and the eyes of someone who had seen both gallows and salvation.
"You want the holds damp, you said?" Groet asked, squinting through the smoke of his pipe.
"Yes," replied 051. "Moist enough to spoil but not to rot. I'll pay you per week of delay before departure."
Groet laughed hoarsely. "That's the strangest order I've ever been paid for."
"You've transported stranger things," 051 said quietly. "At least this cargo won't explode."
The captains were given sealed letters of credit issued by the Geneva company — Société Générale d'Approvisionnement Colonial. Not one of them knew the money's true source, nor did they care. By the end of July, the first ships — The Stjerne, Le Lys du Nord, and The Margaret Anne — were sailing toward Portsmouth and Bristol, carrying within their holds not only forged tools and useless seed, but the slow, mathematical ruin of an empire.
While Europe moved by sea, the nerve center of the operation remained hidden within the gilded palace of Versailles — in the private study of the Dauphin Louis-Joseph. There, under candlelight, the heart of Operation "Nid de Coucou" pulsed silently.
Jean Dupri entered the room at eight, as he always did, the door guarded by a single trusted servant who pretended not to hear the conversations that took place beyond it. The Dauphin, still in his formal vest, sat behind a desk scattered with coded papers and ledgers. His youthful face bore the stillness of command — not the naïve calm of a prince, but the cold focus of a strategist.
"Reports from London," Dupri said, handing over a sealed folio marked with a faint wax emblem — a bird within a cage.
The Dauphin opened it, eyes scanning the coded phrases, written as if they were letters about trade in Bordeaux and Antwerp. He understood immediately.
"The nest is secure. The hatchlings can be sent."
He smiled faintly and set the letter down.
"Jean," he said softly, "we are building an empire without firing a shot. Does that not feel like the future?"
Dupri hesitated. "It feels like playing with fire, Monseigneur."
"History rewards those who write it, not those who worship it," Louis-Joseph replied. "Now, tell me about the forges."
Dupri unfolded another sheet. "Maréchal confirms the shipments are leaving Liège as scheduled. The alloys meet his... specifications."
"Flaws?"
"Everywhere," Dupri said grimly.
"Good." The Dauphin leaned back. "Then let us begin counting our victories before they are visible."