The morning haze over Versailles was pale and slow to rise, the light diffused by a veil of mist that seemed reluctant to yield to the warmth of the late summer sun. Within the Dauphin's private study, the air was unusually still. A sealed packet had just been delivered by Jean Dupri — commander of the Dauphin's personal guard and the trusted intermediary between the heir to France and the invisible network that pulsed beneath the political surface of Europe.
Dupri, tall and sharp-eyed, stood silently as the boy who would one day be king read through the encrypted pages. The Dauphin's face, though still childlike, had grown remarkably composed with age — his gaze steady, his mind already trained to read not only what was written but what was implied, what was hidden between the lines.
The report was signed by one name — or rather, by one code: 051.
To most of the court, that meant nothing. To Louis-Joseph, it meant the invisible shadow at the helm of his most delicate operation — the Ghost Cell.
"The operation is on course," the report began.
"Integration successful. The eggs are brooding."
It was a message that spoke of months of silent preparation — falsified documents, forged letters of service, re-invented identities — all converging toward one audacious goal: to turn Britain's own colonial ambitions into the seed of her failure.
The Ghost Cell's agents had embedded themselves deep within the logistics of the so-called "First Fleet," the British expedition bound for New South Wales, a penal colony that would soon rise on the far side of the world. What the British saw as the foundation of a new empire, the Ghost Cell saw as the perfect stage for a quiet catastrophe.
The Dauphin's eyes paused on a particular line, written in 051's angular, almost surgical hand:
"We call them the Fathers of British Failure."
The phrase lingered in the air. It was not arrogance — it was a statement of design. Each operative was a craftsman, a saboteur whose genius lay not in destruction, but in subtle decay — the art of letting things fall apart naturally, as though by chance.
Some among them were, first Pierre "Patrick" Kermarec, a Breton shipwright whose hands had built both merchant schooners and smuggling vessels. His cover was impeccable: enlisted as a carpenter aboard HMS Sirius, the fleet's flagship. To his fellow sailors, he was a quiet, diligent man, always ready with a hammer and an old Breton sea song. To the Ghost Cell, he was a precise instrument — one who understood how to make a beam fail under stress without ever appearing touched.
Then there was Jean "John" Dufour, a tonnelier — a cooper — from La Rochelle, who had adopted a perfect English accent learned during years of trade along the Channel. He worked aboard HMS Supply, assembling barrels for provisions and water. Each cask he made looked sound, perfectly sealed — but the wood he chose, subtly flawed or soaked in the wrong oils, would not last the length of the voyage.
"Their work," wrote 051, "is not to destroy, but to ensure that what the enemy builds shall not endure."
Every plank, every barrel, every rope became a potential vector for fatigue. A vessel could not be destroyed in open sabotage — it had to fail by its own structure, its own design. When the British finally reached the other side of the world, they would be half-starved, half-mad, and entirely dependent on supply lines that were doomed to fail.
And many more, even some who were just orphans in Paris a few years ago.
Kermarec began with small details — the invisible rot of neglect disguised as incompetence. He made sure that certain ventilation hatches in the convict quarters were sealed just a bit too tightly, letting the air stagnate. He adjusted the reinforcement timbers in subtle ways that would warp under humidity, ensuring the convicts would endure a stench so thick it could almost be chewed.
Meanwhile, Dufour worked among the barrels, humming softly as he assembled them. He selected staves that had been stored near the damp walls of the dockyard — wood that looked strong but was already weakened. He used less pitch in the sealing mixture, so that saltwater would creep in during the crossing.
"It must look," Dufour once whispered to another Ghost Cell contact, "like misfortune. Like poor craftsmanship or God's will — never like us."
Even as they worked, they exchanged coded glances across the crowded docks. The British officers were too focused on the logistics of departure to notice the quiet ballet of infiltration occurring beneath their noses.
And yet, beneath the mask of obedience, the agents were meticulous. Notes were passed through cargo manifests. A misplaced mark in an inventory sheet could mean: "adjusted successfully" or "compromised."
The Ghost Cell operated like a living organism — silent, self-correcting, adaptable.