The rain at Saint-Jean-de-Luz felt like ice.
I stood behind the thick glass of the quarantine station's observation deck. My breath fogged the pane. I wiped it away with a trembling hand.
"Here he comes," Charles whispered.
Below us, the muddy road from Spain was empty. No army. No baggage train. No fanfare.
Just a single black carriage.
It careened around the bend, the horses foaming at the mouth. The driver was whipping them frantically.
He wasn't wearing a uniform. He was wearing a mask made of oil-soaked rags.
"Hold fire!" the Captain of the Guard shouted to the riflemen lining the barricade. "Wait for positive identification!"
The carriage skidded to a halt in the mud.
Steam rose from the horses' flanks. They looked sick. Patches of hair were missing. Their eyes were wild.
The door of the carriage opened.
A boot stepped out.
Then a grey coat.
Then a man.
Napoleon Bonaparte.
He didn't look like the Emperor of the French. He looked like a fugitive. His hat was gone. His hair was plastered to his skull by the rain. His eyes darted around, manic and terrified.
He took a step forward.
"I am the Emperor!" he shouted. His voice was cracked, hoarse. "Open the gate! I need fresh horses!"
Nobody moved.
The riflemen kept their weapons trained on his chest.
"Do not approach!" Dr. Desgenettes shouted through a megaphone. He stood in the mud, wearing a suit made of heavy, wax-treated leather. He looked like a deep-sea diver from a nightmare. "You are in a contamination zone!"
Napoleon froze. He looked at the rifles. He looked at the doctor.
Then he looked up. Straight at the glass window. Straight at me.
He knew I was there.
"Alex!" he screamed. "Call off your dogs! I am your Emperor!"
I pressed the button on the speaking tube. My voice boomed out over the courtyard, distorted by the metal horn.
"Strip," I ordered.
Napoleon blinked. "What?"
"Strip," I repeated. "Take off your clothes. All of them. Burn them in the pit."
I pointed to a fire pit dug in the mud, where logs were already burning.
"I will not!" Napoleon roared. "This is treason! I demand—"
"You are a biological hazard," I cut him off. "You are covered in radioactive dust. If you cross that line wearing those clothes, I will order the guards to shoot you."
I paused.
"And they will do it, Napoleon. Because they don't want to die of the black vomit."
Napoleon looked at the guards. He saw the fear in their eyes. He saw the fingers tightening on triggers.
He looked at his own coat. He saw the faint, grey dust in the fabric.
He realized he had no power here. The virus didn't care about his rank.
Slowly, shaking with rage and cold, he unbuttoned his coat.
He threw it into the fire.
Then his vest. His shirt. His boots. His breeches.
He stood naked in the freezing rain.
He wasn't a giant. He was a small, pale, shivering man with a potbelly.
"Are you satisfied?" he screamed at the window.
"Scrub him," I ordered.
Desgenettes stepped forward. Two assistants in leather suits followed, carrying buckets and stiff bristle brushes.
"This is for your own safety, Sire," Desgenettes mumbled.
They doused him.
Not with warm water. With a mixture of vinegar and lye soap.
Napoleon gasped as the cold liquid hit him.
Then they started to scrub.
They didn't differ to him. They scrubbed him like they were cleaning a dirty floor. Hard. Abrasive.
They scrubbed his hair, his back, his legs. They scrubbed until his skin was raw and red.
Napoleon didn't scream. He stood there, eyes closed, trembling violently. He took it. He took the humiliation because he knew it was the price of survival.
"Scan him," I said.
Charles brought out the device. It looked like a brass lantern with a gold leaf inside. A primitive electroscope.
He ran down the stairs and out into the rain, holding an umbrella over the device.
He held it near Napoleon's chest.
The gold leaf fluttered wildly.
"He's hot," Charles shouted up to me. "But the readings are dropping. The dust was mostly on the clothes."
I let out a breath.
He wasn't glowing. He was salvageable.
"Dress him," I ordered. "And bring him up."
Ten minutes later, Napoleon sat in the clean room.
He was wrapped in a rough wool blanket. He held a mug of hot coffee with both hands. His teeth were chattering against the rim.
I sat across from him in my wheelchair.
The room was silent, except for the sound of the rain and his shivering.
He didn't look at me. He stared into the black coffee.
"You enjoyed that," Napoleon whispered.
"No," I said. "I enjoyed saving the lives of the twenty people in this building."
"You humiliated me," he said. He looked up. His eyes were full of hate. "You stripped me naked in front of my own soldiers. You made me a laughingstock."
"I made you clean," I said. "There is a difference."
The door opened.
Talleyrand slid into the room. The Foreign Minister looked impeccable, as always. He didn't seem to notice the smell of lye and vinegar.
"Your Majesty," Talleyrand bowed slightly. "A relief to see you safe."
He turned to me. His face was grave.
"We have a problem, Administrator."
"Which one?" I asked.
"The narrative," Talleyrand said. "The news of the departure has reached Paris. The Jacobin press is printing extras. They aren't calling it a 'Strategic Withdrawal.'"
He placed a pamphlet on the table.
THE COWARD OF MADRID.
Emperor Flees Plague! Abandons Grand Army to Rot!
Napoleon stared at the headline. He turned pale.
"They dare?" he hissed. "I came back to save the government!"
"They say you ran," Talleyrand said softly. "They say you left 100,000 men to die to save your own skin. The mob is gathering at the Tuileries. They are calling for a Republic. A real Republic."
Napoleon looked at me. The hate in his eyes was replaced by fear.
He knew what mobs did to failed Kings. He had watched Louis XVI go to the guillotine.
"Fix it," Napoleon said. "Alex. You fix everything. Fix this."
I looked at him.
The greatest conqueror in history. Reduced to a shivering man begging an accountant for PR advice.
I audited the situation.
A dead Napoleon was a martyr. Useful.
A live, cowardly Napoleon was a liability. Dangerous.
But a redeemed Napoleon... a Napoleon who owed me his life...
"I can fix it," I said. "But it will cost you."
"Anything," Napoleon said. "Just stop them."
I wheeled myself to the table. I picked up a pen.
I pulled a fresh sheet of paper.
"We change the story," I said. "You didn't run. You were carrying vital scientific data."
I started writing.
"You realized the plague was artificial. You realized the only way to save the army was to bring the samples to the Academy of Sciences in Paris personally. Because you didn't trust a courier with the fate of France."
Napoleon blinked. "I... I did?"
"Yes," I said. "You are not a deserter. You are a hero of science. You risked infection to bring the cure."
I slid the paper to Talleyrand.
"Print it," I ordered. "In Le Moniteur. Front page. 'Emperor Returns with Cure.' Draft a speech for the Senate. Focus on his bravery. The 'Race Against Death.'"
Talleyrand smiled. A thin, reptile smile.
"Brilliant," he murmured. "They love a savior."
I looked back at Napoleon.
"But here is the price," I said.
Napoleon gripped his mug. "Name it."
"You are done with the Army," I said.
"What?"
"You are the Emperor," I said. "But you are not the General anymore. You will stay in Paris. You will cut ribbons. You will give speeches. You will review parades."
I leaned forward.
"But you will never command troops in the field again. The Grand Army is gone, Napoleon. And you are too valuable—and too unstable—to risk another one."
Napoleon's jaw tightened.
"You are clipping my wings," he whispered. "You are making me a figurehead."
"I am making you a constitutional monarch," I said. "I am saving your throne. And your neck."
I pointed to the headline. The Coward of Madrid.
"Sign the decree," I said. "Transfer military command to the Ministry of War. To me."
Napoleon looked at the paper. He looked at the door. He imagined the mob outside.
He looked at me.
He realized the power shift was complete. I had the money. I had the narrative. And now, I had the gun.
Slowly, with a shaking hand, he picked up the pen.
He signed.
Napoleon.
He dropped the pen.
"I hate you," he whispered.
"I know," I said. "That's why this works."
I rolled my chair back.
"Get him a hot meal," I told Talleyrand. "And get him a tailor. He needs to look like a hero by tomorrow morning."
I wheeled myself out of the room.
In the hallway, Charles was waiting.
"He signed?" Charles asked.
"He signed."
"He will betray you," Charles said. "The moment he feels safe, he will try to take the army back."
"I know," I said.
I looked at my hand. The edema was worse. My knuckles were swollen like balloons.
"But by then," I whispered, "I'll be dead. And he'll be your problem."
I looked out the window at the rain.
"Did we get the samples?" I asked.
"Desgenettes has them," Charles said. "The tissue. The water. He's setting up a lab in the cellar."
"Good."
I looked north, toward Paris.
"Now we just have to cure the end of the world."