The Paris Telegraph Hub hummed like a hive of mechanical bees.
It was located in the top floor of the Ministry of Interior. A vast room filled with brass machines, clicking keys, and spools of paper tape. Wires ran across the ceiling like spiderwebs, connecting Paris to every corner of the Empire.
Tonight, the room was empty of clerks.
Only three men stood in the center.
Joseph Fouché, Minister of Police.
Charles Maurice de Talleyrand, Minister of Foreign Affairs.
Jean-Jacques-Régis de Cambacérès, Arch-Chancellor.
The "Inner Circle." Or, as I liked to call them, the Vultures.
"He is dying," Talleyrand whispered. He swirled a glass of brandy. "The report from Boulogne is clear. His arm snapped like a dry twig. The laudanum has him seeing ghosts."
"We need a transition plan," Cambacérès said, adjusting his spectacles. "A Regency Council. If he dies tonight, the markets will crash by morning."
"We secure the vault," Fouché said. His eyes were cold. "We secure the telegraph. And we arrest anyone loyal to the boy. Charles is in Egypt. By the time he returns, the new government will be established."
"A coup?" Talleyrand raised an eyebrow.
"A stabilization," Fouché corrected. "The Administrator served his purpose. But a dead man cannot rule."
CLICK.
The sound of a heavy lock engaging.
The three men turned.
The main doors had just locked. Heavy magnetic bolts slammed home.
"What is this?" Cambacérès asked.
The service lift in the corner hummed. The grate slid open.
I rolled out.
I looked like a corpse that had been dug up and dressed in a uniform. My left arm was strapped to my chest. My skin was grey. But my eyes... my eyes were burning.
"Gentlemen," I rasped. "I hear you are shorting my stock."
Fouché reacted instantly. He drew a pistol from his coat.
"Stop right there, Alex."
He aimed at my chest.
"The game is over," Fouché said. "You are unfit to command. We are relieving you of duty. For the good of the State."
"Put the gun down, Joseph," I said calmly.
"No," Fouché said. His hand was steady. "We can't let you drag the Empire down with you. Sign the abdication. Name the Council. And you can die in peace."
Talleyrand stepped back, distancing himself from the violence. "Alex, be reasonable. You are physically incapable of governing."
I didn't look at the gun. I looked at the wall behind them.
At the Master Clock.
It was a massive brass chronometer. Pendulum swinging. Tick. Tock.
"Do you know what that is?" I asked.
"A clock," Fouché snapped. "Don't change the subject."
"It's a timer," I said. "Connected to the main telegraph relay."
I rolled my chair forward a few inches. Fouché tensed.
"Every six hours," I said, "I enter a code into that terminal. A sequence of numbers known only to me."
"So?"
"So," I smiled. It hurt my face. "If I don't enter the code... the timer hits zero."
I pointed to the telegraph machines.
"And the network executes a pre-programmed command. Protocol Omega."
"What does it do?" Cambacérès asked nervously. "Shut down the lines?"
"No," I said. "It broadcasts."
I looked at Talleyrand.
"It sends the Black Ledger."
Talleyrand froze. The brandy sloshed in his glass.
"Every bribe you took from the Austrians," I said. "Every letter you wrote to the British ambassador offering to sell out Napoleon. Digitized. Queued up. Ready to be sent to every newspaper in Paris, London, and Vienna."
I looked at Fouché.
"And you, Joseph. The lists of the people you disappeared. The secret prisons. The skimming off the police budget. It goes to the Jacobins. They will hang you from a lamppost before breakfast."
I looked at Cambacérès.
"And your... private proclivities. The boys in the Bois de Boulogne."
Cambacérès turned white.
"If I die," I whispered, "or if I am incapacitated... or if you shoot me, Joseph... the code is not entered."
I tapped my good hand on the armrest.
"And the zero hour arrives. The signal goes out. And you all burn."
Silence.
The only sound was the ticking of the clock.
Tick. Tock.
"It's a Dead Man's Switch," Fouché realized. He lowered the gun.
"It's an insurance policy," I corrected. "I digitized your skeletons, gentlemen. And I am the only one with the key to the closet."
Fouché holstered his pistol. He looked defeated. He knew he couldn't gamble on a bluff. Not with his life on the line.
"What do you want?" Fouché asked.
"Loyalty," I said. "Or at least, compliance."
I wheeled myself to the terminal.
"You will keep the government running. You will maintain the illusion of my health. You will tell the world I am recovering."
I typed a sequence of numbers into the keypad.
1-7-8-9.
The clock reset. Six hours on the dial.
"And you will support Charles," I said. "When he returns from Egypt, he takes the chair. If you try to stop him... if he has an 'accident'... the code stops. And the world knows who you really are."
Talleyrand sighed. He finished his brandy in one gulp.
"You are a wicked man, Alex."
"I am a protective father," I said. "And a thorough auditor."
"The boy is in Egypt," Fouché said. "It's a war zone. If he dies there..."
"Then the code stops," I said simply. "And we all go down together."
I looked at them.
"So I suggest you pray for his success. Because your lives depend on it."
CLICK-CLICK-CLICK.
One of the machines started chattering.
Incoming message.
"Read it," I ordered Fouché.
He walked to the machine. He pulled the tape.
"It's from Toulon," Fouché said. "Naval relay."
He scanned the dots and dashes.
"The blockade runner Osiris has cleared the harbor. They slipped past the British under cover of fog."
He looked at me.
"The Wolf is in the water."
I let out a breath. My head fell back against the headrest.
The adrenaline was fading. The pain in my arm was returning, sharp and demanding.
"He's gone," I whispered. "Now it's just time."
I looked at the clock.
5 hours, 59 minutes.
"Get out," I told them. "I need to rest."
"Alex," Talleyrand said at the door. "If you die in your sleep...?"
"Then you better hope you can run faster than the telegraph," I said.
They left. The magnetic locks disengaged.
I was alone in the buzzing room.
I looked at my hand. The skin was almost transparent. I could see the blue veins, the failing pulse.
I was a ghost haunting a machine.
"Tick tock," I whispered.
I closed my eyes.
I didn't dream of Louis. I dreamt of sand. Endless, burning sand. And a boy with a revolver, walking into the dark to steal the sun.
"Wake me in five hours," I murmured to the empty room. "I have a password to type."