The docks of Naples smelled of rotting fish and sulfur.
It was midnight. The moon was hidden behind thick clouds.
Alessandro Cagliostro stood on the pier, whistling a tune that wouldn't be written for another two hundred years. Bohemian Rhapsody.
He wore a modern trench coat over his 18th-century suit. He checked his titanium watch.
"On time," he murmured. "How boring."
Out in the harbor, a black ship lowered its sails. It drifted silently toward the quay.
Workers scurried to catch the ropes. They were monks, robes tucked into their belts, faces hidden by hoods.
"Careful!" Cagliostro shouted. "That crate is worth more than your cathedral!"
A crane lowered a massive wooden box onto the cobblestones. It was marked Holy Relics - Fragile.
Cagliostro tapped the box with his cane.
"Open it."
A monk pried the lid off.
Inside, nestled in straw, lay a beast of black iron. Six barrels arranged in a circle. A hand crank on the side. A brass hopper on top.
"The Gatling Gun," Cagliostro grinned. "Model 1862. Rate of fire: 200 rounds per minute. The voice of God, amplified."
"Is it... holy?" the monk asked nervously.
"It sends people to heaven very quickly," Cagliostro winked. "That's holy enough."
Suddenly, a shadow moved among the crates.
Cagliostro stopped whistling.
"Company," he whispered.
Don Michele stepped out from behind a stack of barrels. He held a knife with a blade as long as his forearm. Behind him, twenty men of the Camorra materialized from the darkness.
"That is a nice toy," Michele said, eyeing the Gatling gun. "But you didn't pay the import tax."
"I paid the Cardinal," Cagliostro said, leaning on his cane. "The Church doesn't pay taxes to criminals."
"In Naples," Michele smiled, "everyone pays the Camorra. Even the Pope."
He signaled.
His men lunged.
It was a brutal, silent fight. Knives flashed in the dark. The monks were strong, but the Camorra were killers. Throats were slit. Bodies splashed into the oily water.
Michele walked toward the Gatling gun.
"Take it," he ordered his men. "And the rifles."
Two thugs grabbed the crate.
HISSSSSS.
A cloud of green gas sprayed from the box.
The thugs screamed. They clawed at their faces. Their skin began to blister and melt.
"Acid trap!" Michele shouted, diving behind a barrel.
Cagliostro laughed. He stood amidst the carnage, untouched.
"Greed is so predictable, Don Michele!" he shouted. "Did you really think I'd leave the future unguarded?"
He pulled a silver sphere from his pocket.
"Say hello to the Administrator for me!"
He threw it.
FLASH.
Magnesium light blinded the remaining mobsters.
When Michele blinked the spots from his eyes, the pier was empty. Cagliostro was gone. The Gatling gun was gone.
Only the screaming, melting men remained.
"He is a demon," Michele whispered, crossing himself with a bloody hand.
He looked at the dead monks. He looked at the empty dock.
"But demons bleed," he growled. "To the Vatican."
St. Peter's Square, Rome
The square was a sea of people.
One hundred thousand pilgrims packed into the piazza. They held candles. They prayed. The murmur of their voices sounded like the ocean.
In the center, a wooden platform had been erected.
On it sat a throne.
And on the throne sat Pope Pius VI.
He looked ancient. His white robes hung loose on his frail frame. He held the Papal ferula, his hands shaking.
But behind the throne stood something new.
A massive brass horn, ten feet wide. Cables ran from it to a stack of lead-acid batteries hidden beneath the stage.
An amplifier.
"The device is ready, Holiness," Cardinal Ruffo whispered. He adjusted a heavy metal microphone stand in front of the Pope.
"Must I use this... machine?" the Pope asked weakly. "Can God not hear me?"
"God can hear you," Ruffo said. "But the people need to fear you. This machine will carry your voice to the ends of the earth. It is the trumpet of Jericho."
Ruffo signaled to Cagliostro, who stood in the shadows of the colonnade.
Cagliostro gave a thumbs up.
"Begin," Ruffo said.
The Pope cleared his throat.
He leaned into the microphone.
"MY CHILDREN!"
The sound exploded across the square. It was deafening. Distorted. Electrical. It didn't sound human. It sounded like thunder trapped in a box.
The crowd gasped. Thousands fell to their knees.
"THE ANTICHRIST IS IN PARIS!" the Pope boomed. His frail voice became a giant's roar. "THE ADMINISTRATOR HAS STOLEN GOD'S LAND! HE HAS STOLEN YOUR SOULS!"
In the crowd, disguised in a rough pilgrim's cloak, Don Michele winced. The sound vibrated in his chest.
"Too loud," he muttered.
He slipped through the kneeling crowd. He moved toward the base of the platform.
He found the access panel. He pulled it open with his knife.
Inside, the lead-acid batteries hummed. They were hot.
"Let's see if the Devil likes holy water," Michele whispered.
He pulled a flask from his robe. It wasn't holy water. It was seawater he had scooped from the harbor. Salt water.
He uncorked it.
He poured it onto the batteries.
"I DECLARE HIM ANATHEMA!" the Pope shouted. "I CAST HIM INTO THE OUTER DARKNESS! I—"
SCREEEEEEEEECH.
A high-pitched squeal tore through the speakers. The feedback loop shattered windows in the Apostolic Palace.
The crowd screamed, covering their ears.
Smoke poured from the amplifier. Thick, yellow chlorine gas.
The batteries were boiling.
"The machine!" Ruffo shouted. "It's possessed!"
BOOM.
The battery bank exploded.
The wooden stage shook. The Pope was thrown from his throne.
The amplifier toppled over, crashing down onto the Swiss Guards below.
"The Devil is in the machine!" a woman screamed in the front row. "God has rejected the voice!"
Panic. Absolute panic.
The crowd stampeded. They trampled each other to get away from the smoking, screeching wreckage.
"Save His Holiness!" Ruffo yelled, drawing his sword.
Swiss Guards rushed the stage. They picked up the fallen Pope and carried him toward the Basilica doors.
From the shadows, Cagliostro watched.
He wasn't helping. He was laughing.
"Beautiful," he whispered. "The fallacy of technology without understanding. A perfectly engineered disaster."
He checked his watch.
"Time to go."
He vanished into the chaos.
The Tuileries, Paris
The telegraph operator handed me the strip of paper.
Rome Report:
Broadcast failed. Equipment exploded. Crowd dispersed in panic.
Pope unharmed but silenced.
Camorra agents claim responsibility.
I let out a breath. I leaned back in my chair.
"It worked," I said.
Fouché stood by the fire. "For now. But Ruffo still has the rifles. And the Gatling gun."
"He has the hardware," I said. "But he lost the software. The moral authority."
I picked up the report.
"The people saw their Pope's voice explode. They think God rejected him. Superstition is a double-edged sword, Joseph. Cagliostro sharpened it, but we turned it back on them."
I took a sip of water. My hands were still shaking.
"Pay Don Michele," I ordered. "Give him the tobacco monopoly. And tell him to stay in Naples. If he comes to Paris, I'll hang him."
"And Cagliostro?"
"He's still out there," I said. "Arming the next enemy."
I looked at the map. The South was still red. The religious war wasn't over. It had just lost its voice.
"I need to sleep," I whispered.
I tried to stand up.
My legs gave way.
I collapsed into the chair. My vision blurred.
"Alex!" Fouché rushed to me.
I clutched my chest. The pain was sharp, stabbing.
"The medicine," I gasped.
Fouché grabbed the bottle of digitalis from the desk. He poured the drops into my mouth.
I swallowed. I waited.
Slowly, the rhythm returned. Thump... thump... thump.
"You are dying," Fouché said quietly. It wasn't an accusation. It was an observation.
"Not yet," I wheezed. "I haven't balanced the books yet."
I looked at the window. The sun was rising over Paris.
"Two years," I whispered. "I have two years."
But deep down, I knew Cagliostro was right. The universe was rejecting me.
And the universe was running out of patience.