The town of Calais was breaking.
I could see it through the window of my carriage as we thundered toward the front.
Soldiers in blue uniforms were sprinting past us, away from the battle. They weren't retreating in formation. They were fleeing.
"Turn back!" a corporal screamed, waving at my driver. "The fire! It eats the stone!"
"Drive!" I roared inside the carriage.
The driver whipped the horses. We smashed through a wooden barricade.
The air grew hot. The smell of sulfur and burning meat seeped through the cracks in the floorboards.
"Stop here," I ordered.
The carriage skidded to a halt in the town square.
I kicked the door open.
Smoke billowed in. Thick, oily, purple smoke.
I stepped out.
The soldiers huddled behind the fountain froze. They stared.
They saw a man in a black coat. But where his face should be, there was a black rubber mask with brass-rimmed glass eyes.
A corrugated hose snaked from the mask over my shoulder to a massive, dented brass tank strapped to my back.
KHH-HHUUUU.
The sound of the regulator was loud in the silence. It sounded like a steam engine taking a breath.
"Demon!" a young private whispered, crossing himself.
I didn't speak. I walked toward them.
The tank clanked with every step. I felt the pure oxygen flooding my blood. It made colors sharper. It made time feel slow.
"I am not a demon," I boomed. My voice resonated in the mask, deep and distorted. "I am the Administrator."
The sergeant lowered his musket. His jaw dropped. "Citizen Miller?"
"Why are you running, Sergeant?"
"The fire, Sir!" The sergeant pointed to the alleyway. "Water doesn't stop it! We threw buckets, and it exploded! It's witchcraft!"
I looked at the alley.
A pool of green liquid was burning on the cobblestones. It was creeping forward like living lava.
I recognized the smell instantly. Not just sulfur. White phosphorus. Naphtha.
"It's not witchcraft," I said. "It's chemistry."
"Water feeds it," I explained, my voice mechanical. "The oxygen in the water fuels the reaction. You are feeding the beast."
I looked around.
"You need to starve it."
I grabbed a shovel from a pile of debris.
It was heavy. The tank on my back weighed fifty pounds. My heart was failing.
But the oxygen didn't care. The oxygen demanded action.
I marched to the fire.
The heat was intense. It blistered the leather of my coat.
I slammed the shovel into a pile of dirt and rubble.
I threw the dirt onto the green flames.
Hiss.
The fire smothered. The dirt cut off the air supply. The green glow died, replaced by black smoke.
"Dirt!" I shouted, turning to the frozen soldiers. "Sand! Earth! Bury it!"
They stared at me. The Head of State, the man who lived in the Tuileries, was digging in the mud like a peasant.
Shame broke their paralysis.
"Grab a shovel!" the sergeant roared. "Do as he says! Bury the fire!"
Fifty men dropped their rifles and grabbed tools. They attacked the fire. They shoveled mounds of earth onto the burning street.
The green tide halted.
I didn't stop. I worked with a manic rhythm. Dig. Throw. Dig. Throw.
KHH-HHUUUU.
My breath was the metronome of their labor.
An hour later, the fire was out. The square was safe.
I leaned on my shovel, gasping. The regulator hissed, feeding me more gas.
"Sir," the sergeant said, approaching me with awe. "The fire is contained."
"Good," I rasped. "Now, re-form the line. If the British cross the bridge, shoot them. If they fire rockets, dig holes."
I climbed the pile of rubble that formed our barricade.
Fouché scrambled up beside me. He looked pristine and terrified.
"You are insane," Fouché whispered. "You are a walking bomb. If a spark hits that tank..."
"Then I take out the first wave," I said.
I pulled a brass spyglass from my coat.
I rested it on the stone wall. I looked toward the beach.
The British army was regrouping. I saw the red coats. I saw the black scorched earth where their own rockets had misfired.
"They had an accident," I muttered. "Blowback."
I scanned the chaos.
And then I saw him.
Standing near a burning ammunition crate. A small figure in a blue coat. He wasn't running. He wasn't fighting.
He was standing perfectly still, watching the smoke.
I adjusted the focus.
Blond hair. Sharp features. Even from this distance, I could see the coldness in his posture.
My heart gave a painful thud against my ribs.
Thump-thump-pause.
"Charles," I whispered inside the mask.
He looked older. Harder. He looked like a wolf cub that had chewed off its own leg to escape a trap.
He was holding something. A pistol? No. He was putting something in his pocket.
Suddenly, a flash of light from the dunes.
PING.
Something struck the brass tank on my back. The impact threw me forward.
"Sniper!" Fouché screamed. He tackled me, driving my face into the dirt.
I scrambled up, shoving him off.
I reached back. I felt the tank.
A deep dent in the brass. Right next to the valve.
"Whitworth rifle," I growled. "Hexagonal bullet. Long range."
I looked back at the beach.
The boy hadn't moved. He was looking right at me.
He knew.
He knew I was the man in the mask. He knew I was watching.
"He's not aiming at the soldiers," I said. "He's aiming at the oxygen."
Fouché dragged me down behind the wall. "We need to move you back! They have your range!"
"No," I said.
I sat with my back against the stones. KHH-HHUUUU.
My son was on that beach. He had brought an army to kill me. He had brought fire to burn my city.
But he hadn't fired that shot. I saw him. His hands were empty.
Someone else was shooting. Someone who wanted us both dead.
"Fouché," I said. "Get the telegraph operator. Bring the portable unit here."
"Here? On the barricade?"
"Yes."
I looked at the dent in my tank.
"We can't fight this with shovels," I said. "The variables have changed."
I looked at the sky. Dark clouds were gathering. Cagliostro's chaotic weather or just English rain?
"He knows the math," I whispered. "If he saw the wind blow the rockets back... he knows the weapon is flawed."
I checked the pressure gauge on my chest. 50%.
"Connect the line," I ordered. "I need to talk to the enemy commander."
"Abercrombie?" Fouché asked.
"No," I said. "The real commander."
I tapped the glass eye of my mask.
"The one who does the calculations."