I walked through the rows of death.
The ammunition dump was a labyrinth of wooden crates. Each one was stenciled with the warning: Highly Volatile.
I didn't hide. I walked with purpose.
My boots crunched on the sand. The air smelled of sulfur and the sickening, sweet scent of the Green Fire rockets.
I reached the center of the stockpile. The fuel casks.
They were stacked three high. Barrels of concentrated naphtha and phosphorus jelly.
I pulled the flintlock pistol from my coat.
I didn't cock the hammer. I used the steel butt plate.
Crack.
I smashed the bung of the lowest barrel.
Thick, oily sludge gushed out. It pooled around my boots. It glittered in the moonlight like toxic mercury.
I moved to the next row.
Crack.
Another leak.
I moved faster. I wasn't just breaking barrels. I was connecting them.
I kicked the sand, creating trenches with my heels. I guided the flow of the liquid. A spiderweb of fuel connecting the rockets, the powder kegs, and the main battery.
"One spark," I whispered.
I did the math in my head.
Flashpoint: Low. Burn rate: Instantaneous. Blast radius: 1.5 miles.
If this went up, the invasion fleet wouldn't just sink. It would evaporate. The beach would turn into glass.
"Naughty boy," a voice purred behind me. "Playing with matches?"
I stopped.
I turned slowly.
Mrs. Graves stood at the end of the aisle.
The Nanny. The Harlequin.
She didn't look like a woman anymore. She stood crooked, her limbs hanging at unnatural angles. Her face was smeared with soot, but her smile was pristine.
"Step away from the fuel, Little King," she said. "Or I'll put you over my knee."
She took a step. She moved too fast. A blur of motion.
I raised the pistol.
But I didn't aim at her.
I aimed at the ground. At the puddle of green sludge between us.
"Step back," I said. My voice was steady. "Or we all burn."
Mrs. Graves stopped. She cocked her head like a bird.
"You won't do it," she giggled. "You're a survivor, Charles. You calculated the wind to save your own skin. You won't commit suicide."
"It's not suicide," I said. "It's an audit."
She laughed. It was a horrible, grinding sound.
"The Watchmaker made me fireproof, darling. My skin is woven with asbestos. Burn me. I'll just be warm."
She stepped into the puddle.
She splashed the fuel. She didn't care. She was chemically altered. She felt no pain. She felt no fear.
She lunged.
Her fingers curled into claws. She was going to snap my neck.
I smiled.
It was a cold smile. It felt tight on my face. It was the smile my father used when he found a discrepancy in the ledger.
"I counted on that," I said.
I pulled the trigger.
BANG.
I didn't shoot the fuel.
I shot upward.
Above her head, a heavy cargo net hung from a crane. It was filled with iron rocket casings. It was suspended by a single, frayed hemp rope.
The bullet severed the rope.
Mrs. Graves looked up. Her eyes widened.
CRUNCH.
Two tons of iron crashed down.
It hit her like the fist of God.
She didn't have time to dodge. The crates smashed her into the sand.
Dust plumed. Wood splintered.
A scream tore from the wreckage.
"AAAAHH!"
It wasn't human. It was high and piercing.
I stepped closer.
Mrs. Graves was pinned. Her legs were flattened beneath the iron. Her chest was crushed.
She thrashed, clawing at the sand. Her asbestos skin couldn't stop gravity. Her modified bones snapped like dry twigs.
"You little... brat!" she shrieked, black blood leaking from her mouth. "The Watchmaker... will peel you..."
"The Watchmaker forgot the drag coefficient," I said.
I looked around.
A sconce on a wooden post held a burning torch.
I grabbed it.
The flame danced in the wind. Orange. Hungry.
I walked back to Mrs. Graves.
She was struggling to reach me, her fingers scraping the sand inches from my boot. She wanted to kill me even as she died.
"Fireproof?" I asked.
I touched the torch to the hem of her coat.
The coat wasn't asbestos. It was wool. And it was soaked in the naphtha she had stepped in.
WHOOSH.
She ignited.
The green fire roared to life. It didn't burn her skin immediately. It cooked her inside the suit.
She screamed. It was a sound that would haunt my nightmares, but I didn't look away.
I watched the green flames consume her. I watched the monster thrash until the movement stopped.
"Variable resolved," I whispered.
"Halt!"
A shout from the dunes.
I looked up.
General Abercrombie was riding toward me on a white horse. Behind him, fifty Redcoats ran with bayonets fixed.
They had seen the fire.
"Drop the torch!" Abercrombie roared, drawing his saber. "Surrender, boy!"
The soldiers fanned out. A firing squad. Fifty muskets aimed at my chest.
I was twelve years old. I was alone. I was surrounded by the most powerful army on earth.
I didn't drop the torch.
I climbed up onto the largest crate of explosives. I stood high above them.
I held the torch directly over the open cask of fuel.
"Stop!" I screamed.
It was the voice of a King.
Abercrombie pulled his horse up. "Don't be a fool! You'll kill us all!"
"I am Louis XVII!" I shouted. "King of France and Navarre!"
I lowered the torch an inch. The heat made the vapors shimmer.
"And I am seizing this army!"
The soldiers flinched. They looked at the torch. They looked at the miles of explosives behind me. They knew.
They knew I was crazy enough to do it.
"You're bluffing," Abercrombie sneered, though his horse danced nervously. "You're a child."
"I am the son of the Administrator!" I yelled. "Do you know what he taught me? He taught me that everything is a transaction!"
I swung the torch. A drop of burning pitch fell. It landed inches from the fuel.
Hiss.
The soldiers gasped. Three of them dropped their rifles and ran.
Abercrombie's face went pale.
"What do you want?" the General asked, his voice shaking.
"I want a parley," I said.
I pointed toward the burning town of Calais. Toward the bridge where the green fire had stopped.
"With him. The man in the mask."
"The enemy commander?" Abercrombie asked. "Citizen Miller?"
"My father," I corrected.
"Bring him to the bridge. Now."
I lowered the torch until it was hovering just above the liquid surface.
"Or I melt your fleet into the sand. And I turn this beach into a tomb."
Abercrombie looked at my eyes.
He didn't see a bluff. He saw the cold, hard math of a boy who had nothing left to lose.
"Signal the French," Abercrombie ordered, sheathing his sword. "White flag."
He looked at me with a mixture of hatred and terror.
"You are a monster, Your Highness."
"No, General," I said, watching the green fire reflect in the fuel. "I'm just the new management."