The carriage rattled over the cobblestones. It smelled of sweat, fear, and Napoleon's cheap cologne.
We were squeezed into the cabin like sardines in a tin.
Me. Napoleon Bonaparte. Louis-Charles.
The Triumvirate.
Napoleon was pacing—or trying to pace—in the confined space. He slapped his knee repeatedly.
"The Convention will panic," Napoleon said. "When they hear about the radiation... about the sickness... they will dissolve the government. They will call for peace."
"Peace is not an option," Charles said from the corner. He was staring out the window, watching the French countryside blur past. "Cagliostro has declared total war. Peace means extinction."
"The Convention is weak," Napoleon spat. "Lawyers and philosophers. They debate while the world burns. We should dissolve them."
"A coup?" I asked, leaning my head against the velvet cushion. I felt exhausted. Every bump in the road sent a jolt of pain through my rotting lungs.
"A restructuring," Napoleon corrected. "I march the Chasseurs into the hall. I demand emergency powers. We establish a Consulate."
"Inefficient," Charles said. "If you march in with bayonets, you create martyrs. You create a civil war."
He turned to look at Napoleon. His blue eyes were cold.
"We liquidate the leadership," Charles said. "Robespierre. Danton. Quietly. In the night. Then we reorganize the board."
"No assassinations," I rasped.
They both looked at me.
"We don't kill them," I said. "And we don't threaten them."
"Then what do we do?" Napoleon demanded. "Ask them nicely?"
"We buy them," I said. "A coup d'état is bad for credit ratings. It scares the investors. We need stability."
"With what money?" Charles asked. "You ordered the British gold buried in lead."
I smiled. It was a grim expression.
"We have the receipt," I said. "The promise of the gold. That's enough for a politician."
The carriage slowed.
"Halt!" A shout from outside.
I looked out the window.
We were at the Barrière du Trône. The eastern gate of Paris.
But the gate was closed.
A regiment of National Guard blocked the road. They weren't cheering. They had their muskets leveled at our carriage.
"They know," Napoleon whispered. "The Convention has declared us outlaws."
"Or heroes they fear," Charles said. He checked the prime on his pistol.
"Put it away," I ordered. "Both of you."
"They are armed!" Napoleon said, hand on his sword.
"So am I," I said. "I have a checkbook."
I kicked the door open.
I stepped out.
I grabbed my cane. I forced myself to stand straight. I couldn't let them see the sickness. I couldn't let them see the dying man.
I put on the mask of the Administrator.
"Open the gate!" I shouted. My voice cracked, but I pushed it from my diaphragm.
A figure appeared on the ramparts.
Maximilien Robespierre. My Auditor General.
He looked nervous. He adjusted his glasses.
"Citizen Miller!" Robespierre shouted down. "The National Convention has issued a decree! You are to be detained! General Bonaparte is stripped of command!"
"On what grounds?" I asked.
"Dictatorial ambition!" Robespierre yelled. "And... unapproved use of experimental weaponry! You burned the coast!"
"I saved France!" I roared back. "I stopped an invasion!"
"You created a monster!" Robespierre pointed at the carriage. "You brought the Boy King back! You are restoring the Monarchy!"
The soldiers murmured. They looked at the carriage. They saw the boy in the window.
This was dangerous. Ideology was the one thing I couldn't bribe.
"Maximilien," I said, dropping my voice so only the front rank could hear. "Come down here."
"I will not negotiate with tyrants!"
"I'm not negotiating," I said. "I'm auditing."
I reached into my coat. I pulled out a heavy leather ledger. It was a prop, mostly blank, but it looked official.
"I have the manifest from the British flagship," I lied. "Do you know what was in the hold?"
Robespierre hesitated.
"Gold," I said. "Five million pounds sterling. In bullion."
A ripple went through the soldiers. Five million. It was enough to pay the army for a year. It was enough to lower the price of bread to pre-revolution levels.
"Lies," Robespierre said, but his voice wavered.
"It's in the baggage train," I said. "Buried in lead boxes to protect it from... theft."
I took a step forward.
"Open the gate, Maximilien. And the deficit is erased. The soldiers get paid. Today. In gold, not assignats."
I looked at the starving guardsmen. Their uniforms were ragged. Their boots were falling apart.
"Or," I said, "keep the gate closed. Arrest me. And the gold goes back to the Treasury of England. Because only I have the combination to the locks."
It was a bluff. A massive, teetering tower of lies.
Robespierre looked at the soldiers. He saw the hunger in their eyes. He saw the barrels of their muskets lowering.
He was a fanatic for virtue, but he was also a pragmatist. He knew he couldn't hold the loyalty of unpaid men against the promise of millions.
"Open the gate," Robespierre whispered.
"Louder!" I commanded.
"OPEN THE GATE!"
The heavy wooden doors groaned. The soldiers rushed to push them aside. They weren't cheering for me. They were cheering for the payload.
I climbed back into the carriage.
I collapsed onto the seat. My heart hammered a jagged rhythm.
Thump-thump-flutter.
"Impressive," Charles said quietly. "You bought the capital with money you can't touch."
"Golden handcuffs," I wheezed. "The strongest chains on earth."
We rolled into Paris. The streets were quiet. The people watched us pass with fear and awe.
We arrived at the Tuileries.
"Secure the perimeter," Napoleon ordered, jumping out before the wheels stopped. "I'm going to the barracks. I need to make sure the Line Infantry is loyal."
"I'll go to the library," Charles said. "I need to study the maps of Vienna."
They left me. The Soldier and the King.
I walked alone to my office.
The palace was cold.
I sat in my leather chair. The silence of the room was oppressive.
I coughed.
I covered my mouth with a handkerchief.
I pulled it away.
It wasn't red.
It was black.
Thick, tar-like sludge. Necrotic tissue.
I stared at the black stain.
My lungs were rotting. The radiation from the beach? Or just the accumulated stress of fighting the timeline?
It didn't matter. The result was the same.
I checked my pulse.
Thump... pause... pause... thump.
It was failing. The biological machine was breaking down.
I wasn't going to make it two years. I might not make it two months.
"I can't be a man anymore," I whispered to the empty room.
A man needs to breathe. A man needs to sleep. A man feels pain.
To beat Cagliostro, I couldn't feel pain. I couldn't be weak.
I stood up. I walked to the wall safe.
My hands shook so badly it took three tries to dial the combination.
Click.
I pulled out a roll of blueprints. The designs for the "Iron Lung" respirator I had built in the workshop.
I spread them on the desk.
I picked up a quill.
I dipped it in the ink.
I began to draw.
I didn't just draw a tank. I drew a chassis.
Hydraulic supports for the legs to carry the weight. A reinforced chest plate to protect the heart. A full-face helmet with a sealed rebreather system.
It wasn't medical equipment. It was armor.
I drew the schematics for a life-support suit that would turn a dying accountant into a walking tank.
"If he wants to play with physics," I muttered, sketching the intake valves, "I'll give him engineering."
I looked at the drawing. It looked like a deep-sea diving suit crossed with a medieval knight.
It was monstrous.
It was perfect.
I signed the bottom of the page.
Project Lazarus.
I capped the inkwell.
"Fouché!" I yelled.
The door opened instantly. Fouché was always listening.
"Get the engineers," I said, pointing to the blueprints. "And get the metallurgists."
"Sir?" Fouché looked at the drawing. "This is... extreme."
"Build it," I ordered. "I need it ready in a week."
"And if you die before then?"
I looked at the black blood on my handkerchief.
"Then bury me in it," I said.
I looked out the window toward the East. Toward Vienna.
"I'm not dying, Joseph. I'm just upgrading the hardware."