The Map Gallery of the Tuileries was a tomb of silence.
Usually, it was the loudest room in Paris. Telegraph keys clattering. Runners shouting. Generals arguing over supply lines.
Now?
Dead air.
I stood over the massive table. The map of Europe was spread out like a autopsy report.
I slammed my fist down on Lyon.
"Where are the reports?" I shouted.
The sound echoed off the high ceilings.
My aides—three young lieutenants who looked like they hadn't slept in days—flinched.
"General..." Lieutenant Marchand stammered. "The riders haven't returned. The roads south are... difficult."
"Difficult?" I snarled. "We have a hundred thousand Austrians sitting on the Rhine, and I don't know if my southern army has bread or bullets! That is not difficult, Marchand. That is suicide!"
I paced the length of the table.
The EMP had blinded us. We were fighting a 19th-century war with medieval communications. No telegraphs. No semaphore towers. Just horses and mud.
And the silence was killing me.
It felt heavy. Oppressive. Like the air before a thunderstorm.
"Send more riders," I ordered. "Send them in pairs. If the first one gets shot, the second one carries the message. Tell Masséna to hold Lyon at all costs. Tell him the King is alive."
"Yes, General."
Marchand turned to go.
The doors opened.
They didn't creek. They swung inward silently.
He was there.
He didn't announce himself. He didn't walk in. He just... appeared.
The King.
Or whatever he was now.
He wore the black uniform. No gold braid. No medals. Just severe, tailored wool that fit him like a second skin.
He wore the smoked glasses.
He stood at the head of the table. He looked at the map.
The room temperature seemed to drop ten degrees.
My lieutenants froze. They stopped breathing. They had heard the rumors. The glowing eyes. The steam.
"Leave us," Alex said.
His voice was low. A baritone rumble that vibrated in my chest.
The lieutenants scrambled for the door. They didn't salute. They ran.
I was alone with the monster.
"Your Majesty," I said, keeping my voice steady. "We are blind. The south is a black hole. I have no data."
Alex didn't look at me. He stared at the map.
He reached out a gloved hand. He touched the coast of Normandy.
"You have data," Alex said. "You just aren't listening."
"Listening to what?" I asked, frustration bubbling up. "The telegraphs are melted slag!"
Alex walked to the window.
He threw the latch. He pushed the heavy glass panes open.
The noise of Paris flooded in. The distant roar of the city. The wind.
He stood there, head tilted slightly.
"Listen," he said.
I joined him.
I heard carts on cobblestones. I heard a dog barking. I heard the wind whistling through the chimney pots.
"I hear nothing," I said.
"Focus," Alex whispered. "Filter the noise. Isolate the variables."
He pointed to the sky.
A flock of pigeons was circling over the Louvre.
"Migration pattern: disrupted," Alex said. "They are avoiding the northeast quadrant. Why?"
I squinted. "Smoke?"
"Specific smoke," Alex corrected. "Coal dust. High-sulfur content. British coal."
He turned back to the map.
He picked up a red grease pencil.
He drew a circle around a chateau near Rouen.
"Here," he said. "Chateau de Gaillon."
I looked at the circle.
"That's a ruin," I said. "The Revolution gutted it in '93."
"It's active," Alex said. "I can smell the sulfur from here. Eighty miles away. And I can hear the hum."
"The hum?"
"Mechanical vibration," Alex said. "Low frequency. Like a heartbeat made of gears. Thump-thump-click."
He tapped the circle.
"Rothschild has built a node."
I stared at him.
"A node?"
"A Babbage Repeater," Alex said. "A mechanical computer. It uses punch cards to amplify semaphore signals. He's building a new internet, Napoleon. One that doesn't need electricity."
I felt a chill run down my spine.
If the British had communication and we didn't...
"We have to destroy it," I said. "I'll send a regiment."
"No," Alex said.
He turned to me. He took off the glasses.
The gold eyes were spinning. Click. Whirr.
They were terrifying. Beautiful and wrong.
"You will go," Alex said. "Take the Old Guard. The heavy cavalry. Burn the chateau to the ground."
"Burn it?" I asked. "But the intelligence..."
"Burn the building," Alex interrupted. "But bring me the machine. Intact."
He stepped closer.
"I need to audit his source code. I need to know how he's routing the signal."
"And the garrison?" I asked. "If it's a secret base, there will be soldiers."
"Liquidate them," Alex said.
The word hung in the air. Liquidate.
Not "kill." Not "defeat."
"And if there are civilians?" I asked quietly. "Villagers? Servants?"
Alex looked at me. His face was a mask of perfect, cold geometry.
"Overhead," he said. "Acceptable losses."
I swallowed hard.
"You are talking about mass murder, Sire."
"I am talking about survival," Alex said. "Do you think Rothschild cares about collateral damage? He flooded our streets with poison. He is trying to buy the century."
He put the glasses back on.
"Go, Napoleon. Bring me the engine. Or don't come back."
He turned and walked out.
He moved silently. Like a ghost.
I looked at the map. At the red circle.
I looked at my hands. They were shaking again.
I grabbed a bottle of brandy from the side table. I poured a glass. I downed it in one gulp.
It burned. Good.
I needed to feel something.
I grabbed my hat. I walked out to the courtyard.
Marshal Ney was waiting by his horse. He looked worried.
"General?" Ney asked. "Orders?"
"Saddle the horses," I said. "We ride for Normandy."
"The King?" Ney asked. "How is he?"
I looked up at the palace windows. I saw a shadow moving behind the glass.
"The King is dead, Michel," I said softly. "That thing up there... that's a calculator. And we are just numbers in his ledger."
Ney frowned.
"He saved us, General. In Egypt. He saved France."
"He saved the asset," I corrected. "Now he's protecting his investment."
A commotion at the gate interrupted us.
A rider galloped in.
His horse was foaming. The man was slumped over the saddle.
He fell.
He hit the cobblestones hard.
I ran to him. Ney followed.
We turned him over.
It was a courier. young. Maybe twenty.
He was bleeding from the mouth.
But it wasn't just blood.
His veins were black. They stood out against his skin like a road map of death.
"Help..." the boy wheezed.
"What happened?" I demanded. "Who attacked you?"
The boy grabbed my collar. His grip was surprisingly strong.
"The shadow..." he gasped. "The woman... with the clock..."
"Who?"
"Drifter..."
The boy convulsed. His eyes rolled back.
He died.
I looked at Ney.
"Drifter?" Ney whispered. "What does that mean?"
I stood up. I wiped the blood off my hands.
"It means the war isn't coming," I said grimly.
I looked at the red circle on my mental map.
"It's already here."
"Mount up!" I shouted to the Old Guard. "We ride! Now!"
The thunder of hooves filled the courtyard.
We rode out into the night.
Toward Normandy.
Toward the machine.
And toward a war that no history book would ever record.