The rain tasted like iron.
I stood on the roof of the Tuileries Palace, exposed to the storm. The wind howled, tearing at my clothes, trying to push me off the ledge.
Below me, Paris was a black ocean. The EMP had killed the lights. The moon was choked by thick, industrial smog.
"Father," Charles whispered.
He was clinging to my arm.
His grip was desperate. His fingers dug into my bicep through the wool of my coat.
I looked down at him.
His lips were blue. His teeth chattered rhythmically. Clack-clack-clack.
He was freezing.
Literally.
The Ichor had turned him into a thermodynamic void. He was sucking the heat out of the air. Out of the rain. Out of me.
My arm burned where he touched it.
It felt like holding a block of dry ice. The skin was blistering, turning black, then peeling away as my own regenerative factor kicked in.
Burn. Heal. Freeze. Repeat.
It was agonizing.
I ignored it.
Pain is just data.
"Focus, Charles," I shouted over the wind. "We need the lens."
We reached the base of the semaphore tower.
The Chappe telegraph. A mechanical mast with wooden arms used to send signals across France.
It was dead. The operators had fled during the riots. The gears were rusted shut.
I grabbed the iron crank.
I didn't check for rust. I just pushed.
SCREECH.
Metal sheared. The gears groaned and forced themselves to turn.
I locked the arms in the "Alert" position. Vertical.
But it was useless in the dark. No one could see it.
"We need light," I said.
I looked at the signal brazier—a large iron basket meant to hold a wood fire.
It was soaked. The wood was rotten.
"The fuel," I muttered.
I reached into my pocket.
I pulled out a leather pouch.
Inside was blue dust.
The remains of the Drifter. Alice.
I poured the dust into the wet wood.
It didn't blow away. It sparkled, heavy and unnatural.
"Whale oil!" I ordered.
Charles pointed to a barrel in the corner. "Frozen."
I walked to it. I punched the lid.
CRACK.
The wood splintered. Inside, the oil was a thick, yellow sludge.
"Perfect," I said.
I scooped up a handful of sludge. I mixed it with the blue dust.
I shoved the mixture into the brazier.
"Step back," I told Charles.
He released my arm.
The loss of his cold touch was a shock. My skin screamed as the blood rushed back into the frozen capillaries.
I put my hand into the brazier.
I closed my eyes.
Internal temperature: 98.6°F.
Increase.
100... 104... 108...
I pushed my metabolism. I visualized the ATP in my cells exploding.
My hand grew hot. Red. Then white.
The whale oil hissed.
Flashpoint.
WHOOSH.
The brazier ignited.
It didn't burn orange. It didn't burn red.
It burned electric blue.
A column of fire shot up into the sky. It roared like a jet engine.
The heat was blinding. The rain turned to steam instantly.
"The lens!" I shouted. "Charles! Now!"
Charles stepped forward.
He didn't shield his eyes. He stared into the blue inferno.
He raised his hands.
"Refract," he whispered.
The air around him shimmered.
The moisture in the clouds—the rain, the steam, the smog—froze.
It didn't turn to snow. It turned into a solid sheet of ice.
A massive, floating lens. Ten feet wide. Perfectly clear.
It hung in the air above the fire.
The blue light hit the ice.
Prism effect.
The beam split. It magnified. It turned from a fire into a laser.
A shaft of pure, cold light pierced the clouds. It illuminated the low ceiling of the storm.
It painted a symbol on the sky.
A Fleur-de-lis. But sharp. Angular.
The Audit.
I grabbed the semaphore crank.
I began to signal.
Left arm up. Right arm down.
Click-clack.
L-O-U-I-S.
Pause.
A-L-I-V-E.
Pause.
S-O-L-V-E-N-T.
I repeated the code. Over and over.
My muscles burned. The heat from the fire was singing my eyebrows. The cold from Charles was numbing my legs.
But I didn't stop.
Below us, the city woke up.
I saw movement in the streets. People coming out of their cellars. Looking up at the blue ghost in the sky.
The riots stopped.
The screaming stopped.
Silence fell over Paris.
They were watching the miracle.
"It's working," Charles gasped.
He was swaying. His nose was bleeding—a trickle of dark blood that froze on his lip.
"Hold it!" I ordered. "Five more minutes!"
"I... I can't..."
"Do the math!" I yelled. "Calculate the angle! Maintain the structure!"
He gritted his teeth. He pushed his hands forward. The ice lens cracked but held.
Then I heard it.
Hoofbeats.
Heavy. Rhythmic.
I looked over the parapet.
Down in the courtyard, torches flickered.
Soldiers.
The Old Guard.
They were back from Normandy.
I focused my eyes.
Zoom.
I saw Napoleon. He was dismounting.
His coat was covered in soot. Black, greasy soot.
I sniffed the air.
Through the rain, through the ozone of the blue fire, I smelled it.
Burnt brass. Charred paper.
And something else.
Defiance.
Napoleon looked up. He saw the blue light. He saw me standing on the roof, wreathed in fire and ice.
He didn't salute.
He touched his pocket.
A gesture of guilt.
"He burned it," I whispered.
The realization hit me like a physical blow.
"He destroyed the asset."
I stopped cranking the semaphore.
"Cut the feed," I told Charles.
"What?"
"Cut it!"
I kicked the brazier over.
The blue fire spilled onto the wet roof. It hissed and died.
The light vanished.
Darkness crashed back down.
Charles collapsed. The ice lens shattered, raining shards of crystal onto the stones.
I caught him.
He was shivering violently.
"Did... did they see it?" Charles asked.
"They saw enough," I said.
I looked down at the courtyard. At the tiny figure of Napoleon.
"They know the King is watching," I said coldly.
I picked Charles up.
"Let's go downstairs," I said. "I have a General to audit."
I walked to the stairs.
My arm was throbbing. My skin was burnt.
But my mind was clear.
Napoleon had disobeyed an order. He had destroyed the Babbage Engine.
Why?
Fear? Loyalty? Ambition?
I would find out.
And if the answer wasn't satisfactory...
I would liquidate him.