I rode into the Tuileries courtyard under a sky that burned blue.
Above me, on the roof of the palace, a beacon had ignited. It wasn't fire. It was a cold, electric lance of light that pierced the storm clouds.
It formed a symbol.
A Fleur-de-lis.
But it was jagged. Sharp. It looked like a scar on the heavens.
"God help us," Ney whispered beside me.
His horse shied, terrified by the unnatural glow.
"It's not God," I said grimly. "It's the Accountant."
I dismounted.
My boots hit the wet cobblestones with a heavy thud.
The Old Guard was silent. Two thousand men stared up at the light. They didn't cheer. They crossed themselves.
They saw their King standing on the parapet. A silhouette wreathed in blue flame and ice.
He was cranking a semaphore machine. Click-clack.
L-O-U-I-S.
A-L-I-V-E.
The message repeated. Over and over.
A declaration of solvency.
I touched my pocket.
Inside, wrapped in oilcloth, was a single punch card.
Louis-Charles. Priority: Alpha.
I had burned the rest. I had blown the Chateau de Gaillon to hell. The machine was gone. The list of targets was ash.
I had disobeyed a direct order.
"General," Ney said. "The prisoner."
I looked back.
Soldiers were dragging a man from a supply wagon.
Mr. Smith. The operator of the Babbage Engine.
He was bound and gagged. His face was soot-stained. He looked up at the blue light and screamed into the rag in his mouth.
"Bring him," I ordered.
I walked toward the palace doors.
They opened before I reached them.
Not servants.
Talleyrand stood there. He looked pale in the flickering torchlight.
"The King is waiting," Talleyrand said.
"Where?" I asked. "The Map Room?"
"No," Talleyrand said. He swallowed hard. "The Throne Room."
My stomach tightened.
The Throne Room.
He wanted theater. He wanted judgment.
I squared my shoulders.
"Lead the way."
We walked through the silent halls. The palace felt empty. Cold.
The air smelled of ozone. Of static electricity.
We reached the great double doors of the Throne Room.
Talleyrand opened them.
I stepped inside.
The room was cavernous. Shadows stretched into the corners. The only light came from a single, massive chandelier that had been lowered to eye level.
And on the throne...
Alex Miller.
He was wet. His black coat was soaked, clinging to his frame. Steam rose from his shoulders.
He wasn't sitting regally. He was slouching.
He was eating.
A silver platter rested on his lap. It was piled high with cold roast beef.
He tore into the meat with his bare hands. He ate with terrifying speed. Rip. Chew. Swallow.
He wasn't savoring it. He was refueling.
His metabolism was running hot. He needed calories.
On the steps of the dais, a small figure sat huddled in blankets.
Charles.
The boy was shivering. His lips were blue. He stared at the floor, rocking back and forth.
I walked down the long carpet. My spurs jingled.
I stopped ten paces from the throne.
I knelt.
"Mission accomplished, Sire," I said. My voice echoed in the vast room. "The Chateau de Gaillon is destroyed. The enemy base is neutralized."
Alex stopped chewing.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Grease smeared his chin.
He stood up.
The platter clattered to the floor.
He walked down the steps.
He moved silently. Like a cat.
He stopped in front of me.
He loomed over me. I could feel the heat radiating from his body. It was intense. Like standing next to a furnace.
"And the machine?" Alex asked.
His voice was soft. Dangerously soft.
"The Babbage Engine? Did you bring it back?"
I looked up.
I met his gaze.
He wasn't wearing his smoked glasses.
His eyes were gold. Spinning. Analyzing.
I took a breath.
"Destroyed," I said.
The word hung in the air.
Alex tilted his head.
"Destroyed?" he repeated. "I gave you a specific order, General. Audit the source code. Bring me the hardware."
"It was a weapon, Sire," I said. "Not a communication device. It was a targeting array."
I stood up.
I reached into my pocket.
I pulled out the punch card.
"Here," I said.
I handed it to him.
Alex took it.
He ran his fingers over the holes. He didn't look at it. He read the data by touch.
His expression didn't change.
But his eyes...
For a split second, the gold flickered. A flash of blue.
He looked at Charles. At the shivering boy on the steps.
Then the gold snapped back. Harder. Colder.
"Sentimental," Alex whispered.
He crushed the card in his fist.
"You burned the library to save one book, Napoleon. Inefficient."
"It was a list of assassinations!" I argued. "It had your son's name on it! It had my name! It had Ney's! If I had brought it back... who knows what signals it was sending?"
"I would have known!" Alex roared.
The sound hit me like a physical blow.
"I needed the algorithm! I needed to know who else was on the list! Who is funding them! Who is next!"
He stepped closer.
"You deleted the data, General. You blinded us."
I held my ground.
"I saved the future," I said. "That machine was evil."
Alex laughed.
It was a dry, humorless sound.
"Evil is just a variable," Alex said. "And you just increased our risk exposure."
He turned away.
He walked to the prisoner.
Mr. Smith was kneeling on the floor, held by two guards. He was trembling.
"Who is this?" Alex asked.
"The Operator," I said. "Mr. Smith. He ran the machine."
Alex looked at Smith.
"Unbind him," Alex ordered.
The guards cut the ropes.
Smith rubbed his wrists. He looked up at Alex with terrified eyes.
"P-please," Smith stammered. "I was just following orders. Lord Rothschild..."
"Rothschild isn't here," Alex said. "I am."
He crouched down.
He took off his glove.
His hand was scarred. Burned. But it was healing fast.
He touched Smith's forehead.
SIZZLE.
Smith screamed.
Smoke rose from his skin.
"The codes," Alex whispered. "Where are they?"
"I don't know!" Smith shrieked. "The machine... it did the calculations! I just fed the cards!"
"Liar," Alex said.
He pressed harder.
"The brain retains patterns. Visual memory. You saw the output."
He leaned in close. His golden eyes were inches from Smith's face.
"Tell me how the Network talks. Tell me the encryption key."
Smith was crying now. Tears evaporated on his hot skin.
"It's... it's the money!" Smith sobbed.
Alex froze.
"The money?"
"The new banknotes!" Smith yelled. "The Bank of England notes! Rothschild... he printed the cipher on the currency! The serial numbers! They form a grid!"
Alex pulled his hand back.
He stood up.
He looked at me.
A slow, terrifying smile spread across his face.
"Genius," Alex whispered.
"What?" I asked.
"The currency," Alex said. "He turned the economy into a computer. Every banknote is a packet of data. Every transaction is a signal."
He started to laugh.
"He's running the network on capitalism itself."
He turned to the guards.
"Take him to the dungeon," Alex ordered. "Keep him alive. He is a high-yield asset."
The guards dragged Smith away.
Alex turned back to me.
"You're lucky, General," he said.
"Sire?"
"If you hadn't brought him... I would have liquidated you for insubordination."
He walked back to the throne. He picked up the platter of beef.
He took a bite.
"Pack your bags," Alex said, chewing.
"Where are we going?" I asked.
"To the coast," Alex said. "Boulogne."
"Boulogne?" I frowned. "That's where the invasion fleet is gathering. But we have no ships."
"We don't need ships," Alex said.
He looked at Charles.
"We need a bank."
He swallowed the meat.
"Rothschild put his network on the money. So we're going to make a withdrawal."
He looked at me.
"I'm going to crash the British economy, Napoleon. And I need you to hold the gun while I rob the vault."
He sat down on the throne.
"Dismissed."
I saluted.
I turned and walked out.
My hands were shaking.
He was mad.
He was brilliant.
And he was right.
We weren't fighting a war anymore.
We were fighting a hostile takeover.
And the Accountant had just found the ledger.