The sea wasn't water.
It was math.
I stared over the gunwale of the smuggling cutter.
My eyes—spinning gold gears in the darkness—broke the waves down into vectors.
Swell height: 1.4 meters. Period: 6 seconds. Wind shear: 12 knots north-northwest.
I calculated the probability of capsizing.
4.2%. Rising.
I couldn't feel the fear. I couldn't feel the awe of the ocean at night. I could only solve the equation.
It was exhausting.
"Father..."
The whisper came from beside me.
Charles was huddled against my side. He was wrapped in a heavy wool coat, but he was shivering violently.
I looked down.
Sea spray hit his shoulder. It didn't soak in. It froze instantly.
Crack.
Ice crystals formed on the wool, glittering in the moonlight.
He was a heat sink. A thermodynamic black hole.
"Fuel," Charles gasped. His lips were blue. His eyes were dull.
I sighed.
I took off my right glove.
Across the boat, Napoleon watched us. His face was green with seasickness, but his eyes were wide with horror.
He clutched the gunwale, knuckles white.
I grabbed Charles's hand.
HISSS.
Steam exploded into the cold night air.
It looked like I had grabbed a red-hot iron.
My skin blistered instantly. The heat transfer was violent. Energy rushed out of me, sucked into the void of the boy.
I gritted my teeth.
Pain index: 8/10.
I ignored it.
"They are eating each other," Napoleon whispered to Marshal Ney.
I heard him. My enhanced hearing picked up the whisper over the roar of the wind.
He was right.
We were a closed loop. A zero-sum game of biology. I burned too hot; Charles burned too cold. We existed in a parasitic balance.
"Better?" I asked.
Charles sighed. The blue tint faded from his lips.
"Warm," he murmured. He leaned his head on my shoulder. "Thank you."
I held his hand until the shivering stopped. Until my own skin was black with frostbite. Then I let go.
I watched my hand heal. The dead skin peeled away in flakes, revealing pink, raw flesh underneath.
Regeneration.
It was a miracle. It was a curse.
"Ship!" the lookout shouted.
I stood up.
The cutter lurched.
Out of the fog, a shape loomed.
Massive. Dark. A wall of wood and canvas.
A British frigate.
The HMS Dauntless.
I saw the gunports open. I saw the glint of brass cannons.
"Halt!" a voice boomed from the deck above. "Prepare to be boarded!"
A spotlight—a massive oil lamp with a reflector—swept the water.
It hit us.
The light was blinding.
"Smugglers!" the British captain shouted. "Heave to or we fire!"
Our captain, Jean-Luc, looked at me. He was terrified.
"They'll hang us," Jean-Luc whimpered. "They'll take the cargo."
"Let them," I said.
I kicked the iron chest at my feet. The chest full of altered banknotes.
"General," I said to Napoleon. "Give me the key."
Napoleon fumbled in his coat. He tossed me the iron key.
I unlocked the chest.
"What are you doing?" Napoleon hissed. "That's our ammunition!"
"I'm loading the gun," I said.
Grappling hooks flew from the frigate. Thud. Thud.
They bit into our rail. Ropes pulled taut.
We were dragged alongside the massive warship.
British sailors jumped down. A dozen of them. Cutlasses drawn. Pistols cocked.
"Hands in the air!" a lieutenant shouted.
He pointed a pistol at me.
I didn't raise my hands.
I stood up.
Steam rose from my shoulders. My eyes caught the oil lamp light and reflected it back—gold mirrors in the dark.
The lieutenant faltered.
"What... what are you?"
"I am the payload," I said.
A sailor tried to grab Charles.
"Come here, boy!"
Charles moved.
He didn't fight. He just touched the man's boarding pike.
FREEZE.
Ice raced down the steel shaft. It hit the sailor's hands.
The man screamed. He dropped the pike. It shattered on the deck like glass.
The other sailors froze.
I stepped forward.
I kicked the chest over.
WHOOSH.
Thousands of banknotes spilled out.
Five-pound notes. Crisp. White.
The wind caught them. They swirled around the deck like a blizzard of money.
"I am not here to fight," I announced. My voice was calm, amplified by the perfect acoustics of my new throat.
"I am here to pay you."
The lieutenant stared at the money.
"What is this?" he asked.
"Your arrears," I said. "The Admiralty is six months behind on wages, correct?"
The lieutenant blinked. It was true. The Royal Navy was broke.
"Pick it up," I said.
I grabbed a handful of notes swirling in the air. I shoved them into the lieutenant's coat pocket.
"It's real. Bank of England issue."
He looked at the note.
He saw the watermark. He saw the serial number.
A894-322-Y.
He didn't know it was a virus. He didn't know the "Y" meant "Crash."
He just saw five pounds. A month's wages.
He lowered his pistol.
"Sir?" a sailor asked, eyeing a stack of notes on the deck.
The lieutenant hesitated.
Greed warred with duty.
Greed won.
"Secure the... evidence," the lieutenant said.
The sailors scrambled. They dropped their weapons. They shoved money into their pockets, their boots, their shirts.
They were laughing.
I smiled.
It was a cold, sharp smile.
"Take us to Dover," I ordered the lieutenant.
He looked at me. He touched the money in his pocket.
"We have to process you," he said weaky. "Customs."
"Of course," I said. "Take us to port. And when you get there..."
I leaned in close.
I let him see the gold gears spinning in my eyes.
"Spend it."
"Spend it all. Buy ale. Buy meat. Buy whores."
I patted his shoulder. My hand was hot enough to scorch his wool coat.
"Stimulate the economy."
He nodded, tranced.
"Aye, sir. To Dover."
He turned to his men.
"Get them aboard! And bring the chest!"
We climbed the netting.
Napoleon climbed beside me.
"You're mad," Napoleon whispered. "You just funded the enemy fleet."
"No," I said, pulling myself over the rail.
I stood on the deck of the British warship.
I looked at the sailors counting their money.
"I just gave them the plague."
I looked north. Toward the lights of Dover.
"The invasion has begun, General," I whispered.
"And we didn't fire a single shot."