The Game Called Revolution - - (free ebook reader for iphone txt) 📗

class="block_12">“My apologies, handsome sir. My name is Victor. I represent someone who’s going to be visiting Paris soon, and who would like to have someone as a guide when she gets here.”

“So, hire a guide,” Adrien replied dismissively.

“She’s going to be visiting the Tuileries,” Victor said as if that was a real explanation.

“The Tuileries is off-limits right now. There’s construction going on.”

A predator’s grin crossed Victor’s face. “It’s not off-limits to you, Adrien.”

Adrien jumped to his feet and stared down the newcomer. “Dammit! I knew something wasn’t right with you. How do you know my name?”

Victor shrugged, and replied, “It was just a matter of finding someone within the Alset Project with the knowledge we need. After that, it was easy. You’re a creature of habit, so it wasn’t hard to track your movements. And here we are.”

“Who do you work for?” Adrien demanded.

“Well, I was told to gain your trust, so I guess I should tell you. I answer to Jeanne de Fleur.”

“de Fleur,” he said, searching his brain for the name. “Wait—de Fleur? As in, the disgraced former commander of the Ordre de la Tradition?”

Victor suddenly became cross at his inquiry. “Choose your words carefully, Adrien. I may not be head over heels for her like some people I know, but I still have the utmost respect for her, and I won’t let you speak ill of her.”

“F-Fine. I apologize, I guess. But tell me: Is Jeanne de Fleur really coming here for revenge?”

“If she was willing to wage war for revenge, we wouldn’t follow her. No, she’s coming here to put a stop to the Reign of Terror.”

“She intends to stop Robespierre.”

“I’m pretty sure that’s what I just said.”

Shaking his head, Adrien dismissed the idea. “Forget it; Robespierre’s become too powerful. He has the resources of an entire country at his disposal.”

“But he doesn’t have the hearts of the people, does he?” Victor countered. “Oh, sure—he might be able to convince them to go along with his ideas with his lovely speeches. But how long do think that will last? I’ll let you in on a little secret: I’ve been doing an ‘informal’ poll of the people of Paris. They’re sick to death of his antics, and I don’t think it will take much to sway them to our side.”

“What do you mean, our side? I never said I would help you. What reason could I possibly have to do that?” And with that, he turned to walk away. However, he did it slowly, part of him hoping the knight would be able to stop him.

As if on cue, Victor said behind his back, “It doesn’t take a genius to read the expression on your face when I arrived. You’re scared to death, my handsome friend. Whether you’re scared of failing or succeeding, it’s obvious you don’t want to finish the Alset Project.”

Adrien considered the other man’s words, but they still weren’t enough to persuade him. “If I quit now, Robespierre will have me executed by that crazy blond woman.”

“I know a thing or two about crazy women,” Victor laughed. “That’s why I don’t even bother. Listen—I’m not asking you to quit. I just need a little information. You help us out, and when we storm the city, we’ll stop the madness and you won’t have to crap your pants whenever anything goes wrong.”

Adrien sighed; was he actually going to go along with this? In the end, none of his choices filled him with confidence. “I want a promise of amnesty when this is all over.”

“If that is what it takes to gain your trust. Sure,” Victor shrugged. “You have my word as a gentleman.”

Adrien adjusted his glasses and sat back down. He felt like he was going to be sick, but he also felt this was the right thing to do. After all, the Ordre had always fought for the best interests of France (despite what Robespierre claimed). Siding with them was really the only way to ease his conscience.

 

***

 

Le Junkyard, France, April 12, 1789 (Infini Calendar), 4:01 p.m.

Jeanne sat idly in the captain’s chair aboard the Minuit Solaire II. She knew she could be of more use elsewhere, but she wanted to make sure she was present the very instant Victor returned with his report. Ever since she had sent him to Paris to perform reconnaissance on the Alset Project, she had spent much of her time on the bridge of their stolen airship, either pacing back and forth or sitting in her chair with her head resting on her hand. She couldn’t even look out the window since almost the entire airship was covered in garbage. The boredom and tedium were near-overwhelming, but she had a hard time leaving the room, even for important things such as meals (fortunately, the vessel was fully stocked with canned goods when they took it from Mt. Erfunden).

The monotony was suddenly broken by the distinctive sound of the Minuit Solaire II’s hatch. She turned around to see Victor descending the stairs in the corridor outside the bridge. He entered the bridge and greeted Jeanne. She then summoned Pierre and Celeste to the bridge where they gathered around Victor to hear him out.

“Report,” she said.

“I found the current head of the Alset Project, a young man named Adrien. After following him for a while and learning his patterns, I eventually made contact with him at the spot he always goes to after work. He wasn’t hard to convince; turns out he had his own…reservations…about what they’re doing in Paris. Whether that was out of conscience or fear of failure,” he shrugged, “I didn’t ask. It was plain as day he didn’t want to be involved in it anymore.”

Jeanne was skeptical yet hopeful. “And he’ll help us?”

“He already has. He told me the date the system will be activated: May third.”

“That doesn’t give us a lot of time,” Pierre said.

“It’s enough,” Jeanne said. “We’re going to take every single day between now and then to prepare. Celeste, you said there’s a generous amount of explosive material here in Le Junkyard?”

The engineer nodded. “Yes, milady—although it is mostly discarded rocket canisters.”

Jeanne knew what Celeste was talking about. Years ago, before the advent of airships, France experimented with rockets. The idea was to fill iron rods with fuel and launch them at enemy forces. Supposedly the Count of Saint-Germaine was the one who created the liquid fuel, which he called propellant.

However, the rockets were very difficult to control; they had a habit of exploding on the very people trying to launch them. Moreover, the Count never shared the secret of the propellant with anyone (as far as Jeanne knew), and upon his death—his first death—France lost all means of producing it. Jeanne now suspected that he had created the fuel using alchemy. Perhaps he even manufactured it from his own blood as he did the organic weapons he fought with aboard the royal airship. If that were the case, it was very unlikely the world would ever see such a fuel source again.

At any rate, the iron rockets were eventually dumped in Le Junkyard, where they would be forgotten until a poor orphan stumbled upon them and nearly blew herself up with them.

“Your story about causing an explosion with them gave me an idea. Do you think you could make some bombs from the materials available?”

“Yes, easily. But we’d have to be very careful; you’re surely aware how unstable the propellant is.”

“What’s this story about causing an explosion?” Victor inquired. The look on Celeste’s face told Jeanne she’d said too much.

“Ah, well…it’s nothing. Just a story Celeste told me about someone she used to know.” Jeanne hated to lie, especially to the subordinates who trusted her, but she’d promised Celeste she wouldn’t reveal her past. That was for the young engineer herself to do if and when she was ready.

Victor looked as if he didn’t entirely believe his commander, but Pierre helped her out by getting them back on track. “You’re thinking we can drop bombs on Paris. As a diversion?”

“Y-Yes, exactly, Pierre,” Jeanne said. “We’ll be careful not to target the civilian population, of course. We just need to get the military’s attention away from our real target: the Tuileries tower.”

“Won’t Robespierre simply order all troops back to the central tower to defend it?” Victor said.

Jeanne shook her head. “He has no military experience. In all likelihood, he’ll either be slow to react, or he’ll make the wrong call.”

“Milady, I actually have other ideas for tools we can make out of the junk on hand.” Celeste shared her ideas, most of which Jeanne approved of. These things could indeed be made quite easily from materials already available in Le Junkyard.

At the end of the briefing, Jeanne said, “In the morning I want the engines fired up. We’re going back to Grenoble to share the battle plan with Farahilde.”

7

 

 

 

 

Grenoble, France, April 5, 1789 (Infini Calendar), 10:10 a.m.

Farahilde stood next to Hubert outside the Church of Saint-Laurent. The morning sun shone overhead, bathing the town in comforting warmth—one of the few things Farahilde actually liked about France.

As of late they had mostly stood in front of the doors to the church soliciting men to join their cause and fight for them when they stormed Paris. So far, they had received around two dozen volunteers. The worms who had barged into the church recently had, unsurprisingly, stayed away. No doubt they feared another encounter with Hubert the Giant.

Farahilde was glad she left her bladed gauntlet inside the church during this time. While she enjoyed threatening French worms with it, it wouldn’t have inspired many volunteers. And, of course, Fräulein would have given her an earful if any violence broke out because of her.

Even she couldn’t say if she actually liked Jeanne de Fleur or not. Yes, Farahilde respected her, but she didn’t know how she felt about the older French woman as a person. When they had first met, Farahilde had genuinely despised her. The young Austrian had never been able to develop meaningful relationships with other women, aside from her schwester. She just seemed to always come into conflict with members of her own sex.

There was also the problem of what Jeanne de Fleur initially represented. Here was a haughty fräulein trying to rescue her brother who had threatened Austrian sovereignty by invading the Netherlands. Farahilde might have been able to forgive that; it wasn’t even the most grievous offense. No, the real reason she had hated Jeanne de Fleur was the latter’s refusal to give back her schwester, Marie Antoinette, who was being held prisoner by the Assembly. It was, after all, the right thing to do. If Jeanne was truly dedicated to the safety of Her Majesty, she would have done it.

At least, that’s what Farahilde used to believe. She had since come to realize things weren’t quite that simple. If Jeanne had tried to rescue her schwester against the will of the Assembly, it might have put the queen in even more danger. If Farahilde were in Jeanne’s shoes, would she have tried it? Probably; she was that kind of headstrong person. But would it have been a good idea? Maybe not.

Nevertheless, her schwester had been killed anyway, and that fact might prevent them from ever becoming any closer than reluctant partners in crime.

A French teenager approached her and said, “Is this where I sign up to kick Robespierre’s ass?” Just wonderful, she thought sarcastically—another boy thinking he’s signing up for fun and games.

“This isn’t a vacation in the countryside, boy.” She said