The Bidassoa River was grey.
Not the clear, rushing grey of mountain meltwater. It was the thick, sluggish grey of a sewer.
It rained. A cold, miserable drizzle that turned the banks into a slurry of mud and horse manure.
I sat in my wheelchair on the French side of the river. The wheels were sinking into the muck.
"How long?" I asked.
The engineer captain wiped rain from his eyes. He looked tired. His uniform was stained with black powder.
"Fifteen minutes, Administrator," he said. "The charges are set on the central piers. But the stone is wet. The fuses are unpredictable."
"Make them predictable," I said.
I looked at the bridge.
It was a beautiful thing. Roman arches. Ancient stone. It had stood for a thousand years, connecting France to Spain. Millions of Francs worth of trade crossed those stones every year.
And today, I was going to blow it into the river.
I looked down at the ledger in my lap. The rain was smearing the ink.
Asset: Stone Bridge (Book Value: 200,000 Francs).
Liability: Biological Contamination (Value: Infinite).
It was the easiest audit I had ever done.
"Hold your fire!" a voice screamed.
I turned my head. It took effort. My neck was stiff, swollen with edema.
A horseman was galloping down the muddy road from the north. He wore the blue coat of a Marshal of France.
Marshal Moncey. Commander of the Border Guard.
He pulled his horse up so hard it reared, hooves churning the mud inches from my chair.
"What is this madness?" Moncey roared. He jumped down, his boots splashing in the puddles.
He pointed his saber at the engineers.
"Get those barrels off the bridge! Are you traitors? That is the lifeline of the Empire!"
The engineers froze. They looked at the Marshal, then at me.
I didn't flinch. I couldn't.
"Put the saber away, Marshal," I said. My voice was a wheeze, but it carried. "They are following my orders."
Moncey spun on me. His face was red with fury.
"Your orders? Since when does an accountant command the borders? I have five thousand wounded men on the other side! They are waiting to cross! If you blow that bridge, you are sentencing them to death!"
I looked across the river.
He was right.
On the Spanish bank, a camp had formed. Tents. Wagons. Thousands of men in tattered blue uniforms. Refugees from the "Spanish Ulcer." They were huddled by the fires, waiting for the bridge to open.
They looked cold. They looked hungry.
But I knew what else they were.
"I am not murdering them, Marshal," I said softly.
I reached into my heavy wool coat. I pulled out the glass vial Dr. Desgenettes had brought from Madrid.
It glowed.
Even in the grey daylight, the sickly green luminescence was visible.
"They are already dead," I said. "I am just closing the coffin."
Moncey stared at the vial. He took a step back.
"What is that?"
"The Green Fire," I said. "Radiation. Cagliostro's curse. It's in the water in Spain. It's in the dust."
I held the vial up to the rain.
"It kills in forty-eight hours. But before it kills, it spreads. If one of those men crosses that bridge, he brings the dust with him. It gets into our wells. Our fields. Our cities."
I looked Moncey in the eye.
"Paris will be a graveyard in a month."
Moncey shook his head. Denial. It was the first stage of grief.
"Lies," he spat. "Look at them! They are walking! They are shouting!"
He pointed across the river.
A group of soldiers had gathered at the far end of the bridge. They saw the barrels. They saw the fuses.
"Let us cross!" they screamed. "We are French! We are the 4th Corps!"
One of them started to run. Then another.
A mob formed. Civilians mixed with soldiers. Women holding babies. Men leaning on crutches.
They surged onto the bridge.
"They are coming!" the engineer captain shouted. "Administrator, the fuse!"
"Wait," Moncey ordered. "They are healthy! Look at them!"
He grabbed the front of my coat. He shook me.
"You cannot do this, Alex. It's murder. It's a war crime."
I looked at the mob. They were halfway across. I could see their faces now. Hopeful. Desperate.
They looked healthy.
But I knew about incubation periods. I knew about invisible killers.
"Test them," I said.
I signaled Dr. Desgenettes, who was waiting by the detonator.
"The Solution," I ordered.
Desgenettes nodded grimly. He picked up a ceramic jar.
He ran to the edge of the bridge fortifications.
The first refugee reached the French side. A young corporal. He was smiling. He was crying with relief.
"Thank God," the corporal sobbed. "We made it."
Desgenettes threw the contents of the jar.
Splash.
A clear liquid soaked the corporal's coat.
"What are you doing?" Moncey shouted.
"Silver Nitrate," I whispered. "It reacts with the radioactive isotopes."
We watched.
For a second, nothing happened.
Then, the liquid on the corporal's coat turned black.
Not dark grey. Jet black. Like ink.
The corporal looked down at his chest.
"What...?"
Then he coughed.
It wasn't a normal cough. It was a wet, tearing sound.
He doubled over. He retched.
Black bile exploded from his mouth. It splashed onto the wet stones.
He collapsed. He convulsed once, twice. Then he went still.
The mob behind him stopped. They stared at the dead boy.
Then, another man fell. And a woman.
The exertion of running had accelerated the poison. Their bodies were failing in real-time.
Moncey let go of my coat. He stared at the black corpse. His face was white.
"Mother of God," Moncey whispered. "It's a plague."
"It's physics," I said.
The mob screamed. But they didn't turn back. They ran forward. Panic took over. They were running from the death inside them.
They charged the French barricades.
"They will breach the line!" the engineer shouted.
I looked at the flare gun in my lap.
It was heavy. My hand shook uncontrollably. The Dropsy made my fingers feel like sausages.
I had to do it.
Napoleon wouldn't hesitate. Robespierre wouldn't hesitate.
But I was just an accountant.
No, I thought. An auditor cuts the losses.
I lifted the gun.
"Forgive me," I whispered.
I pulled the trigger.
POP.
The red flare arced through the rain. It hissed as it hit the wet fuse on the bridge.
FZZZT.
For a second, I thought it had failed.
Then the world turned white.
BOOM.
The sound hit me like a physical wall. The concussion knocked Moncey into the mud.
Stone shattered.
The central arch of the bridge lifted into the air in slow motion.
Bodies. Wagons. Barrels of powder. All of it suspended in a cloud of fire and smoke.
Then gravity took over.
The bridge collapsed into the river. A massive splash of dirty water rose up, soaking us.
Silence returned.
Only the sound of falling rocks and the rushing water.
The connection was gone.
On the Spanish side, the rest of the refugees stood at the edge of the abyss. They wailed. A sound of pure despair.
I lowered the flare gun. Smoke curled from the barrel.
Moncey stood up. He was covered in mud. He looked at the ruin. Then he looked at me.
He didn't draw his sword. He just saluted. A slow, trembling salute.
"The border is sealed, Administrator," Moncey said. His voice broke.
"Burn the bodies on this side," I ordered. "Use oil. Do not touch them."
I turned my wheelchair around.
"And get me to the telegraph tent."
The tent was a canvas hellhole. Mud floor. Leaking roof. The smell of ozone and wet paper.
The operator was huddled over the key, looking terrified.
"It won't stop, Administrator," the operator said. "The machine... it's screaming."
I rolled up to the table.
The paper tape was piling up on the floor.
CLICK-CLICK-CLICK-CLICK.
"Who is it?" I asked.
"Madrid," the operator said. "Direct channel. Priority Zero."
"Read it."
The operator picked up the tape. His hands shook.
"FROM: EMPEROR NAPOLEON."
"TO: ADMINISTRATOR MILLER."
He swallowed hard.
"MESSAGE: I AM COMING NORTH. I HAVE THE TREASURY. I HAVE THE IMPERIAL GUARD. CLEAR THE ROAD. ANY OFFICER WHO OBSTRUCTS ME WILL BE SHOT FOR TREASON."
I closed my eyes.
He was coming.
Napoleon. The greatest soldier in history. And he was bringing the plague with him.
He didn't understand. He thought he could conquer a virus. He thought he could intimidate radiation.
"He thinks he is a General," I whispered.
I looked at the tape.
"Reply," I ordered.
The operator put his hand on the key.
"What is the message, Citizen?"
I stared at the ruins of the bridge through the open tent flap.
"Tell him the road is closed," I said. "Tell him he is a liability."
"I... I can't send that to the Emperor!"
"Send it!" I snapped. "And add this: If the Imperial Guard crosses the Bidassoa, the artillery will open fire."
The operator stared at me.
"You are declaring war on Napoleon?"
"No," I said. "I am declaring quarantine."
I watched the rain fall.
"He isn't a General anymore," I said softly. "He's a biological weapon. And I'm going to decommission him."
I looked at my hand. The black soot from the flare gun was stained into my skin.
"Asset liquidated," I whispered.
But I knew the real liquidation was just beginning.