The Mediterranean was a mirror.
Dead calm. Not a ripple.
The sky was a bleached white sheet, and the sea was a slab of blue glass.
We sat in the stolen fishing boat—a leaky felucca we had found half-buried on the beach near Rosetta.
The sail hung limp. Useless.
"Row," I said.
My voice sounded strange in the silence. The EMP had stripped the world of its hum. No distant static. No seagulls. Just the wet slap of the oars.
Jean Chouan groaned. He pulled on the starboard oar. His muscles were knotted like old ropes.
"My hands are bleeding," the smuggler grumbled.
"Bleed quieter," I said.
I sat in the stern, steering with the tiller. I checked the compass.
Spinning.
The magnetic field was still recovering from the ionospheric blast. We were navigating by the sun and guesswork.
"How far?" Marshal Ney asked. He was rowing on the port side. His uniform was stripped to the waist. His back was a map of sunburn and old scars.
"Three hundred miles to Crete," I lied. It was closer to five hundred.
"We have water," Ney said, patting the cask we had stolen. "But no food."
"We have the Asset," I said.
I touched the flask in my pocket. The Golden Ichor. The concentrated life-force from the Oasis.
It could heal a wound in seconds. It could probably keep us alive for weeks without food. But the cost...
Accelerated entropy, I thought. You eat tomorrow to survive today.
"Ship!" Chouan hissed.
He shipped his oar. He pointed.
A shape emerged from the heat haze on the horizon.
It was massive.
Three masts. Gunports. A mountain of wood and canvas.
"British?" Ney asked, reaching for his musket.
"Look at the drift," I said.
The ship wasn't sailing. It was sliding sideways. The yards were braced all wrong. The jibs were flapping.
No flag flew from the stern.
"A ghost," Chouan whispered. He made the sign of the cross.
"A warehouse," I corrected.
I steered us toward it.
As we got closer, the details resolved.
It was a 74-gun Ship of the Line. Third Rate. A beast of war.
The nameplate on the stern was faded but readable.
HMS Polyphemus.
"One of Nelson's," Ney said. "A vet of Trafalgar."
"Why is she drifting?" Chouan asked.
We bumped against the hull. The wood was slimy with algae.
"Let's ask the crew," I said.
We climbed the boarding chains. It was a long climb. My arms burned.
I pulled myself over the rail and onto the quarterdeck.
I drew my LeMat revolver.
"Hello!" I shouted.
Silence.
The deck was empty. Ropes lay coiled in rotting piles. A cannon had broken loose and smashed into the bulwark.
But no people.
"Below decks," Ney whispered. He had his saber drawn.
We walked to the main hatch. The smell hit us first.
It wasn't the smell of death. It was the smell of a butcher shop left in the sun.
Copper. Sweet rot.
We went down the ladder.
The gun deck was dark. The gunports were closed.
"Light a lantern," I ordered.
Chouan struck a flint. The flame flared.
He screamed.
He dropped the lantern. It rolled across the floor, illuminating the horror.
They were everywhere.
Bodies.
British sailors in blue jackets. Marines in red coats.
They were huddled in corners. Piled on top of each other.
But they hadn't died fighting the French.
They had died fighting each other.
I saw a midshipman with a knife buried in his back. I saw a marine with bite marks on his arm.
Human bite marks.
"Mutiny," Ney whispered. He covered his mouth. "Madness."
I walked to the captain's cabin. The door was smashed open.
Inside, Captain Redmill sat at his desk. He was dead. A pistol in his hand, a hole in his temple.
The logbook lay open in front of him.
I read the last entry. Dated three days ago.
The Flash. The compasses spun wild. The water casks... the water turned sour. Tasted of iron. Men started seeing things. Monsters in the dark. The Surgeon says it's the Ozone sickness. I cannot hold them. They are eating the rats. They are looking at me...
"The EMP," I realized. "It didn't just fry the telegraphs. It ionized the water supply. It drove them insane."
"Water," Chouan said. He was rummaging through a locker. "They have brandy! Casks of it!"
"Take it," I said. "And the charts. Look for the waterproof cylinder."
"Charles," Ney called out from the stern window. "We have company."
I ran to the window.
On the horizon, to the West.
Sails. Black sails.
Three sloops. Fast. Sleek.
"Privateers," Ney said. "Barbary Coast?"
I looked through the Captain's spyglass.
I saw the flag flying from the lead ship.
It wasn't the Crescent Moon. It wasn't the Jolly Roger.
It was a Red Shield. Five arrows held in a fist.
"Rothschild," I hissed.
"The banker?" Chouan asked. "He has a navy?"
"He has assets," I said. "With the Royal Navy blinded, he sent his private mercenaries to secure the shipping lanes. They are scavengers."
"They are coming for this ship," Ney said. "A drifting 74 is a prize worth a fortune."
"They'll be here in twenty minutes," I calculated. "We can't fight three sloops."
"We hide?" Chouan suggested.
"They'll search the ship," I said. "They'll find us. And they'll find the flask."
I looked at the dead Captain. At the pistol.
"We don't hide," I said. "We leave a message."
"What message?"
"A liquidation notice."
I turned to Ney.
"The powder magazine. Is it accessible?"
"The keys are usually on the Captain's belt," Ney said.
I grabbed the keys from the corpse.
"Go," I ordered. "Chouan, get the brandy and the charts. Get back to the boat. Ney, help me with the powder."
We ran down to the lowest deck. The Orlop.
The magazine was locked behind a heavy copper door (to prevent sparks).
I unlocked it.
Inside, stacked floor to ceiling, were barrels of black powder. Tons of it. Enough to level a city block.
"Fuse," I said.
Ney grabbed a coil of slow-match.
"Not long enough," I said. "We need to be clear of the blast radius."
I looked at the floor.
"Gunpowder trail," I ordered. "Break a barrel."
Ney smashed the lid of a cask. He poured the black grains onto the floor.
We made a trail. Up the ladder. Across the gun deck. Up to the quarterdeck.
"They are close," Chouan yelled from the rail. "I can see their faces!"
I looked over the side.
The lead Privateer sloop was pulling alongside. Men with grappling hooks were ready to throw. They looked hard. Mercenaries. Killers on the payroll.
"Get in the boat," I told Ney.
"And you?"
"I light the candle."
Ney jumped. Chouan was already rowing, keeping the felucca hidden behind the curve of the massive hull.
I stood by the rail. I held the flintlock pistol I had taken from the dead Captain.
I looked at the line of gunpowder snaking across the deck.
"Hey!" a voice shouted from the Privateer ship. "You there! Identify!"
I waved.
"Audit Department!" I yelled.
I fired the pistol into the powder.
FZZZT.
The flame raced across the deck. It vanished down the hatch.
I dove.
I hit the water. It was cold.
"Row!" I screamed as I surfaced. "Row for your lives!"
Chouan hauled me into the boat. Ney pulled on the oars like a madman.
We shot away from the Polyphemus.
Ten seconds.
The Privateer ship slammed against the hull of the warship. Hooks flew. Men jumped across, shouting triumph.
Fifteen seconds.
"Mine!" I heard one of them yell. "The prize is m—"
BOOM.
The world turned white.
The shockwave hit us like a physical hammer. It lifted our small boat out of the water.
I covered my head.
Debris rained down. Splinters the size of spears. Burning canvas. A cannonball splashed ten feet away.
When I looked up, the Polyphemus was gone.
In its place was a column of smoke rising to the clouds.
The Privateer sloop that had been alongside was... erased. Just wreckage.
The other two ships were reeling, sails torn by the blast, turning away in panic.
"Interest paid in full," I whispered.
"Look," Chouan said. He pointed to the water.
Among the floating wood and body parts, a crate bobbed. It had survived the blast.
It was marked with the Red Shield.
"Fish it out," I ordered.
Chouan snagged it with a boat hook. He hauled it aboard.
I pried the lid open.
It wasn't gold. It wasn't weapons.
It was packed with straw. Nested inside were gears. Brass gears. Punch cards.
And a map.
I unrolled the map. It showed the Mediterranean. But it had new lines drawn on it. Connecting islands.
"Semaphore stations," I realized. "Optical telegraphs."
I looked at the gears.
"It's a Babbage Engine," I said. "A mechanical computer."
"What does it mean?" Ney asked.
"It means Rothschild knows the electric grid is dead," I said. "He's building a mechanical internet. He's setting up a new network. Mirrors and gears. Unhackable by EMP."
I looked at the burning wreckage.
"He's trying to become the Server," I said. "If he finishes this network, he controls the information again. He wins."
I looked North.
"We have to get home," I said. "We have to warn Father."
"Warn him?" Ney asked.
"No," I said. I touched the Golden Ichor in my pocket. "Upgrade him."
"Row," I ordered. "We have a war to reboot."