The Game Called Revolution, - [ebook reader 8 inch .txt] 📗

scanned the shack for another chair to sit down in, but there were none.

She said, “Sorry, but there’s only one chair. You’re my first visitor since I came to this place.”

“That’s all right. I don’t mind standing.”

There was a flask on the table. Jeanne poured a brown liquid from it into a dirty glass and downed it in short order. She offered him some, but he politely declined. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d like to hear your story.”

“I neither expected nor desired to tell it to anyone. However, if you’re willing to tell the world the truth about the French Revolution, I’ll tell you.”

He took out a pen and paper from the backpack he had been carrying and began writing. She told him about her beginnings in the French Army, her rise through its ranks and eventual appointment to commander of the Ordre de la Tradition. She told him about the storming of the Bastille and the conspiracy to assassinate the royal family (which she no longer had any doubt was the work of Robespierre), the monstrous transformation of the Count of Saint-Germaine, and the crash of the royal airship. All the while, he grew more and more astonished at the tale.

“Bloody hell,” he exclaimed. “That’s quite a tale.”

She also told him about the Ordre’s battles against the Austrian coalition and their electricity-powered airships, and the Ordre’s capture of one of them.

“That was our last mission before we were betrayed,” she said.

“What happened when you returned to Paris?”

She told him.

 

 

***

 

Six months ago: the outskirts of Paris, September 24, 1789 (Infini Calendar), 7:00 p.m.

The Rechtschaffener Dämon docked at a telegraph pole on the northeast edge of Paris. The enemy airship may have been a different design than the Minuit Solaire, but it was still equipped with a cable for insertion into the pole. Celeste theorized that this was because the Austrian coalition intended to eventually implement the same telegraph system in their own regions.

Jeanne walked over to the communications console behind the captain’s chair on the bridge. “Anything?”

Alphonse, the operator manning the console (because the previous communications officer, Maurice, had been killed in the crash of the Solaire), sat idly waiting for a response. Jeanne had ordered him to send an urgent message to the Tuileries Palace notifying them of the crew’s situation so that the Dämon would not be mistakenly fired on.

He was about to respond that they had not received a response from the Tuileries when there was suddenly a tap-tap-tap from the console. A small paper ticket punched out and Alphonse began to read it. “‘Pass code acknowledged. You are ordered to dock at Tuileries Palace for debriefing.’”

Jeanne considered this for a moment. Was it her imagination, or had they accepted the Ordre’s pass code a little too easily? She couldn’t help but feel they should treat the Dämon with more skepticism, considering it was an enemy vessel that just arrived on the outskirts of France’s greatest city.

She hesitantly ordered the airship to be flown over to the Tuileries, but she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was horribly wrong here.

 

***

 

The Dämon arrived at the landing pad at the Tuileries. Armed guards lined the ramp. Jeanne actually felt relieved by that; under the circumstances, this was how they should be greeted.

The remaining members of the Ordre, along with the two dozen-or-so soldiers they had rescued from Mt. Erfunden, disembarked, thankful to be back home.

However, even when the armed guards on the ramp saw their faces, they did not lower their weapons.

The guard at the front of the column said to them, “Stay where you are.”

“I am Commander Jeanne de Fleur of the Ordre de la Tradition.”

“I know who you are. But orders are orders.”

“Orders?” Jean-Paul shouted. “What orders? From whom?”

A voice behind the guards announced, “From me.”

The guards parted and Maximilien Robespierre came through. He made sure to keep his distance from Jeanne and the others, though.

“What is the meaning of this, Monsieur Robespierre?” Jeanne said icily.

“The Ancien Régime is dead. The Legislative Assembly now rules France. As such, we have no more use for royalists such as yourselves. The soldiers you rescued from Mt. Erfunden are free to go, but all members of the Ordre de la Tradition are under arrest for treason.”

“You can’t be serious!” Victor yelled.

Jeanne said, “What have you done with the royal family?”

“The children are unharmed,” Robespierre replied. “But I cannot say the same for the king and queen.”

“Where are they!?” she roared.

He remained completely calm, almost serene. “You’ll find their heads on pikes in front of the Palace.”

She froze completely, unable to move except to mutter a single syllable: “No…”

“It’s true. You’ll soon see for yourself.”

She fell to her knees. “You’re lying! They can’t be dead!”

“And what reason would I have to do that? To torture you? What would be the point? I’m just going to have you executed within a few days.”

Lost in her anguish, Jeanne became vaguely aware of an uproar occurring behind her. The soldiers they had rescued from Mt. Erfunden came forward to face Robespierre and his armed guards. Most of the soldiers were only armed with sabers, having expended their rifle ammo during the battle at the volcano.

“For your sake, you had better be lying,” one of them said to Robespierre.

“We didn’t travel all that way and nearly get buried in lava to have scum like you take over France,” said another.

Robespierre looked stupefied. “Have you all lost your mind? For one, I said you soldiers could go free. Two—I just saved us all from the road to ruin the monarchy put us on. And three—you are quite out-gunned.”

Jean-Paul made his way to the front of the pack. “We have fought hard for the future of France, and we won’t let villains like you ruin it. And I certainly won’t let you stand there and say you’re going to kill my sister!”

Napoléon Bonaparte appeared next to Jean-Paul. However, Napoléon suddenly walked over to Robespierre’s side. “I’m afraid I can no longer fight by your side, Colonel.”

Jean-Paul bared his teeth at Napoléon. “Are you saying you’re going to sell out to this piece of garbage, Napoléon?”

“In order to realize my own ambitions, I have to be able to tell which way the wind is blowing. That means I must fight for the side that is sure to win. You and your measly band of soldiers don’t stand a chance against the rulers of France, whoever they might be.”

A smirk appeared on Robespierre’s face as he looked upon Napoléon. “You’re a smart man. You’ll do well in the new regime. As for the rest of you…” He shifted his attention back to the men who currently stood between him and the remaining members of the Ordre. “You will be blown away by the winds of change.”

Jean-Paul, without taking his eyes off Napoléon, said, “Pierre, Victor—can you two hear me?”

“Yes,” Pierre said from somewhere in the back.

“I hear you,” Victor said.

“Get my sister out of here.”

After a moment of silence, Pierre said, “You got it.”

“I appreciate it. And Jeanne...” Jean-Paul paused to collect his thoughts. “Thanks for being a great sister.”

Jeanne abruptly snapped out of the trance she had been in. “Brother, no!”

She found herself being grabbed by Pierre and Victor. They dragged her back into the Dämon while her brother and the other soldiers charged Robespierre and his guards. The two groups merged into one distorted cluster, and with the sound of gunfire many of them fell.

She lost sight of her older brother, and began to cry because she knew that was the last time she would ever see him.

2

 

 

 

 

Loire Valley, France, March 20, 1790 (Infini Calendar), 1:00 p.m.

“And that’s what happened. We escaped and went into hiding. Some time later Robespierre had my family’s estate burned to the ground as punishment for supporting the monarchy. Our staff, which had refused to leave even after I warned them it wasn’t safe to stay there, perished trying to put out the fire. They were devoted to the de Fleur family until the very end.”

A tear streamed down Jeanne’s face as she finished recounting the story.

Westerfield said, “As a journalist, I’m supposed to remain neutral when reporting every story. But let me just say you have my deepest sympathies for what you went through. If you don’t mind, though, I do have one more question…”

She downed another shot of her drink. “What is it?”

“Why didn’t you try and get vengeance on Robe Spear? As you say, he destroyed your life. He took everything from you. Anyone else would have sought to make him pay for it.”

She gave a miserable laugh. “For a while, I wondered that myself. And then I realized: It wasn’t him I blamed. It was myself. I couldn’t protect anyone, so I have no right to seek revenge. And even if I did, it wouldn’t bring them back. What’s done is…” She put a hand to her face as fresh tears came forth. “Done.”

He finished writing and returned the materials to his backpack. “It will probably be some time before the story appears in The London Thames. I plan on waiting around for a while to see how events play out. Thank you for your time.”

Westerfield left Jeanne’s shack and began walking back through the woods. He hated leaving her in the sorry state she was in; she didn’t even say anything when he left. However, he decided that telling her story to the world was the best thing he could do for her.

As he left the clearing, he stole one last look back at the shack…

…and walked straight into another person.

As he was pushed aside to the ground, they said angrily, “Out of the way, dummkopf.”

The stranger didn’t even slow down as she made her way towards Jeanne de Fleur’s shack. As Westerfield studied her, he decided that whoever she was, she wasn’t someone to be trifled with.

Are those knives sticking out of her hand? He asked himself incredulously. And what was that accent she chastised me with? It wasn’t French or English. Was it possible she was a friend of Jeanne? What if she’s an assassin? Should I warn Miss Dufleur?

He decided that if the mysterious woman was indeed an assassin, attempting to warn Jeanne would only get him killed. And if that were to happen, there would be no one to tell her story. So, he decided, the best thing to do was get out of there as quickly as possible.

 

***

 

Jeanne continued to sit at her small table, drinking liquor shots and thinking about the unexpected Englishman who had just paid her a visit. Would he really tell her story, or was he in fact a spy for the Assembly? Either way, it didn’t matter. Nothing mattered anymore. Whether she lived or died made no difference whatsoever. She had failed her ultimate duty, so as far as she was concerned, she had no business being alive at this point.

Not for the first time, she thought back to the vision she had when the Minuit Solaire was shot down. The forger, Jacques du Chard, had told her she would have a chance to redeem her ancestor Jeanne d’Arc and break the curse of the God’s Eye by showing the world the power of the human spirit. As far as she could tell, she must have failed. The curse was still with her and she