Chapter 18 - Chapter 18: The First Contract

The morning air in Paris was crisp, laced with the damp scent of rain-soaked cobblestones and the faint tang of coal smoke from the city's chimneys. Julien stood outside the Ministry of War, a towering edifice of gray stone that loomed over the bustling street. His satchel, heavy with blueprints and the decoded fragment of the spy's letter, pressed against his side as he adjusted his coat, his heart pounding with the weight of General Leclerc's impending trial. The Mark I's success at the demonstration had humiliated Victor Moreau, but Monsieur Roche's bribe demand and Élise's discovery of a mysterious "patron" behind Moreau's schemes meant the fight was far from won. The tobacco-scented spy was gone, but Julien's soldier instincts—honed in the trenches of his past life—screamed that danger was still circling. Antoine stood beside him, his tailored coat pristine despite the early hour, his grin a mix of nerves and bravado. "Ready to charm the Ministry, genius?" he said, clapping Julien's shoulder. "Leclerc's on your side, but Roche and his cronies will be looking for blood after you slapped Moreau down." Julien nodded, his voice steady despite the storm in his chest. "Let them try. The Mark I's real, and Leclerc knows it. If we get this contract, we're untouchable." He patted the satchel, the patent receipt a shield against Moreau's knockoffs. "But we watch every corner. That 'patron' Élise mentioned isn't playing games." Inside, the Ministry's halls were a labyrinth of polished marble and stern portraits, the air heavy with ink and wax from countless documents. Leclerc met them in a meeting room, its long table cluttered with maps and reports. His gray mustache twitched as he shook Julien's hand, his flinty eyes warm with respect. "Dubois, your rifle's got tongues wagging," he said. "But Roche and his ilk are pushing back. They want a full trial—ten rifles, field conditions, next week. Can you deliver?" Julien's mind raced, Patrick Arnaud's knowledge of production scaling blending with his own grit. "Ten rifles, ready in six days," he said. "They'll fire cleaner than anything Moreau's peddling. But I need a contract to expand the factory—workers, machines, steel. Without it, we can't keep up." Leclerc nodded, but his voice was grim. "You'll get it if the trial holds. But Roche is lobbying against you, and Moreau's spreading rumors your design's stolen. Show me those rifles work, and I'll push the contract through." Before Julien could respond, the door swung open, and Roche strode in, his ruddy face smug, a folder under his arm. The faint scent of rich tobacco trailed him, not the spy's cheap brand but enough to set Julien's nerves on edge. "General Leclerc," Roche said, his voice oily, "I trust we're not rushing into deals with untested boys. Monsieur Moreau's offered a thousand Lebels at half the cost. Reliable, proven rifles." Julien's blood boiled, but he kept his tone light, his playboy charm masking a soldier's steel. "Proven to fail, Monsieur Roche. The Lebel's slow, heavy, and jams in the mud. My Mark I's faster, lighter, and already patented. Or didn't you hear about Moreau's knockoff fiasco?" He smiled, sharp and deliberate, watching Roche's face redden. Leclerc's lips twitched, a spark of amusement in his eyes. "The boy's got a point, Roche. I saw Moreau's rifle jam myself. Dubois, you've got your trial. Deliver, and the contract's yours. Fail, and Moreau gets his shot." Roche's eyes narrowed, but he nodded, his smile forced. "Very well. But the Ministry expects… cooperation. Funding doesn't come free." His gaze lingered on Julien, the bribe demand unspoken but clear. Antoine stepped forward, his voice smooth as silk. "Cooperation? My father, Comte Lefèvre, might find that interesting. He's dining with the Minister tomorrow. Shall I mention your… expectations?" Roche paled, his folder slipping slightly. "No need for that, Lefèvre," he muttered, retreating to the door. "We'll see how the trial goes." As Roche left, Leclerc leaned closer, his voice low. "You've got enemies, Dubois. Watch your back—and your factory. I've heard whispers of sabotage. Keep those rifles safe." Julien's stomach twisted, the spy's letter flashing in his mind. "Understood, General. We'll be ready." But as they left the Ministry, the weight of Roche's threat and the "patron's" shadow settled deeper. He needed to get back to the factory, lock it down, and finish those rifles. Back at the estate by evening, the factory hummed with activity, workers forging parts under Julien's watchful eye. Élise met him at the gate, her eyes bright with news. "I decoded more of the letter," she whispered, slipping him a scrap of paper. "The 'patron' isn't just backing Moreau—they're tied to the Ministry. They want your designs, Julien, and they're planning something big." Julien scanned the paper, his heart racing. The code mentioned a "delivery" to the factory, set for tomorrow night. Sabotage, theft, or worse? He glanced at Antoine, who'd overheard, his face grim. "We need guards," Julien said. "And I want you armed, Antoine. No chances." Antoine nodded, his poet's charm replaced by resolve. "I'm with you. But Julien, this is bigger than we thought. What are we walking into?" Julien's hand brushed the knife in his belt, his past life's losses—Antoine's blood, France's ruin—hardening his voice. "A fight we can't lose. Get ready." As the factory's lights flickered in the dusk, a faint tobacco scent drifted on the wind, gone in an instant. The contract was his, but the enemy was closer than ever, and the trial would be a battlefield.