The War Room was covered in maps. But today, they weren't maps of battlefields. They were maps of hills.
"It's too slow," I said, slamming a report onto the table. "The Confessor crossed the border on Tuesday. We heard about it on Friday. By the time the message arrived, he was already in Paris trying to strangle the Foreign Minister."
Napoleon picked up the report. "Horses have limits, Alex. Unless you have winged messengers, information travels at the speed of a gallop."
"Then we stop using horses," I said.
I pulled a large sheet of paper from my portfolio. It was a technical drawing.
A tower. On top of the tower was a vertical pole with a pivoting crossbar. At the ends of the crossbar were two smaller, pivoting arms.
"What is this?" Napoleon asked. "A scarecrow?"
"A semaphore," I said. "The Chappe Telegraph."
I pointed to the arms.
"These arms can move into 196 different positions. Each position represents a code. A letter. A word. A phrase."
I traced a line on the map from Paris to Lille.
"We build towers on hilltops, ten miles apart. Each tower has a telescope. When the first tower moves its arms, the second tower copies it. Then the third. Then the fourth."
"Like a signal fire," Napoleon said.
"Signal fires only say 'Danger' or 'All Clear'," I corrected. "This can say 'Send 5,000 boots to Lyon' or 'Arrest the priest in the red hat'."
I looked at him.
"It transmits information at three hundred miles per hour. A message from Paris reaches the Mediterranean in twenty minutes."
Napoleon stared at the drawing. He was a general. He understood the value of speed better than anyone.
"It's telepathy," he whispered.
"It's technology," I said. "And I want the first line built to Lyon by next week."
The construction began immediately.
It was a military operation. The Corps of Engineers swarmed the hillsides of France. Trees were felled. Stone towers rose like mushrooms after rain.
But progress was not peaceful.
In the village of Saint-Flour, a mob of peasants surrounded the new tower.
"It's a devil's totem!" the village priest screamed, pointing at the black arms against the sky. "It talks to demons!"
"Burn it!" the mob shouted. They raised torches.
CRACK.
A gunshot echoed from the tower.
A sniper, perched on the scaffolding, cycled the bolt of his rifle. He had fired a warning shot into the dirt.
"Go home!" the sergeant shouted from the roof. "This is property of the State! Interfere and you will be shot!"
The peasants hesitated. They looked at the priest. They looked at the rifles.
They went home.
Napoleon had given the order: Protect the Network at all costs. He understood that this web of towers was more valuable than a fortress. A fortress protects a city. The Network protects the mind of the State.
One week later. The roof of the Louvre.
The wind whipped my coat around my legs. The Central Station was a hive of activity. Operators pulled heavy levers, swinging the massive black arms above our heads. Clack. Clack. Clack.
I stood by the control desk with Fouché.
"The line to Lyon is open," the operator reported. "Visibility is clear."
"Send the test message," I ordered.
"What message?"
I pulled a small book from my pocket. It wasn't a dictionary. It was a codebook.
"We don't send French," I said to Fouché. "If the rebels capture a tower, they can read the signals. We need encryption."
I had adapted a simplified RSA algorithm. It wasn't perfect—I couldn't do the complex math in my head—but it was unbreakable by 18th-century standards.
"Send this," I said, handing a slip of paper to the operator.
Code 45-99-12-Alpha.
The operator looked confused, but he pulled the levers.
Above us, the arms swung into a strange, jagged shape.
I looked through the telescope pointed south.
Ten miles away, on the hill of Montlhéry, a tiny black shape shifted. The second tower was repeating the signal.
"It's moving," Fouché said, watching through his own glass. "It's rippling across the country."
"Like a nerve impulse," I said.
We waited.
Ten minutes.
Fifteen minutes.
"Sir!" The operator shouted. "Incoming signal from Lyon!"
I rushed to the eyepiece.
The Montlhéry tower was moving again.
The operator decoded the signals as they came in.
Message Received.
Report:
Agent 44 reports Refractory Priest carrying gunpowder entered Lyon at dawn.
Target identified.
Awaiting orders.
Fouché looked at the paper. His pale face flushed with excitement.
"That priest entered Lyon this morning," Fouché whispered. "In the old world, we wouldn't know for a week. By then, the bomb would have exploded."
"Send the reply," I ordered.
Execute Order 66. (A grim joke for myself. Nobody else got the reference). Arrest target. Secure gunpowder.
The levers clacked. The message flew south.
Lyon. Thirty minutes later.
Father Jacques walked nervously toward the arsenal. Under his cassock, he carried a keg of powder.
He checked his watch. He was on schedule. The government in Paris was deaf and blind. They wouldn't know about this explosion until the smoke cleared.
"Halt!"
Father Jacques froze.
Ten policemen emerged from the alleyway. They had their pistols drawn.
"Father Jacques," the police captain said. "You are under arrest for treason."
"How?" the priest stammered. "I only arrived an hour ago! How could you know?"
The captain pointed to the hill overlooking the city.
A black tower stood against the sky. Its arms were frozen in a peculiar shape.
"The sky talks, Father," the captain said. "And it speaks very fast."
Somewhere in the Alps.
The Watchmaker stood on a ridge, looking through a brass telescope.
He watched the semaphore tower in the valley below. Clack. Clack.
He lowered the telescope.
He pulled out his pocket watch. The gears whirred backward.
"He is accelerating again," the Watchmaker whispered to the wind. "He is shrinking the world."
He turned to the silent figure standing next to him. The Confessor.
"The Accountant has built a nervous system," the Watchmaker said. "He can see us. He can react to us."
The Confessor touched the wire rosary at his belt. He looked frustrated.
"We cannot fight him with speed," the Watchmaker continued. "He owns the speed now. We must fight him with chaos."
He opened the back of his watch. He adjusted a tiny, delicate spring.
"The Telegraph relies on line of sight. It relies on order."
He looked up at the sky. Dark clouds were gathering.
"We will bring the storm," he said. "And in the fog, the eyes are useless."
The Louvre Roof.
"Target neutralized," the operator read. "Gunpowder secured."
I let out a breath I didn't know I was holding.
"We got him," I said.
Fouché looked at the tower with something approaching reverence.
"You have changed the game, Alex. Secrets are no longer safe. Distance is no longer a shield."
"It's the Internet," I murmured. "Version 1.0."
I leaned against the parapet. My chest ached. The excitement had spiked my heart rate again.
I coughed into my sleeve. I felt the wet warmth of blood.
I hid it quickly.
"We have the eyes," I said. "Now we can hunt the Wolf."
I looked out over the city of Paris. It looked small now. Manageable.
"Expand the network," I ordered. "To the Rhine. To the coast. To Italy."
"That will cost millions," Fouché noted.
"Information is the only currency that matters," I said.
I turned to leave.
"The Confessor is still out there. But now, every time he moves, I'll know."
I walked down the stairs, leaving the clacking arms behind me.
I had built the machine. Now I just had to live long enough to use it.