Lyon was a corpse.
The great silk looms, usually the heartbeat of the city, were silent. No smoke rose from the factory chimneys.
The streets were dark. The gas lamps were cold.
"Supply chain broken," I whispered.
I rode a stolen mare, exhausted and foaming. Marshal Ney rode beside me on the black stallion. Jean Chouan brought up the rear with the pack mule.
"Coal," Ney said. "Without coal, the steam engines die. Without steam, the looms stop. Without work, the people starve."
We passed a bread line. It stretched for three blocks. People were huddled in blankets, their faces gaunt. They didn't even look up as we trotted past. They were too tired to care about three ragged riders.
"We need a ship," I said.
We reached the riverfront. The Rhone River churned, dark and swollen with mountain runoff.
Most of the docks were empty. The barges were tied up, abandoned.
But at the end of the quay, lights burned.
A paddle-steamer.
The nameplate read Le Dauphin.
It was a mail packet boat. Sleek hull. Large side-wheels. Designed for speed, not cargo.
"That's our ride," I said.
"It's guarded," Chouan noted.
Four militia men sat on crates on the deck, playing cards by lantern light. They wore the blue armbands of the local Silk Baron's private army.
"We take it by force?" Ney asked. His hand drifted to his saber.
"No," I said. "We take it by physics."
I dismounted. I patted the mule carrying the Babbage Engine crate.
"Chouan, get the coal sacks from the mule. Ney, create a distraction. I'm going to the engine room."
"What kind of distraction?" Ney asked.
"A loud one," I said.
I slipped into the shadows of the warehouse. I crept along the dock, keeping low.
Ney walked boldly up the gangplank. He looked like a nightmare—sunburned, scarred, with a Marshal's uniform stripped to the waist.
"Evening, citizens!" Ney boomed.
The militia men jumped up, scattering cards. They grabbed their muskets.
"Halt! Who goes there?"
"The inspection committee," Ney growled. He leaned on the railing. "This ship is requisitioned."
While they argued, I dropped silently onto the stern deck.
I moved fast.
I found the hatch to the engine room. I slid down the ladder.
It was hot down here. The boiler was banked, keeping a low pressure to prevent the pipes from freezing.
I opened the firebox door. The embers glowed dull red.
"Feed the beast," I whispered.
Chouan lowered the sacks of high-grade British anthracite coal through the cargo hatch. I caught them.
I shoveled.
One scoop. Two. Three.
The fire roared. The coal was pure. It burned hotter than the cheap French lignite they were used to.
The pressure gauge needle began to climb.
20 PSI. 30 PSI.
"Not enough," I muttered.
I looked at the governor valve. It was a brass mechanism with two spinning balls. Centrifugal force would lift the valve and vent steam if the engine went too fast. A safety feature.
"Safety is a luxury," I said.
I grabbed a wrench.
I unbolted the governor.
I replaced it with a gear from the Babbage Engine. A solid brass cog from the Rothschild computer. It fit perfectly into the linkage.
I tightened the bolts.
Now, there was no vent. No limit.
The pressure hit 60 PSI. The pipes groaned.
I engaged the transmission lever.
CLUNK.
The paddle wheels bit into the water.
The ship lurched forward.
On deck, the militia men screamed. The sudden movement threw them off balance.
"Abandon ship!" one yelled. "The boiler is going to blow!"
They jumped. Splash. Splash.
Ney laughed. He ran to the wheelhouse.
"We are moving!" Ney shouted down the speaking tube.
"Keep her steady!" I yelled back. "I'm giving you everything she's got!"
I shoveled more coal.
The Dauphin shot away from the dock. The mooring lines snapped with a sound like pistol shots.
We hit the main current of the Rhone.
The river fought us. The water was heavy, pushing South. We needed to go North.
But the engine didn't care. With the governor disabled and the British coal burning white-hot, the pistons hammered like a machine gun.
Chug-chug-chug-chug.
The deck vibrated. Dust fell from the ceiling.
"15 knots!" Ney called. "Against the current!"
I watched the gauge. 90 PSI. The red zone started at 80.
"Hold together," I whispered to the iron.
We roared past the city. The starving people on the banks looked up, stunned by the ghost ship tearing upriver in the dark.
"Obstacle ahead!" Ney's voice crackled through the tube.
I ran up to the deck.
A mile upstream, lights flickered on the water.
A chain.
The Silk Baron had strung a massive iron chain across the river to tax barges. It was anchored by two stone towers on the banks.
"We can't stop!" Chouan yelled. "The current will spin us if we slow down!"
"Ramming speed," I said.
"Are you mad?" Ney asked. "It's iron!"
"It's wrought iron," I calculated. "Tensile strength is 40,000 PSI. Our momentum is mass times velocity squared."
I looked at the bow. It was reinforced with steel for breaking ice in winter.
"Hit it in the center," I ordered. "Where the sag is deepest."
Ney gripped the wheel. His knuckles were white.
"Brace for impact!"
The chain loomed out of the dark. Massive links, thick as a man's arm.
We hit.
CRUNCH.
The ship shuddered violently. I was thrown to the deck.
Metal screamed. Sparks flew as the chain bit into the prow.
The ship groaned. The engine howled, fighting the resistance.
For a second, we stopped. The paddle wheels churned foam, but we didn't move.
Then...
PING.
A sound like a gunshot, but louder.
The chain snapped.
The tension released instantly. The broken ends whipped back toward the banks.
CRASH.
One end hit the guard tower on the right bank. It sliced through the wooden supports like a scythe through wheat. The tower collapsed into the river.
The Dauphin surged forward, free.
"We're through!" Ney yelled. He was laughing like a maniac.
I checked the hull. A deep dent in the bow, leaking slightly. But we were floating.
I went back to the engine room.
The pressure was at 100 PSI.
I opened the vent manually to bleed off some steam before the boiler exploded.
HISS.
White clouds filled the room.
I sat down on a coal sack. My hands were shaking.
Adrenaline crash.
I pulled the flask from my pocket. The Golden Ichor.
In the firelight, it glowed softly. It pulsed.
It looked beautiful. And terrifying.
I thought of Colonel Shrapnel in the library. The way his body had twisted. The tumors. The extra eyes.
Power without limits is cancer, I thought.
I looked at the Babbage gear I had jammed into the engine. It had forced the machine to go beyond its design. It had almost destroyed us.
"This is the same thing," I whispered to the flask. "It forces the body to go too fast."
If I gave this to my father... would it cure him? Or would it turn him into something else?
Something efficient. Something that didn't need sleep. Or love.
I uncorked the flask.
I poured a drop onto the coal.
The coal didn't just burn. It bloomed. It turned into a diamond for a split second, then vaporized into pure energy.
"Too strong," I decided.
I took my canteen of water. I poured half of it out.
I carefully poured a small amount of the Ichor into the water. A 10% solution.
The water turned a pale, diluted gold.
"Stabilized," I whispered.
I corked the flask. I hid the pure Ichor deep in my pack.
I would give him the water. It would buy him time. But it wouldn't make him a god.
Because gods don't need sons.
And I still needed a father.
"Keep shoveling, Chouan!" I yelled up the hatch. "Paris is waiting!"