There were times when Marc Vergnières liked reporting to the First Consul. And then, there were times like this one. But at least, Bonaparte did not behave like some of the classical tyrants, believing in killing the messenger. He got angry if you, you personally rather than someone else, got things wrong. But he understood the virtue of accurate and timely reports, even unpleasant ones.
“So, the disabled Gate is now unlocked. Despite our tinkerers’ assurances. Those African designs were flawed.”
Vergnières studiously avoided mentioning that it was the French savants who altered the original devices into that new “flawed” form. Or that they’d hastily used them before full tests could be conducted.
“Spy reports indicate that some people who were caught in the Gate… shutdown got some kind of ability to affect and restart it.”
Upon hearing this, Napoleon perked.
“Caught?”
“I have only partial reports and am collating as our various spies try to find more details. But apparently, a group of British citizens were caught by the Gate’s fluctuations as it was shutting down and ended up thrown at random in the Labyrinth with some… Milestone of an exotic form. Something that gives them additional potential, and faster levels and other things, although the details are hazy. And apparently, they could restart the Gate in some way, even if they died from it.”
“Not permanently, you mean.”
“No, of course not. But those people can restart a Gate. At least from the Labyrinth side, but…”
“But maybe from the British side as well. And it wouldn’t matter. If they can purchase passage, they can get back to the Labyrinth. The Americans will sell that if no one else would. Or if we bring that to bear on a different target, they’ll know the British Empire can help them.”
Vergnières waited, but the Consul made a dismissive gesture. He bowed, turned, and left the room without further talk.
Napoleon made a frowning face once his spymaster was gone.
“You know I can see you. Maybe that bureaucrat can’t really notice you if you don’t want him to, but me?”
Deschanel stepped from the corner of the room where he’d lounged, inconspicuous. He slapped his fist to his shoulder, in acknowledgement of his master’s notice.
“You’ll have to tell me how you did it. The British are proud of their London Tower. They don’t have many Professionals brought to prison, but they’re not stupid.”
Jacques smile grew larger.
“Those facilities are… adequate, but a bit too old. They could nearly contain a tier-seven Professional if one were naked.”
“And you were not? Come on Jacques.”
“Well, I might have cheated a bit. When you know they’re going to throw a full team at you, you get prepared.”
Napoleon shook his head.
“You will always surprise me, Jacques. Even since that day when we went into the Labyrinth. Seriously. That’s one hell of a trick.”
Deschanel threw his hands in the air in mock acknowledgement.
“As long as I surprise people, they fail.”
“Do not surprise me too much, then.”
“Of course not,” Jacques said.
“Did you hear that one? People snatched by the Gate and thrown in the middle of nowhere in the Labyrinth.”
At that, Deschanel’s face took a more serious expression.
“The Gardener.”
“Nobody’s ever found him or the wife. Not a body, not a hint they ever were at the Plaza.”
“And I was caught and elevated not even fifteen minutes after the Gate opened,” Jacques Deschanel said. “Do you think it’s… related?”
“It might have been eighteen years, but we may have a clue about what happened then. What it’s good for, I do not know. But I think we should get serious about that old mystery. If there’s a possibility of there being a French Gate opener somewhere, we might have a need for him. Or them,” Napoleon Bonaparte said.
