Podric Moon and the Corsican Tyrant

by Barney Broom

  “Is there somewhere we could go?”

  Entering the house, Cosima was immediately accosted by Amy who dragged her upstairs. It was several minutes before she was able to re-join Podric. Sitting in the conservatory, he was flicking through one of his mother’s art magazines when she came in.

  “I can see why Pa’s lucky to have you as his partner.”

  Podric looked up from his journal.

  “You need a trophy room.”

  Cosima sat down at the kitchen table.

  “I was shown. I didn’t mean to pry.”

  She sipped some tea that Podric had made.

  “This game you’ve created with dad is going to be a success but he feels inadequate as it’s really your work. Because of that, he drinks.”

  Podric took a sip of his own builder’s brew.

  “If Archie’s so screwed up, why doesn’t he go back inside UAR to escape? He has before.”

  “I think it’s because of me.”

  Podric looked at her.

  “Although you programmed me, another of Dad’s hang-ups is he doesn’t know how to put me in. Not properly. He wants to be with me when it happens, but he’s not confident.”

  “Archie not confident?!”

  “If you know my pa, you’ll get what I’m saying…”

  Cosima spoke quietly.

  “I’m not his life coach!”

  “No one’s asking you to be.”

  “But it’s like I’ve got some solution.” Podric stood up.

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “Come and see him.”

  Podric was thoughtful.

  “If I do, I’m not putting you in.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because until he understands programming, really understands it, it wouldn’t be safe.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “UAR for Archie has become an escape prop to his life. Having him blunder about Napoleonic Wars is one thing but having him blunder about in it with you is quite another.”

  “He’s pretty good with games…”

  “Was.”

  “You’re saying he’s out of touch?”

  “Yes, and UAR takes gaming to a height no one ever thought possible. It’s a different league. Its challenges are out of this world.”

  Collecting their mugs, Podric went to the sink and rinsed them.

  “He wanted me to profile someone. I’ll come over and do that sometime.”

  ***

  Sitting at the lab bench, Podric profiled Kaliska Monroe into Ultimate Alternative Reality. Unsure when he might be returning to the Lighthouse, Podric took the opportunity of updating several UAR files. It was while he was doing this that he heard the lift. Half a minute later, Archie stood in the lab doorway. He looked dreadful – tired and haggard.

  “Don’t tell me what I look like.”

  Finishing his work, Podric turned to him and pushed the envelope Archie had given him containing Kaliska’s details along the bench.

  “The profile you wanted.”

  “Thank you.”

  Archie sat down on the other stool.

  “Aren’t you going to ask why I’m not boringly aggressive?”

  “Why are you not boringly aggressive?”

  Archie laughed.

  “Shit. Because I’ve come to learn about UAR, Podric.”

  “You know a lot about UAR. You helped create it.”

  “Ha! I was pissed half the time – either because of alcohol or you; still am, but I’ve got to master it.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if I don’t, I’ll die.”

  24

  Deceptions and Disguises

  Napoleon was in a rage. Stomping about the empty ballroom that served as his Boulogne invasion office, he railed at the incompetence of the rehearsal. Standing silently in front of him, Admiral Magon of the navy bore the brunt of Bonaparte’s onslaught. Other senior army officers present included Marshall Soult and General Bertrand. The emperor’s Chief of Police, Joseph Fouché, was also in attendance.

  Bonaparte was exhausted having spent the previous thirty–six hours desperately trying to salvage anything he could from the recent debacle. Worn out from his efforts and rantings, he slumped into a chair. Dismissing the military men, Napoleon indicated Fouché to stay behind.

  “These damned shallops. The sea is so unpredictable – winds, tides… Such difficulties don’t exist for generals. Yet Perfidious Albion, each day I wonder. Do I need to conquer her or will I rue a missed opportunity…?”

  “I wouldn’t presume to understand your strategy, emperor.”

  Fouché was circumspect. Napoleon sipped some wine.

  “I am surrounded by incompetence. My forces are complete, yet they fail me. They blame everything but themselves and I am compelled to oversee everything.”

  “As your chief of police, emperor, I cannot comment on the efficacy of your military commanders but forces other than these are at work and they are intent on disruption.”

  “Spies, Fouché. You always talk to me of spies, saboteurs and espionage!”

  Fouché gave a slight bow.

  “That is because your plans are threatened by such people. I have explained how the town is alive with agents and informers. They have been determined in their efforts to discover details of the invasion.”

  Napoleon fiddled with some documents but made no comment. Fouché continued, “You will also be aware that gathering information takes time – what is accurate and what is misinformation. However, my people have been busy and I am pleased to tell you that we have unearthed the senior British agent in Boulogne.”

  “What information has been compromised?”

  “Naval operations and the six-month plan.”

  Napoleon scratched his wrist.

  “How was this possible?”

  “The emperor will know of Admiral Bruix’s collapse…”

  “The idiot who put my fleet to sea.”

  Inspecting his silver-topped cane, Fouché sat back.

  “The admiral is seriously ill, probably dying, and his wife was sent for. Arriving from Paris two nights ago, the woman went straight to the admiral’s side. Unfortunately, Bruix was in the habit of taking confidential papers home with him and whilst she was in his chamber, they were stolen.”

  “By his wife? Fouché, your imagination surpasses itself.”

  “By a beautiful British agent who supplanted his wife.”

  “Where is this agent now?”

  “Here.”

  “You have questioned her?”

  “An initial interrogation has been conducted.”

  “And compromising documents have been found?”

  “Unfortunately, she had already passed them on.”

  “How so and to whom?”

  “I will know that shortly.”

  “Ha. So as of this moment, Fouché, you have no proof the woman is an agent at all.”

  “The real Madame Bruix arrived in Boulogne this morning.”

  Napoleon rubbed his wrist again.

  “That in itself doesn’t prove the imposter is a spy.”

  Bonaparte began studying a file.

  “I will see this highly placed agent. Have her brought in.”

  “You wish me to remain for the interview?”

  Napoleon didn’t look up from his papers.

  “I do not.”

  His face impassive, Fouché left the room.

  The irritation on Napoleon’s left wrist caused him to inspect it. The carpal joint bore a small red spot where the microchip had been shot under the epidermis. Viewing the tiny grey pellet, just visible when the skin was stretched, accelerated Bonaparte’s thoughts. He began to pace the room.

  There wa
s a knock at the door and Kaliska Monroe was ushered in. Two guards were in attendance. Napoleon couldn’t help but admire her beauty.

  “Madame, be seated.”

  Napoleon indicated a chair in front of his large desk and then turned to the guards.

  “You may leave us.”

  The two men eyed each other. One of them thought to remonstrate but decided against it and they left. The doors closed behind them. Napoleon eyed Kaliska.

  “Were you his wife, Admiral Bruix, would indeed be a fortunate man.”

  “So fortunate he will be dead in a few hours.”

  “With the real Madame Bruix now arrived from Paris, at his bedside.”

  Napoleon walked over to French windows.

  “You are accused of being a spy. Do you have anything to say?”

  “You will understand my predicament.”

  Napoleon turned, bemused.

  “How so?”

  “Because since you have taken power, you have been in constant motion. Ever at war expanding France’s horizons, you cannot stop for fear that if you do, others will destroy you. Not only do the allies range against your armies, but those within your own country.”

  “A pretty speech, though I fail to see what comparison you might make.”

  Kaliska Monroe sat forward.

  “Emperor, although you are brilliant, you are a man. Whether I am a spy or I am not, a woman – particularly an intelligent woman – has to learn to live by her wits. It is a constant. She can never rest.”

  This philosophy appealed to Napoleon, but he wasn’t deflected.

  “You will be tried.”

  “So, sir, will you.”

  A noise outside in the corridor disturbed their riposte. Seconds later, Quartermaster Lumière aka Archie Light burst through the doors followed by several soldiers. Before he could be restrained, the games creator walked over to Bonaparte and took hold of his left wrist.

  “Ah, the games man. I’ve been waiting for one of you to arrive.”

  Removing his arm from Archie’s grip, Napoleon ran his right index finger over the microchip.

  “I wish Podric had transferred the composant to my right.”

  Archie looked quizzical.

  “I am left-handed!”

  The soldiers parted as Joseph Fouché appeared.

  “You’re familiar with this quartermaster, emperor?”

  “Oh yes, quite familiar. You may leave us.”

  This time it was Fouché who considered protesting, but he too accepted Napoleon’s order.

  Left to themselves, the three people in the room made a picture – Kaliska enigmatic, the two men foes. Napoleon was the first to speak.

  “This woman passed my plans to you. Where are they?”

  “On their way to England.”

  Napoleon closed on Archie.

  “You are supposed to be a French naval quartier-maître.”

  Kaliska stood up.

  “As I advised – ‘those within your own country’. You will excuse me. It has been… interesting.”

  Making a brief curtsy, she left the room.

  “I presume she is a part of my game.”

  “As I advised, I wrote it.”

  “But on my existence.”

  Archie actually laughed.

  “She is profiled.”

  “Why did you do that?”

  “Because I wanted to see how she was in this world.”

  “Ah, a fantasist. But she does not play.”

  “Correct. Being profiled is different to being programmed as you are.”

  Archie watched Napoleon work his forefinger over his microchipped wrist.

  “You wish to play?”

  “Where is Podric?”

  “At school, I hope.”

  “You play your réalité alternative with him?”

  “So far, we haven’t much. We’ve preferred the adventures inside UAR to unfold. That itself has given us the ultimate game.”

  Napoleon considered.

  “Alluring but escapist. One must be victorious!”

  Napoleon was concentrating. His finger moved with increasing urgency around the area where the tiny processor was buried under his skin.

  “Look, you depress to activate.”

  Napoleon abruptly started viewing the top of his eyes.

  “Then moving the cursor…”

  Archie’s fingers manoeuvred Napoleon’s.

  “You click ‘Control’, then ‘Options’ – but Podric would have explained this.”

  Napoleon appeared deeply preoccupied. UAR could be challenging – even for a genius.

  25

  Whose Game is it Anyway?

  Bored and forbidden to smoke, Cosima stepped out of the house into the night. Taking a packet of cigarettes from an inside pocket of her designer tracksuit, she lit the king-sized filter tip and inhaled.

  Inspecting the skin where the microchip had been inserted from the glow of her cigarette, the gunned impregnation still throbbed. But she was excited. Ever since she was told about UAR, Cosima’s imagination had been fired. In a very different place emotionally these recent weeks, her attitude had developed into a cool confidence. A greater belief in herself had stimulated a desire for adventure.

  Finishing her smoke, Cosima looked up at the Lighthouse. Was there a tiny light at its top? Keen to see her father if he was around, she ambled towards the tower. The door was unlocked and entering the building, she pressed for the lift. Stepping out into the darkened den, a glimmer of light was just visible at its far end. Hearing voices, Cosima hadn’t tried to be quiet, but now she crossed the room silently.

  Looking down the stairwell into the lab, she could just see her father and Podric deep in conversation.

  “You were right about Engage and Release. It couldn’t be simpler.”

  Archie sat back tapping his wrist.

  “But he says he’s at a disadvantage. Something to do with being left-handed. Apparently, he told you.”

  Working at a PC, Podric finessed some data.

  “For all his genius, he’s likely not to be good at the game. After all, he’s got no one to play against except us and we’re outside off–line right now.”

  “So, can he be outside?”

  “He doesn’t know how, unless you told him.”

  “Not me, but he’s Napoleon.”

  Archie laughed. Finishing his adjustments, Podric stretched.

  “On the other hand, what’s driving him is to beat us at our own game. That’s his motivation. You left him at Boulogne?”

  “Trying to get into UAR. Showing him stuff you had, he could be anywhere now.”

  Archie stood up.

  “Doesn’t matter. We can always lock up on him. That was something else that’s sorted. Now we can find anyone programmed instantly.”

  Archie was thoughtful.

  “I’m getting more of a grasp on this now, Podric – programming and what have you.”

  “Good.”

  “And practice makes perfect.”

  He smiled and left the room. Seconds later, Podric heard his name called and setting the computer system to Standby, went through to the darkened den. Handing Podric a beer, Archie looked out of the window. A fleeting shadow left the building heading for the house. Archie was in no doubt who it was.

  “Do you think she heard us?

  “Why is that important?”

  “Your programming her—”

  “Against my better judgement!”

  “Alright, yes. But now she is, she’ll be impatient.”

  “How impatient?”

  Archie looked at Podric.

  “Ha. Be seeing you then.”

  Leaving the Lighthouse to go home, Podric considered his part
ner. Pleased that he was getting the hang of alternative reality, if what Archie said about his daughter was true and that he would go into UAR to keep an eye on her, he’d need every micron of his newfound skills. In Podric’s mind, where UAR was concerned he remained the master, and Archie still the pupil.

  ***

  “Where am I now?”

  Having stopped his coach, Napoleon looked out across Russia’s frozen wastes.

  “Cursed reality.”

  In spite of the cold, Napoleon took off his glove and rubbed his left wrist.

  “You will return inside my game, Podric Moon. You will come and you will challenge me and when you do, I will destroy you.”

  ***

  Snow was blizzarding as the carriage lurched along the bleak track in the rapidly fading twilight. It had no escort and the driver worked the horses hard to keep the vehicle moving. Inside, three men sat huddled against the cold. On the seat facing forward, the eldest, Polish Prince Józef Poniatowski, lay covered in rugs, seriously wounded. The two men opposite shivered in their cloaks.

  Struggling over an incline, the coach finally rolled downhill towards an inn. Minutes later it rattled into a yard.

  “Not a moment too soon. We’d better find a doctor.”

  The horses came to an exhausted stop, but no one came to help.

  “You’ll be joking, of course. There’ll be no doctor here. Only medicine they’ll have in this god-forsaken hole is vodka. If we’re lucky.”

  Alighting, the aide stamped his feet in an attempt to warm them. “Whatever possessed the Emperor to conquer such a barren land?”

  “The same reason that compels the Emperor to conquer anything.”

  “Well, he can have this frozen dump.”

  “Hmph. Let’s get the prince inside before we all freeze. Come, give me a hand.”

  The two men carried their wounded commanding officer into the rudimentary building.

  A desultory fire was doing little to heat the place except fill it with acrid smoke. The two officers gagged as they set Poniatowski down in front of its pathetic flames.

  In contrast to the surroundings, the atmosphere was lively – the clamjamphrie of serfs, vagabonds and brigands were having their spirits lifted by the antics of a giant wolfhound.

  Making the prince as comfortable as they could, the first of his two bearers turned back to close the door when he was leaped on by the enormous animal. Letting out an oath, the man pushed Dog aside only to be beset by a further onslaught of rumbustious affection.