Why Are You Showing Up Here?
June 3, 1778, France, Tuileries Palace, king's office.
I was crushed beneath the calamity I had summoned myself. "Save me." Crushed beneath the calamity called paperwork.
"There's no helping it, Your Majesty. We urgently hired Enlightenment thinkers, lawyers, and philosophers, but it will take them several months to get up to speed. As they do, your workload will decrease accordingly."
"Even so, this is too much..." From public works payroll statements to military audit reports. In Korean terms, it was a mix of top-level presidential duties and ninth-grade clerical work. Especially the diplomatic documents—all of them came straight to me unfiltered. At least I had loyalists like Terray, a former low-ranking noble...
"No, they know damn well how busy I am—why are they sending so many diplomatic papers? Do those lunatics in Austria still think France is their ally?"
"It's a marriage alliance in name, is it not?"
Marie Antoinette, that is. Ever since the second child, we'd been sleeping in separate rooms. After the state of emergency, she'd fled to a villa in Versailles Palace. Ah, I want a divorce.
"For diplomatic documents: unless it's war or something France gains from, pad them with vague diplomatic rhetoric and express intent to hold off."
"That should make for suitable on-the-job training for the new diplomats."
I shuffled through the papers, resorting them by priority.
"From now on, do a first sort by importance. The current classification is too inefficient."
"I'll see to it."
The old system sorted by type: military with military, diplomacy with diplomacy. The problem was the jumble—right after "Artillery Squad Meal Expense Approval" might come "Countermeasures Against British Naval Blockade." Urgent and important matters first, then batch the trivia. This mess made even doable things impossible.
"Huh? Why is this under agriculture?"
This one was about delays in building a compost fermentation plant.
"Isn't a compost fermentation plant agriculture?"
"Count it as construction. Everywhere else builds them that way. Let me see..."
There was some back-and-forth, but in summary, it was a simple complaint: "Your Majesty! Those guys are slacking off and playing around!" A snitch report.
"Fire them?"
"No. That was the plan all along. We only need the steel mill. I never intended to finish these."
No reinforced steel bars yet, after all.
"Then we'll cut their pay."
"That should suffice."
Even booming nations need a setback now and then. Toppling one factory due to shoddy work ought to do it.
"How goes the National Intelligence Agency mission?"
"Sabotage operations against Britain are proceeding smoothly. The livestock theft to stir unrest has succeeded."
"You didn't miss the most important part, right? Only diseased cows?"
"Yes. As Your Majesty predicted, the populace is unsettled, but the British officials dismissed the complaints, claiming they were just sick animals anyway."
"Good."
Officially, that's the excuse. With British cows on hand, we extract the pus, of course? The previous king died of smallpox—no issue researching it. In this era, smallpox was deadlier than cancer.
"However, a problem has arisen."
Problem? Surely not actual smallpox?
"An unidentified man stowed away on a ship stealing diseased cows and illegally entered France. National Intelligence Agency agents have detained him at Brest naval base for now."
"The Agency has work to do. Hand him over to the local police near Brest for identification, then toss him in Les Innocents Cemetery—no, the Bastille prison."
Not a big deal. Probably the cow owner. British reputation in this era was poor—centuries of colonial sins from the Age of Exploration. Especially given relations, a Frenchman spotting a Brit might lynch him on the spot.
"I'm curious who he is. Send him straight to the Bastille when he arrives."
Before that, sort these papers...
June 27, 1778, France, Bastille prison.
Nearly a month, and I truly thought I'd die. Thank God for the Enlightenment thinkers and scholars with their work ethic; another week of this, and I'd have keeled over from overwork. Next state of emergency, replace purge targets first, then declare it. I rushed because they'd rally if replaced, but I should've handled the handover...
-Unjust!
-Louis, you bastard!
-Heretic!
The moment I entered the Bastille, a barrage of abuse flew at me. Ugh, losers of the era.
"This is the illegal immigrant."
"We'll confirm your identity. Your name is Edward... huh? Jenner?"
"Yes, Your Majesty. I'm just a simple country doctor from England!"
No, why is Jenner here?
"I tried to catch the cattle thieves from my village and ended up here. Please show mercy!"
We did steal British cows for the pus, but I didn't expect the father of vaccination himself?
"Jenner—no, Doctor Jenner."
"Just Jenner. I haven't earned a medical doctorate yet."
"Very well, Jenner. Why risk illegal entry to catch cow thieves?"
This I had to verify. How far had his cowpox research gone? He might not even know about cowpox yet.
"Well... the officials said even if thieves came, the cows were diseased..."
Hiding something.
"Something about the cows piqued your interest, I take it?"
"Urk."
Especially the milkmaids' hands.
"Tell me everything. Prove you're more than a mere illegal immigrant, and I'll release you. Fail, and I'll deem you a British spy."
"..."
Hm, even after inventing vaccination, he was ignored for a while, from what I recall. Time for shock therapy.
"Guards! Too many on death row. When are the executions?"
"I'll talk! I was only interested in the cows!"
Sounds odd.
"Cow milk? I have no interest in your tastes..."
"No—the milkmaids milking them never got smallpox!"
There we go.
"That's no reason for illegal entry. Still, I've heard your case; release him from confinement. Warden, clean him up and bring him to my office tomorrow."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
-Boo!
-Murderer!
"Noisy lot. Why are they like this?"
"Your Majesty's death penalty declaration seems to have lit the fuse."
Fair enough—their crimes were massive tax evasion over a thousand gold coins, hoarding, state embezzlement. Death-worthy.
"Hang five as an example. Or better—use that device Guillotin proposed?"
Come to France, see the specialty.
"The guillotine? The executioners are already practicing. We'll carry out the executions tomorrow."
"Excellent."
As I left the Bastille, the warden called the death row inmates.
-We now announce the condemned!
Montmorency! Rohan!
Five a week should do.
-Polignac! Noailles!
Too many executions, and it's iron-fisted tyranny, losing public support; too few, and they think you're soft, same result.
-Lavoisier! These five execute tomorrow!
Hm? Familiar name. Lavoisier?
-Montmorency! Crimes: hoarding! Plundering the people! State embezzlement!
Rohan, Polignac, Noailles—same!
No. Not from history books—some other book.
-Lavoisier! Crimes: plundering the people! Treasury embezzlement!
I stopped, deep in thought. That nagging familiarity was too frustrating. Letting Lavoisier go felt like a loss.
-I'm innocent!
-Shut up! Know how much tax you squeezed from the people?!
-It was for the greater good!
-Smashing jewels—what greater good!
-Ignoramuses! Do you even know what oxygen is?!
"Ah, I remember now."
I whispered to the warden. "Warden, bring that death row inmate Lavoisier to my office with Jenner. I have questions."
"Pardon? Ah, yes, as you command."
Close call. Middle school science textbook—now it clicks. Whoever he is, he's important.
June 28, 1778, Tuileries Palace, king's office.
*Schwick*
*Roooar!!!!*
"They're enjoying it."
"It's the moment absolute evil meets justice."
Four of yesterday's condemned were executed. The execution grounds were far from the palace, yet the crowd's roar vibrated through.
"So, Jenner, Lavoisier. Do you know why I summoned you?"
Science's advancement, obviously.
"I live only to serve Your Majesty's will."
"Overwhelmed by Your Majesty's grace."
Ah, these two won't do.
"Lavoisier, to you first. How far would you go to avoid death? Boast your talents to me."
Lavoisier rolled his eyes briefly, then orated nobly.
"I know how to collect taxes efficiently."
"Continue."
Taxes, huh. No tax offices, laws a mess. Tax farming: sell collection rights to contractors who fleeced the people.
"Build walls at city gates and charge entrants."
What? Tariffs? Trump?
Jenner beside him startled, staring at Lavoisier.
"Jenner, your thoughts?"
How would 18th-century folk view tariffs?
"I can guess why this man was condemned."
Yes, tariffs were grave then—basically tolls. With tax farmers' brutality... bottlenecks would be hell.
"Lavoisier seems indifferent to life. Send him to the scaffold."
"Your Majesty! Besides taxes, I excel at chemistry—no, alchemy!"
Scientist confirmed.
"Any achievements? I'm no alchemist. Turning lead to gold?"
Typical era alchemy.
"Water! I can make water. Combine oxygen and hydrogen... Ah, oxygen isn't phlogiston—it's the combustible in air, and..."
H2O—oxygen. Even a lit major like me knows. Ah, water.
"Enough. Demonstrate."
No need to see it, but theater's necessary.
"Terray, prepare Lavoisier's requested facilities, then inform me. I'll come watch."
A man in science textbooks will show something once equipped.