There Is No Guillotine in My Dictionary

March 29, 1781. I-Myeonghun had returned.

The soldiers at the customs barrier spotted him in the carriage and, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠as always, waved him through into Paris without so much as a pat-down. The moment he entered the city, I summoned him to my office.

He didn't seem particularly thrilled to see me after a year apart; instead, he was tapping his heels against the floor, fidgeting like a bored child.

"So, was the fresh air outside to your liking?"

"Yes, Your Majesty. Quite delectable, in fact."

I-Myeonghun answered with a smile, but no amount of grinning could hide the deep-seated resentment bubbling up from within.

"What in the world possessed you?"

"Pardon?"

"I know everything you've done."

I-Myeonghun, you think your little schemes are something I haven't seen before? Back in the modern world, there were far craftier operators than you.

"It was nothing major. Just a minor sacrifice needed to purge the extreme right-wing elements within France."

"Extreme right-wing, eh? You mean the Girondins?"

"Could be. Or maybe not."

He's talking about me.

"I-Myeonghun. Oh, I-Myeonghun. You've got it all wrong."

"I've got ears, Your Majesty. After imposing martial law and a praetorian coup to seize dictatorial power, you should expect some backlash."

"Haha, that's a good one."

Truly amusing.

"Then let me ask you this, court jester I-Myeonghun: if the extreme right is here, where did the left go?"

"Nowhere, I suppose? There's no such thing as a progressive party in this era anyway. Oops, my mistake. Not that you'd believe me even if I said I came from the future."

STEM types are all the same.

"I-Myeonghun, that's exactly where you're mistaken."

Not just in thinking you're the only modern soul here—

"I'm the left, you fool. A radical leftist, at that."

Right or left—it's all relative to the era. By this timeline's standards, I transcended leftism altogether. I'd dismantled entrenched privileges and revolutionized everything from agriculture to ironworking and commerce.

"A king who's leftist? That doesn't compute."

"And that's your mistake."

This was the Enlightenment era, through and through. Everyone in this time needed my guidance—save for a tiny elite of intellectuals. The rest were ignorant masses who never truly thought.

Most Enlightenment thinkers did ponder deeply, but beyond them, they were all clay for me to mold. Modern souls were no different.

Who else would teach them if not I? I was the enlightened despot. Enlightened Despotism. This dictatorial power was granted to me by the French people themselves—not some god—to enlighten the masses.

"If I were the extreme right—"

I'd have raised taxes on the Third Estate. Let the 24.5 million suffer for the convenience of my 500,000 privileged kin. I'd have muddled through deficits with plain old mercantilism. Or botched some half-baked chemistry project from my schoolboy knowledge. The first Estates-General would've ended in deadlock. I'd have brushed off complaints from wounded veterans with talk of honor. And I never would've killed my cousin.

"Above all, if I were extreme right, I wouldn't have declared martial law. I'd have sacrificed the few for the many and sold it as a necessary purge, deceiving everyone."

I'd deceived myself to ease my shame, but never others. At least with them, even if it embarrassed me, I called it martial law plain and true.

"I-Myeonghun. Do you understand the meaning of martial law?"

"Of course. The military replaces the police, military justice supplants civil law, assemblies dissolve, and press freedom vanishes. What, are you going to claim it was to protect liberal constitutional order?"

Oh, I-Myeonghun.

Where was liberty, constitution, or order in 18th-century France? There was no liberty, no constitution, no order. Liberty was the whim of the privileged, their will was the constitution, their fancy the order. I'd merely replaced "them" with "me." Now, liberty in France was guaranteed by my grace, my word was the constitution, and I was the order.

"Martial law combines ''—vigilance—and ''—strictness. To vigilantly enforce strictness. I-Myeonghun, do you know what exactly I was vigilant against when I declared it?"

"The nobility and clergy?"

"Then you must know the Ancien Régime was irrational."

"Obviously."

I-Myeonghun was nothing if not consistent. Not that I'd ever planned to persuade him.

"I-Myeonghun, I don't know your exact worldview. But I guarantee you this: as long as I'm here, France will never fall. While I live, no one will dare raise the tail of rebellion or corruption."

"The moment they do, you'll kill them all, right? I think I know exactly what kind of worldview Your Majesty holds."

"That's why I used the term 'martial law.' Posterity will understand precisely why I chose 'martial law' over 'purge.'"

Still, having I-Myeonghun around was a blessing. I wasn't wrong.

April 1, 1781, Paris, Council Chamber.

The Foreign Minister read the Austrian declaration of war.

Quite the lengthy casus belli.

"Your Majesty, the Austrian ambassador delivered this declaration and immediately withdrew from the embassy. The others have done the same. In effect, France is now at war with the entirety of the Holy Roman Empire. Britain hasn't committed yet—likely waiting to drive up their price before intervening."

The Foreign Minister summarized France's situation.

"Your Majesty, enemy invasion is all but confirmed for May 1. Our available naval forces: 93 ships of the line, 28 of which are top-tier vessels refitted in the British style. Mostly 74-gun ships, so firepower is no ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠issue. 130 frigates; if we cancel operations and fully mobilize privateers under French influence, we can muster up to 1,900 vessels. However, most of the Holy Roman Empire's states are landlocked, rendering their navy irrelevant."

The Navy Minister and Atlantic Admiral reported calmly.

"The army stands at 210,000 standing troops. Since 1778, we've absorbed 70,000 unemployed into service. Of the 210,000, 85,000 are elite veterans of the American War of Independence, mostly garrisoned near Marseille. 6,000 of them maintain order in Savoy and Nice. We have 8,000 volunteers in America, including 2,000 elites. Swiss mercenaries: 21,000 hired. The rest are regular soldiers, neither green nor elite."

The Army Minister followed.

"Armaments and ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠supplies are no problem. Denmark, Sweden, and minor Mediterranean states have declared strict neutrality for this war."

The Comptroller-General continued.

"Sardinia, Genoa, and other states heavily under our influence have swiftly joined the Pan-European Order Defense Alliance. The Continental Congress supports France in words only—no material aid. Spain says they can provide naval support, but that was an on-the-spot response from their ambassador, so it might change. Realistically, don't count on substantial Spanish military help."

Honestly, up until now, I'd harbored doubts. Was I doing this right? Leading the country in the proper direction? Knowing wrong answers doesn't mean you know the right ones. Even as things went well, I feared one day being dragged to the guillotine.

But after talking with I-Myeonghun the day before last, my mind cleared. I'd lost all self-doubt.

Confidence, that is. I'd forgotten for a moment. I wasn't chasing the right choice—just avoiding the wrong one.

"Army Minister—Lafayette, Senior General. Effective immediately, redeploy Marseille's elites to southern Lorraine to prepare for enemy attack."

"Yes, sire."

What can you achieve cowering like a coward from a death that hasn't—and won't—happen?

"Foreign Minister—Riqueti. Accept Spain's counteroffer at once and secure our rear with a mutual defense pact."

"Understood."

Who said it? Remember you will die. So live today.

Yes. Spot on.

"Health Minister—Guillotin. Conscript all field medics with American Revolutionary War experience and send them to the Rhine front."

"Confirmed."

I'd been huddling to avoid a futile guillotine death, but death had long since retreated far from my side. Now, it was time for me to charge toward it.

I wouldn't live vulgarly or die pathetically. There was no guillotine in my dictionary anymore. Only death itself.

Heart attack, frailty, old age, a botched smallpox vaccination—endless ways for a man to die. I'd go by one of those.

But not the guillotine. I'd make it so.

The script of my life that I'd submit to God upon dying would be one even He would enjoy. Something that wouldn't make Him mutter, "What is this?" in disappointment.

"Atlantic Admiral—Pierre, Senior Admiral: Effective immediately, coordinate with Mediterranean Admiral Grass to impose a naval blockade on Britain and the Mediterranean. We'll handle the Atlantic with our navy; use our influenced pirates for the Med. Not a single rat gets into Britain."

"Yes, sire."

"Understood."

I surveyed the council chamber. Every face here had etched at least one line into history. With men like these, what had I been so afraid of?

Looking back, it seemed utterly foolish.

"Comptroller-General Terray. Tell Academy head Lavoisier he's got plenty of dissection cadavers incoming."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

If you're submitting a script anyway, better a comedy than a tragedy, right?