Free The Emerald Storm by William Dietrich Page B

Dangerous missions are often inspired by impossible ideas instead of sensible ones, and the revolutionary fervor that gave rise to notions such as equality have also uncorked the dreams of every tinkerer in Europe and America. Britain leads the world in discovery and experimentation, and I was told the English had come up with scientific sorcery that would make quick work of the iron grill above L’Ouverture’s cell.
    “It’s carbon dioxide squeezed at 870 pounds per square inch,” Frotté explained as we prepared for the mission to break the prisoner out.
    “Carbon what?”
    “It’s a component of air,” said Cayley, the thirty-year-old lunatic who dreamed of flying. He looked the part of inventor, with high forehead, long nose, lip pursed in contemplation, and inquisitive eyes. He seemed as puzzled by my presence as I was by his. “The chemist Priestley published a paper before we were born on how dripping oil of vitriol on chalk can produce the gas in pure form.”
    “I think I missed that one.”
    “If you condense the resulting carbon dioxide tight enough, it liquefies. Expose it to air again and the liquid flashes into gas. Evaporation turns the carbon dioxide into a snow with a temperature more than a hundred degrees below zero.”
    “I can scarcely conceive of more useless information.” Who cares what air is made of?
    “We’re going to give you a canister of it to release on the bars,” Frotté explained. “The iron will go brittle from the cold, and a sharp blow with a chisel should snap it like an icicle. You’ll punch through to L’Ouverture in seconds.”
    “See what science is for?” Cayley added.
    “I’m something of an expert on electricity myself. I’ve used it to fry my enemies, find ancient hiding places, and make the nipples of ladies hard during private demonstrations.”
    They ignored this. “The only drawback is that you’ll be carrying a carbon dioxide bomb of such extreme pressure that it could explode, ripping apart your torso and instantly freezing your guts,” cautioned Frotté. “The result would be startling and painful.”
    “Not to mention fatal.”
    “Which means it’s best to be careful,” added Cayley unnecessarily.
    “Why doesn’t one of you carry it?”
    “Because you’ve the incentive to rescue your wife, while George here will be busy with his flying machine,” said Frotté. “There’s no room for me, so I’ll organize the horses. Thanks to your emerald, fate has provided us with the hero of Acre and Tripoli for a most truly dangerous part.” He hoped flattery would give me spine.
    “It was my emerald. Now that damned French policeman has it.”
    “Once you know all of L’Ouverture’s secrets, imagine what you can bargain for!”
    With those words in my ear, I scuttled across the castle roof. There was a flat parapet following the walls, towers poking up here and there. The center of the castle was a series of barrel-arched stone vaults over the cells. I’d been briefed on the location of L’Ouverture, and faint light emanated from a hole in the center of his vault. Across the hole were iron bars, and down it, I hoped, were the people I was to break from prison.
    “Astiza!” I hissed.
    “Here, Ethan.”
    “Thank goodness. He hasn’t molested you, has he?”
    “He’s so old and sick he can barely stand. Please hurry!”
    “Was it hard to have them let you in?”
    “The French are bored,” she said impatiently. “They found the idea of seducing him for secrets quite amusing. They’re probably listening for sounds of love.”
    I pulled out the canister. “Is L’Ouverture ready?”
    “Not really. He thinks us quite mad.”
    “Well, he hasn’t lost his judgment, then.”
    “The guards are suspicious. Stop talking and act.”
    “Moan to buy us time.” Women are good at noises.
    The bars formed a cross, meaning I had to break the rods in four places to get my wife and the black general out of their hole. I held the cylinder,