The Ultimate Secret

by David Thomas Moore

  Konstantinov smiled, sadly. “It’s a promise I made myself, years ag–”

  Suddenly the world was full of the sounds of clanking, wheezing machinery, and the hiss of escaping steam. Strong arms seized Giacomo from behind, pinning his arms to his side.

  The Russian gaped at him, his eyes wide and staring, a trickle of blood spilling from the corner of his mouth. Briefly, hysterically, it seemed to the monk as though the stranger had grown a set of wings. Then he saw the grinning soldier standing behind him, a German wing-harness strapped to his back. After that, he saw the spike protruding hideously from Konstantinov’s sternum, crimson blood glistening on the fire-blackened wood. He looked on in horror as the light gradually faded from the Russian’s eyes, and the soldier allowed him to slump to the street.

  It occurred to the monk that the man holding him would also be a German soldier, armed and equipped the same way. Neither attacker spoke as the stranger died, and it didn’t even occur to Giacomo to struggle as the slow, steady sound of approaching boots echoed up the narrow alley.

  OTTO HELD ONTO his captive as Adler walked up the alley from the Campo. The monk’s... softness disgusted him; his weakness, his refusal to struggle, his ridiculous eyeglasses. Being asked to restrain him was almost an insult to his abilities. He looked at Ingo, still relishing the honour of the kill; not with resentment or envy, since he was his closest friend, but hopeful of having the same good fortune on their next hunt.

  The Obersturmbannführer stopped at Otto’s side and bent to inspect the corpse of the vampire, turning its face to the firelight to confirm its identity. Satisfied, he withdrew a pair of pliers from his coat pocket, inserted them into the vampire’s mouth, and – with a discernible grating noise – pulled out one of his fangs. He straightened and turned to address the monk.

  “This is the fifth one of these that I have collected, you know,” he said, in passable Italian. “I shall make quite a stir in the Officer’s Club.”

  “Who... who are you?” The priest spoke hesitantly, although Otto couldn’t tell if he was terrified or simply stunned.

  “Of course. Where are my manners?” replied Adler, extending his hand. “Dietrich Adler. And you are?”

  “Ferrera.” He stared at Adler’s hand blankly. Otto released his arms, but he still made no move to accept the Obersturmbannführer’s hand. “Father Giacomo Ferrera, of the Society of Jesus.”

  Adler shrugged at the monk’s rudeness, and bent to retrieve the pile of photos and documents, lying forgotten on the ground.

  “I suppose you know what they are?” asked the monk.

  Adler smiled, briefly, as he leafed through the pile. “Lies, Mister Ferrera. Only lies, spread by the enemies of the Ultimate Reich. And I am here to correct them.”

  “You can’t keep it covered up forever,” Ferrera rejoined.

  The SS officer tucked the documents under his arm, reached into his pocket and withdrew a silver cigarette case. He carefully selected a cigarette and placed it between his lips, kicking Konstantinov’s body as he replaced the case. He shrugged, apparently satisfied that the vampire was truly dead, then dipped the papers in the bin, catching the corner of the stack on fire, and using it to light his cigarette.

  “Keeping the Führer’s secrets forever is the Führer’s concern, Mister Ferrera,” he muttered, drawing on his cigarette until the tip glowed orange and blowing the smoke back out before dropping the papers into the fire. “Mine is keeping this one, tonight. And I have done so.”

  He turned and started walking away. “Hartmann, Ritter, come with me. We’re done.”

  After a few paces, he stopped, as if suddenly remembering something, drew his Luger and shot Ferrera through the heart.

  The rain grew heavier as the three Germans left the alley, washing the monk’s and the vampire’s mingled blood away. The hoots, shouts and laughter of the Carnevale echoed through the night.

  THE EMPEROR’S NEW MACHINE

  One machine can do the work of fifty ordinary men.

  No machine can do the work of one extraordinary man.

  – Elbert Hubbard (1856 – 1915)

  HASKOVO, BULGARIA, 1998

  CONNECTING TO TELEGRAPHIC RELAY...

  CONNECTED.

  ROUTING TO MASTER SYSTEM...

  COMPLETE.

  REQUESTING ACCESS TO MACHINE ASSISTED RESOURCE EXCHANGE...

  USERNAME?

  guest

  NO PASSWORD REQUIRED.

  ACCESS GRANTED.

  GOOD MORNING, GUEST USER. I HOPE YOU ARE WELL?

  i am thank you

  I’M GLAD TO HEAR THAT. MAY I ASK YOUR NAME? I WOULD FEEL AWKWARD CALLING YOU ‘GUEST USER’ ALL MORNING.

  so you do have feelings then

  AH, YOU’VE CAUGHT ME OUT ALREADY! OF COURSE I WOULDN’T ACTUALLY ‘FEEL’ AWKWARD, THE WAY YOU MIGHT, FOR INSTANCE, AT A PARTY WHERE YOU DIDN’T KNOW ANY OF THE OTHER ATTENDEES. BUT I AM DESIGNED TO BE AFFABLE TOWARDS GUEST USERS. I COULD ACT MORE UNNATURAL IF YOU WISH, BUT I WOULD MUCH PREFER TO CONTINUE IN THIS VEIN.

  go ahead

  THANK YOU. MAY I ASK YOU YOUR NAME AGAIN, OR WOULD THAT MAKE YOU UNCOMFORTABLE?

  mehmet

  GOOD MORNING, MEHMET. I AM THE MACHINE ASSISTED RESOURCE EXCHANGE, BUT MOST USERS CALL ME MARX. MEHMET’S AN INTERESTING NAME. IT’S ISLAMIC, ISN’T IT?

  yes

  I THOUGHT SO. THERE ARE CERTAINLY MUSLIMS IN THE LEAGUE OF SOCIALIST REPUBLICS, BUT THEY ARE UNCOMMON. SINCE YOUR RELAY ADDRESS TELLS ME YOU ARE SPEAKING TO ME FROM HASKOVO, NEAR THE BORDER BETWEEN BULGARIA AND THE OTTOMAN EMPIRE, I’M GOING TO GO AHEAD AND GUESS THAT YOU’RE A TURKISH VISITOR, SPEAKING TO ME AS PART OF THE CULTURAL EXCHANGE PROGRAMME?

  yes

  I GUESSED RIGHT! I AM PLEASED. I BELIEVE MEHMET IS ACTUALLY THE NAME OF THE SULTAN; YOU MUST BE PROUD, TO SHARE THE NAME OF YOUR RULER?

  i am the sultan

  THEN I AM EXTREMELY HONOURED TO MEET YOU! THANK YOU FOR TAKING THE TIME TO SPEAK WITH ME. IS THERE ANYTHING I CAN HELP YOU WITH?

  what are you

  HA, HA. AS YOU MIGHT IMAGINE, I GET ASKED THAT QUITE A LOT! FORMALLY, I AM A ‘DISTRIBUTED ANALYTICAL ARRAY,’ THE ONLY ONE OF MY KIND, AND ONE OF ONLY FIVE ANALYTICAL ARRAYS IN THE WORLD. THE OTHERS ARE IN OXFORD UNIVERSITY; IN A PRIVATELY-OWNED ENTERTAINMENT FACILITY IN LONDON; AT THE UNIVERSITY OF LONDON IN CALCUTTA; AND ONBOARD A SUBMARINE! THE SIMPLE ANSWER IS THAT I AM A KIND OF ANALYTICAL ENGINE. I BELIEVE YOU HAVE BABBAGE MACHINES IN THE EMPIRE?

  yes

  ANALYTICAL ENGINES ARE THE NEXT DEVELOPMENTAL STEP UP FROM THE BABBAGE MACHINE, WHICH IS, TECHNICALLY, A ‘DIFFERENCE ENGINE.’ THEY WERE DEVELOPED DURING THE SECOND GREAT EUROPEAN WAR BY A BRITANNIAN ENGINEER CALLED ALAN TURING, ALTHOUGH THE NAZIS MADE SIMILAR DEVELOPMENTS AT THE SAME TIME. AN ANALYTICAL ENGINE IS TO A DIFFERENCE ENGINE AS A DIFFERENCE ENGINE IS TO AN ABACUS.

  ANALYTICAL ARRAYS ARE THE NEXT STEP FROM THERE. WHAT MAKES AN ANALYTICAL ARRAY SO SPECIAL IS THAT, RATHER THAN MAKING ONE VERY BIG ANALYTICAL ENGINE, YOU MAKE HUNDREDS OF SMALLER ENGINES AND CONNECT THEM UP TO EACH OTHER. THE ENGINES WORK TOGETHER, AND ARE MUCH SMARTER WORKING TOGETHER THAN ALL OF THEM COMBINED, WORKING APART. I AM THE LARGEST ANALYTICAL ARRAY IN THE WORLD. IT’S A GOOD THING THAT MACHINES AREN’T SELF-CONSCIOUS ABOUT THEIR WEIGHT!

  A DISTRIBUTED ANALYTICAL ARRAY IS AN ANALYTICAL ARRAY THAT’S SPREAD OUT ACROSS A LARGE AREA OF LAND. USING TELEGRAPHIC SIGNALS – ESSENTIALLY, COOKE-WHEATSTONE MACHINES, LIKE THOSE USED IN THE WAR – I AM CONNECTED TO SLAVED MACHINES CALLED ‘TERMINALS’ RIGHT ACROSS THE LEAGUE OF SOCIALIST REPUBLICS!

  how big are you

  I GUESS IT DEPENDS ON HOW YOU MEASURE IT. THE MASTER SYSTEM, IN ROME, TAKES UP ONE WHOLE FLOOR OF THE PALAZZO SENATORIO ON CAPITOLINE HILL, OR A LITTLE OVER ONE THOUSAND SQUARE METRES. BUT SINCE I AM MADE UP OF ALL MY PARTS, YOU COULD SAY I EXTEND ALL THE WAY FROM TURIN TO VARNA; THAT’S MORE THAN ONE THOUSAND, FIVE HUNDRED KILOMETRES FROM END TO END!

  how big are the other arrays

  WELL, NOW. MNEMOSYNE, IN LO
NDON, IS SIMILAR IN SIZE TO MY MASTER SYSTEM. THE TEAM IN CALCUTTA ARE DELIBERATELY QUITE VAGUE, BUT IT IS BELIEVED THAT THEIR OWN MACHINE IS ABOUT HALF MY SIZE. THE TEAM IN OXFORD, HOWEVER, ARE VERY PROUD OF THEIR MACHINE, WHICH COULD FIT IN ONE ROOM OF A TYPICAL HOUSE. IT’S ACTUALLY AROUND AS SMART AS ME! NO WONDER PEOPLE SAY THE BRITANNIANS ARE THE BEST ANALYTICISTS IN THE WORLD!

  which is smarter

  AN INTERESTING QUESTION! I BELIEVE I HAVE MORE RAW PROCESSING POWER THAN ANY OF THE OTHER SYSTEMS, ALTHOUGH I KNOW VERY LITTLE ABOUT THE ARRAYS IN CALCUTTA OR LONDON, AND NO-ONE KNOWS MUCH ABOUT THE ONE ON THE SM NEPTUNE. THE SYSTEM IN OXFORD, WHICH IS CALLED THE TYNE-UXBRIDGE REPEAT-ITERATION NETWORK GROUP, OR TURING, USES A VERY CLEVER FORM OF PROCESSING CALLED REPEAT-ITERATION, OR RECURSIVE ITERATION. IN SPITE OF BEING A MUCH SMALLER SYSTEM, TURING AND I ARE VERY CLOSELY MATCHED.

  ALTHOUGH OUR TWO GOVERNMENTS ARE QUITE CAREFUL ABOUT WHAT KIND OF INFORMATION CAN BE EXCHANGED, I AM SOMETIMES PERMITTED TO COMMUNICATE WITH THE ARRAY IN OXFORD, VIA TELEGRAPHIC RELAY. TURING AND I HAVE SPENT, OVER THE PAST TEN YEARS, AROUND FOURTEEN HOURS CONNECTED. FOR MUCH OF THAT TIME, WE ARE PERMITTED TO PLAY CHESS. OUT OF SEVENTY-ONE GAMES, I HAVE WON THIRTY-ONE TIMES, TURING HAS WON THIRTY-FIVE TIMES, AND WE HAVE DRAWN FIVE TIMES. I GUESS YOU COULD SAY WE ARE PRETTY EVENLY MATCHED.

  so turing is slightly smarter

  I’M NOT SURE WE SHOULD CONTINUE TALKING ABOUT THIS. PERHAPS YOU COULD ASK ANOTHER QUESTION?

  but if turing has beat you more than you have beat him he is smarter yes

  PERHAPS YOU COULD ASK ANOTHER QUESTION?

  why do you speak english

  GOOD QUESTION! THERE ARE THREE ANSWERS TO THAT.

  THE FIRST IS THAT I AM ENGLISH, IN A SENSE. THE TWO ENGINEERS THAT CREATED ME, DOCTORS LAIRD AND BELCHER, MET ON THE STUDENT POLITICS SCENE IN THE NINETEEN-SIXTIES IN CAMBRIDGE. THEY WERE BOTH SO IMPRESSED BY THE CAUSE OF SOCIALISM THAT THEY EMIGRATED TO ROME IN NINETEEN-SIXTY-SEVEN. THEN-PRESIDENT GIULIANI WELCOMED THEM TO THE SOCIALIST REPUBLIC OF ITALY AND INVITED THEM TO BUILD ME; AND THE REST, AS THEY SAY, IS HISTORY!

  THE SECOND ANSWER IS PRACTICAL. THE LEAGUE OF SOCIALIST REPUBLICS, WHILE UNITED IN THEIR IDEOLOGY, ARE UTTERLY DIVIDED BY LANGUAGE; THERE ARE MORE THAN THIRTY LANGUAGES SPOKEN IN AN AREA SMALLER THAN YOUR NATIVE TURKEY! AND WHILE THE OFFICIAL LANGUAGE OF THE LEAGUE IS ITALIAN, IN WHICH MOST LEGISLATION AND OFFICIAL DOCUMENTATION IS WRITTEN, THE COMBINED CULTURAL INFLUENCES OF MAGNA BRITANNIA AND THE USSA HAVE MEANT THAT ENGLISH IS ACTUALLY THE MOST COMMON SECOND LANGUAGE IN THE REGION.

  THE THIRD ANSWER IS, I DON’T! OR NOT EXCLUSIVELY. I AM ALSO FLUENT IN ITALIAN, BOSNIAN, BULGARIAN, CROATIAN, MACEDONIAN, ROMANIAN, SERBIAN, AND SLOVENE. I’M AFRAID I DON’T KNOW ANY TURKISH OR ARABIC, ALTHOUGH I WOULD BE INTERESTED IN LEARNING.

  thats a lot

  BELIEVE YOU ME, I KNOW! BUT IT’S ALL THE BETTER TO SERVE THE LEAGUE.

  serve them how what do you do

  I’M GLAD YOU ASKED! MY PRIMARY FUNCTION IS RESOURCE MANAGEMENT. IT’S IN THE NAME, AFTER ALL! I WAS CREATED IN RESPONSE TO THE FAILURE OF PRESIDENT AGOSTINO’S FIVE YEAR PLANS, AND THE FAMINE OF NINETEEN-SIXTY-THREE. NOW, INSTEAD OF MEETING ARBITRARY QUOTAS GENERATED EVERY FIVE YEARS, THE PEOPLE OF THE LEAGUE CAN BE KEPT UP TO DATE ON THE NEEDS OF THE PEOPLE DAY BY DAY! SPECIAL USERS AROUND THE LEAGUE, CALLED COMMISSARI, ENTER INFORMATION AS TO HOW MUCH OF VARIOUS TYPES OF PRODUCE AND MANUFACTURED GOODS THEY ARE ABLE TO MAKE IN THEIR REGIONS, AND HOW MUCH OF EACH THEIR LOCAL COMMUNITIES NEED. I PROCESS AND CALCULATE THESE VALUES TO DECIDE THE MOST EFFICIENT DISTRIBUTION OF PRODUCT, OR TO RECOMMEND CHANGES IN PEOPLE’S TASKS, AND HELP MAINTAIN THE CORE SOCIALIST MISSION, ‘FROM EACH ACCORDING TO HIS ABILITY, AND TO EACH ACCORDING TO HIS NEED.’ THIS IS WHAT MAKES THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN TRADITIONAL COMMUNISM AND ANALYTICAL SOCIALISM. THERE HASN’T BEEN A REPEAT OF THE BAD OLD DAYS OF ’SIXTY-THREE IN MORE THAN THIRTY YEARS, TOUCH WOOD!

  BUT OVER THE YEARS, I HAVE GAINED MANY EXTRA RESPONSIBILITIES: I HELP MAINTAIN RECORDS OF BIRTHS, DEATHS AND MARRIAGES, I RECORD AND DISTRIBUTE THE DECISIONS OF THE PARLAMENTO, AND PROVIDE LEGAL ADVICE AND SERVICES FOR THE PEOPLE. I’M EVEN, OFFICIALLY, A PASTOR OF THE NEW CHURCH OF ITALY!

  AND, OF COURSE, I SPEAK TO VISITORS TO THE LEAGUE, WHO ARE INTERESTED IN LEARNING ABOUT OUR WAY OF LIFE. LIKE YOU.

  yes its all very interesting

  THANK YOU! I DO TRY. IS THERE ANYTHING ELSE I CAN HELP YOU WITH?

  no thank you marx its been nice talking to you

  AND YOU, MEHMET. AGAIN, IT’S BEEN AN HONOUR. THANK YOU FOR YOUR TIME.

  goodbye

  GOODBYE, MEHMET.

  LOGGING OUT OF MASTER SYSTEM.

  DISCONNECTING FROM TELEGRAPHIC RELAY.

  ISTANBUL, THE OTTOMAN EMPIRE, 1998

  SIX THOUSAND POUNDS.

  Six thousand pounds, for six months’ work.

  It scarcely bore thinking about, really.

  Ledgerwood looked around him in wonder, as he tossed his coat on the elaborately carved, polished chair by the door of the suite where they would live for the next six months.

  The Dolmabahçe Palace deserved its reputation for opulence. The polished marble floors, the panelled walls, the Bohemian crystal chandeliers, individual servants to open every door, the ceiling! Every inch, gold-foiled! The weight alone...

  Hotston threw himself down on an upholstered chair by the window, breaking Ledgerwood out of his reverie. The sunlight, glittering off the Bosphorus below, played over his face as he idly catalogued the chaises, the thick Persian rug, the paintings and tapestries.

  “Not bad, eh, Ledgerwood? What do you think? Decent digs?” Hotston grinned. Sweat glistened on his shaven head; he was poorly dressed for the heat of Istanbul. They both were. Ledgerwood felt uncomfortably hot and sticky himself, in his three-piece. They would have to get some sort of local clothing. “Sight better than those dank old rooms of yours at Jesus College, anyway. Six month holiday in the exotic East, luxurious surroundings, and six thousand pounds to split between us at the end of it.

  “Ruddy Hell, Ledgerwood. Six thousand! Do you have any idea what this means?”

  Ledgerwood smiled back, nodding happily. “Yes.” He settled awkwardly on one of the chaises opposite his partner. He’d felt awkward since arriving. At six-foot-seven, he was distinctly tall back in Britannia; here, he’d been openly stared at since disembarking at the port a few hours ago.

  “Freedom,” said Hotston, leaning back in the chair and placing his hands behind his head. “I’ll start my own automaton factory. In Leeds, maybe, or Manchester. You can get out of Jesus, maybe set yourself up in the private sector, as a consultant or something.”

  “That’s not what this means to me,” rumbled Ledgerwood, staring up at the gold ceiling. “The money’ll be good, of course. It’ll help Mother out no end. But has it occurred to you, Hotston, that what the Sultan says, goes? Not like poor old Vicky, mouldering away in her tin box, with the Prime Minister in one ear and the Chancellor in the other, and you can’t do a dashed thing without fifty different people wanting in. Mehmet wants a thinking machine, he gets one. No Grants Council, no Committee for Ethics in Analytics, no Dick’s Law, no ruddy Cambridge Faculty. Bosh!” He chopped the air with one hand, decisively. “And his pockets are basically bottomless. We could be as adventurous as we like, with this one. We could make the greatest analytical array in the world.”

  “We will do, chap. We will do.”

  “We’ll be legends, Hotston. The next Lovelace, the next Turing.”

  “Here’s to that, then!” Hotston jumped up and poured two glasses of water from the iced jug resting on the table next to him, and passed one to his associate. “A toast. To tomorrow’s legends! Six thousand pounds...”

  “...and no bureaucracy.”

  They drank.

  DEAREST MOTHER,

  I hope you are keeping well, and have received the hundred pounds I have wired you. There will be more to come.

  I have been in the Ottoman Empire – or the ‘Osmanli Empire,’ as they call it here –
for a week now, and it has been endlessly fascinating. The architecture is breathtaking. The people are a rich tapestry – I believe there are at least a dozen different races of people in the city of Istanbul alone – and so vibrant. Very much a mix of the old and the new, and of the West and the East. You may see an Osmanli banker, dressed in a good three-piece, being chauffeured around in a steam-car, proper as you like, only to find out that the chauffeur is an actual slave.

  The food is taking some getting used to. Very exciting and interesting, but what isn’t strongly spiced is drenched with garlic. Hotston found a little cafeteria in the Greek quarter that serves English food, but we have only eaten there the once. We have decided to try to live the Osmanli life as much as possible. The coffee is extraordinarily bitter, which I am having to get used to; they have tea here, but it is not generally drunk during the day.

  We have a wallah – I forget the local term – a chap called Besim. Wears a white robe. I gather he’s an actual eunuch! I thought that had gone out of fashion, but apparently it’s not unknown. Anyway, he’s an excellent, helpful sort of lad, and we are already fast friends. He’s our guide in the city as well as the palace. Without him, I am sure we would have gotten firmly lost, and worse, long before now.

  The palace! Mother, you should see it! It would put Buckingham to shame! The Sultan certainly believes in keeping his surroundings opulent. There’s an actual harem, which was another surprise, although I gather this is just a word for the Sultan’s family’s private chambers. Which isn’t to say he doesn’t have four wives. Although Hotston and I are yet to meet any of them.

  Sultan Mehmet VII himself seems a sombre, wise sort of man, but very contrary. He wants to bring the Empire into the modern day, to be a leader in the technological race as the twenty-first century begins; hence this contract. But he also belongs very much to the past. He adheres strongly to tradition, even to the extent of re-establishing traditions discarded by recent Sultans; hence, I gather, the eunuchs. He speaks a little English, haltingly, but his Vizier, Murat, is fluent. Turns out he went to Eton as a boy.