The Ultimate Secret

by David Thomas Moore

  Slight delay on the project. The first cases of components arrived on the docks four days ago, but were not permitted to enter the Empire until some kind of official authorised them. Hotston sent a messenger explaining it was for the Sultan’s new commission, and that’s that, but the chap continued to waver, until Besim eventually explained that he was waiting for ‘bakshish,’ which we’re told is some kind of bribe? Naturally, we thought our line of credit from the Sultan for the project would cover it, but it was made politely very clear that this wouldn’t be the case. Apparently it would be disrespectful of him to pay our bakshish. Things are done very differently here! It was only for about fifty pounds, so Hotston went down to the docks and paid it. He was furious, of course.

  That was yesterday. Apparently the cases have travelled twenty yards, since, and have gone from the port official’s jurisdiction to some city official’s jurisdiction, and he has vaguely-worded concerns about how safe the cases will be on the roads of the city.

  Hotston’s down there now. Besim thinks fifty pounds should do the job.

  Anyway, will write again soon. My love to everyone. Please write by return.

  With love,

  Matthew

  “SECOND ITERATION SWITCHES aren’t driving as smoothly as I’d like. I’m going to open the box up again.”

  “Hmm?” Ledgerwood looked up from his desk, a code tape unwound between his hands.

  “I said I’m opening the switchbox up again. Shouldn’t take more than half an hour or so.” Hotston straightened and drew his arms from the four-foot-high brass case to take a screwdriver from the bench beside him. He had stripped off his jacket and waistcoat and pulled up his shirtsleeves, now held in place by a pair of St George armbands.

  Ledgerwood looked out the window, where some of the Sultan’s sons were out sailing on the Bosphorus in the last of the afternoon light.

  “But I’m about to run the first set of code.”

  “Well, it won’t take long.”

  “See that it doesn’t. We want to get the base unit running today, if we can.”

  “Look, if it doesn’t–”

  What would have been their third argument of the day was cut short by a polite cough from the door, which had opened, unnoticed, while they were talking. Their attendant, Besim, was standing in the doorway with an older man, dressed in a modern grey suit and a richly decorated fez.

  “Dr Hotston, Dr Ledgerwood, may I introduce Devniz Kaya, of the Palace Office?”

  “Of course.” Hotston grabbed a rag from the bench and wiped his hands as he stepped towards the door. “Good day, Mr Kaya.”

  The man bowed, a clipped, fussy gesture. “Good day, Dr Hotston. My apologies for intruding on your work; I will not take much of your time.”

  “Quite understood. What can we do for you?”

  “My apologies as well for the impertinence, but I need to ask: are you Christians?”

  Ledgerwood looked up from his desk.

  “Well, neither of us particularly go to church or anything...” replied Hotston hesitantly.

  “But you are baptised Christians, yes?”

  “I am, certainly. Ledgerwood?”

  The larger man tossed the code tape to the desk in front of him and leaned back, frowning. “Of course I am, blast it. I’m an Englishman.”

  Kaya sighed, regretfully. “Then there has been an error. You should not be staying at the Palace.”

  “What?” cried Hotston. “Why? You’re not telling me Christians are forbidden, surely? Why, Victoria herself made a visit once, didn’t she?”

  The official shook his head solemnly. “Of course not. But things have changed since your Queen visited the Sultan’s great-great uncle. Under laws introduced after the Three-Day War in 1918, special provision needs to be made. The space you are staying in must be prepared. And, of course, under Islamic law, you would come under the authority of the Patriarch of Constantinople. His permission would need to be secured, first.”

  “Well, secure it! Prepare the rooms! What’s the problem?”

  He shrugged. “It is too late. You have already been staying here. This is now a matter of some potential embarrassment. It is now my responsibility to formally apologise to you and to the Patriarch, and to see that you are transported to the Greek quarter, where you will be found suitable lodging. I am pleased to say that the Sultan will pay for your accommodation.”

  Ledgerwood stood up, bristling. “But how can we work on the ruddy array when we aren’t even allowed in the ruddy building?”

  “His Highness informs me that the machine in Rome can be operated from thousands of kilometres away through a telegraph. You can work like this, can you not?”

  “Not when it’s–”

  “Calm down, Ledgerwood.” Hotston laid a steadying hand on his partner’s arm.

  “Sorry. Not when it’s not ruddy built yet, we can’t. We haven’t even completed the base unit, yet; need to get all two hundred units built and hooked up into the array, the first eight or nine iterations run on the code – at least – and the telegraphic relay installed and integrated before we can even think about–”

  “This is all very interesting, Dr Ledgerwood, but beyond my understanding. I expect you can work through proxies? There are two eunuchs on the palace staff, Selim and Abbas, who have studied at the Imperial Academy of Civil Engineering. I will assign them to you; they should be able to follow your directions until such a time as the machines are connected to your satisfaction.”

  “But we–”

  “It’s alright, Matthew.” Hotston glared at the official. “We will make do. Please send your boys over to us as soon as possible; there will be a lot to go through.”

  “Of course.” Kaya bowed again, then turned to go.

  “Wait a minute. Why did you not think of this before?”

  “Ah. His Highness had been given to understand that Britannian engineers are all atheists, and it had not occurred to anyone until today to confirm that that was the case. If you had been, there would naturally be no problem.”

  “Naturally.” Hotston shook his head as the official walked out of the suite.

  5TH JUNE, 1998

  Week 11 of the project.

  Unconscionably delayed, of course.

  S—m and A—s turn out to be better students than L—d or I expected. Could hardly work independently, of course, but we have them in our workshop in the Greek quarter (Greek = sort of a local slang for ‘Christian’ – oddly, the Turkish word literally means ‘Roman’ – memo: must tell Rachel, she’ll like that), building engines after the template I finished last month. 89 done, but picking up speed. We should be up to 200 units in another couple of weeks.

  Whether they will be up to the task of hooking up the array unsupervised another matter, but B—m confident we will be able to attend on the works if needed, so long as we do not pass the night in the Palace. Absurd bloody rules.

  Met with Patriarch. Nice enough old chap, not all there. Seemed confused why he was meeting us, which to be fair so were we. But various Ottoman and Greek officials all there, smiling and nodding as we shook hands and he asked us about the array, so suppose it was important. Clearly had no idea what an analytical array is, but sounded impressed nonetheless. Nice of him to take an interest, I suppose.

  Bakshish, bakshish, bloody bakshish. Bakshish as more crates of components arrive from Britannia. Bakshish to move the completed boxes to the Palace. Have spoken to B—m about arranging a meeting with Mr S—z and organising one Bakshish payment to cover remainder of project, else we will run out of money at this rate. B—m seems hopeful, will let me know.

  L—d’s first code tape has undergone eight iterations in the base unit, which has started to replicate the code in the first twenty-four units. He’s confident we shall have the beginnings of a working array in four weeks. Which gives us eleven weeks to get all the other boxes connected to the array, the code replicated on all two hundred boxes, and then to write the final software,
assuming His Highness has decided exactly what it is he wants his machine to do, which he still hasn’t.

  Poor blighter’s been stuck in conference with two imams (= Mohammedan priest) for the past day, as to whether an analytical array reasons as a human being does or not. Kept talking about some holy law says no man can make an object or image in the form of a man. Eventually, L—d explained that the array won’t look anything like a man at all, it’ll be a ruddy great room full of brass boxes, so does it matter how it reasons? Says they argued at each other in Arabic for fully another half-hour, without explaining to him what was going on, before asking him if “the character of the machine would have more in common with the element of earth or of fire?” L—d said he had no idea what to answer to that; he plumped on fire, and they apparently decided they were happy with that and left.

  Yet another delay.

  Well, forge on. Still confident of producing the greatest thinking machine the world has ever seen.

  “HOW ARE WE getting on, then?” asked Hotston, setting down a tray of pastries and coffee he’d collected from the bakery outside their workshop.

  Their new home was far less luxurious than their rooms at the palace had been, but arguably better suited to their needs. A former warehouse, it had been divided into two storeys, and the upper floor converted into rooms and offices for the two of them, while the ground floor served as a cavernous, echoing workshop, filled with benches and lined with tool-racks.

  The walls were brick, unplastered but whitewashed, and the floors were fastidiously polished wooden boards. The overall impression was basic, but smart and bright. The building still boasted its original wide loading doors, which had been left open to admit what breeze there was; both men, and the two eunuchs who had been assigned to work with them, now worked in shirtsleeves all day long, in the stifling August heat.

  “Just about wrapping up.” Ledgerwood gratefully took a coffee and sipped at it, leaning against an empty workbench.

  The eunuchs were polishing the brass cases of what should be the last half-dozen analytical engines. Abbas was the older of the two, in his twenties, a stocky man with a thick moustache and a ready smile. Selim was a gawky teen, gaunt and angular, with a constant look of mild worry. They spoke English, a little haltingly, and had both proven to be able engineers, much to Hotston and Ledgerwood’s relief.

  The cases were due to be collected by one of Somnez’s teams and taken up to the Palace later today, where the eunuchs would connect them into the array and run the next iteration of Ledgerwood’s code. Hotston was already working on the telegraphic relay, which they expected to be able to connect to the machine in a week; they should, barring disaster, be able to programme and train the machine from the comfort of their office upstairs.

  “Excellent.” Hotston came around and leaned on the bench next to his partner, to watch the eunuchs finishing their work. “We’re only about five weeks behind schedule, in the end. I’m genuinely a bit surprised. Any word from His Highness as to what he actually wants the blasted thing to do, yet?”

  “None. I’ll send the Vizier another message today.”

  The two men sipped their coffees in companionable silence. Eventually, Abbas and Selim came and joined them, taking a pastry and a coffee each. Ledgerwood nodded at them; it had taken him a full week to train them out of the habit of asking his permission to share his food.

  “We should christen it,” Ledgerwood eventually said.

  “Sorry?” Hotston turned to him.

  “Name it. We haven’t yet; if the last boxes are going in today, we should give it a name.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  “I thought maybe ‘Osman.’ It was actually the name of the first Sultan, you know.”

  “Hmm...” Hotston mused. “Short for what? I suppose we could end it with ‘Analytical Network.’”

  “Oh, piffle.” Ledgerwood snorted. “Why do all analytical arrays have to have bloody acronyms for names?”

  “I suppose it’s just traditional.”

  “Well, I should say tradition can just go–”

  “Dr Ledgerwood? Dr Hotston?” The voice came from the open loading doors, where Besim was sticking his head tentatively into the workshop.

  “Ah! Dr Ledgerwood! Dr Hotston, sir! I hope you are well. I have more guests for you.”

  “Come in, Besim,” Hotston called, “and bring your friends, by all means.”

  The eunuch stalked into the workshop, with two robed and white-capped clerics in tow.

  “Dr Ledgerwood, I suppose you remember Imam Yilmaz and Imam Celikoglu? Fathers, this is Dr Ledgerwood’s associate, Dr Hotston.”

  “It is a pleasure, Dr Hotston,” replied Imam Yilmaz in broken English, a stern looking man in his fifties with heavy brows and a full beard. Imam Celikoglu, a frail Turk with long, white, whispy hair, smiled but did not speak.

  “It is good to see you again, fathers,” said Ledgerwood, bowing slightly as he set down his coffee. “What troubles you today?”

  “The imams have been in discussion with the Sultan and the Vizier, and with several of their colleagues, regarding the spiritual nature of your machine.”

  “Oh, yes?” asked Hotston, one eyebrow raised.

  “Yes!” said Yilmaz, smiling and nodding. “Your machine has a soul.”

  “That’s right,” said Besim. “The conclusion has been that, once your machine is able to speak and reason, it will be possessed of a soul.”

  Ledgerwood and Hotston looked at one another, frowning uncertainly. “And...?” prompted Hotston.

  “Well, it is Mr Yilmaz’s view that, since it has a soul, and is resident in the palace, and will serve as an advisor to the Sultan, it should be created a Muslim.”

  “Yes!” Yilmaz repeated. “Must be Muslim.”

  Celikoglu raised his hand sharply and spoke in Turkish for several seconds.

  “...But,” continued Besim, nodding as the old cleric spoke, “it is Mr Celikoglu’s view that, since it will be a free creature of God, it should have the chance to come to God through its own understanding, and it should be created innocent, and then taught to be a Muslim.”

  “I see,” said Ledgerwood. “So which does His Highness want?”

  “His Highness the Sultan,” said Besim, barely disguising a grin, “wishes me to tell you that you are to be directed by both of these wise men.”

  “I see. Well, please convey to His Highness that we will, of course, follow his requirements diligently.”

  “I will, of course, Dr Ledgerwood. God bless your work.”

  “Thank you, Besim. Good day.”

  “So how do you plan to manage that?” asked Hotston as Besim led the two old priests out the loading door and back up the road.

  Ledgerwood shrugged, sipping his coffee again. “I’ll work something out. Guess I’ll have to start reading the ruddy Koran now, won’t I?”

  DEAR DR LEDGERWOOD and Dr Hotston,

  Thank you for your latest letter. His Highness is pleased with the progress you are making, and is looking forward to when a demonstration can be made of the Osman machine’s intelligence and prowess to the world. This, we all believe, will be the dawn of a new Ottoman Rennaissance.

  We are pleased also that you are enjoying your stay in the beautiful city of Istanbul. My wife has reminded me to tell you that we were very pleased to play host to you at dinner the other day, and that you would be more than welcome to visit our home again.

  As regards the date of the demonstration. I believe I now understand the source of the confusion! You are correct, of course, that your commission started on March 24th of this year, by the Gregorian calendar. And, of course, the 24th of September – a week from this Thursday – would be six months later, by the same calendar. However, the date on your commission is given in the Islamic calendar, in accordance with Imperial law, and the duration of the commission is in lunar months. You began work on the 25th of Dhu al-Qa’da, and thus your six months is up on the 25th of Juma
da I, which is this Friday, the 18th September.

  Fortunately, I believe His Highness the Sultan is sufficiently impressed by the work you have done that you will receive your full commission even if the work is not wholly complete. However, you must still present yourself for a full demonstration of the Osman machine’s capabilities at moonrise Friday evening.

  I look forward to seeing you.

  Regards,

  Murat Sahin

  Grand Vizier to His Imperial Highness Sultan Mehmet VII

  “THIS IS JUST bloody typical, you know.”

  “Give it a rest, would you, Ledgerwood?”

  They waited in one of the many opulent audience rooms in the Dolmabahçe Palace, sweltering in jackets and waistcoats and ties. Hotston perched on the edge of a chair, tapping his fingers on the polished teak desk by the wall; Ledgerwood paced constantly, back and forth in front of the window, repeatedly shooting his cuffs and straightening his collar.

  Ledgerwood wheeled on his partner, gesticulating. “I’m just saying it’s typical. At the outset it’s all endless schedules and bottomless budgets, and come deadline it’s never bloody working right, it all costs too much and you run out of time. Who’d work in bloody analytics, what?”

  “Just sit down and calm down, chap. Have a glass of water or something. Murat did say the Sultan’d pay our fee whatever.” Hotston said, then snorted. “He’ll want to, at any rate; there’s not half of it left by now. Ruddy bakshish.”

  “But what are we going to demonstrate, exactly? I mean, I wasn’t daft enough to expect any actual time to test and debug, but I thought I had at least a week to come up with some kind of programming for the damn thing. Poor Osman doesn’t even speak English yet, properly.”

  Hotston took a deep breath and poured a glass of water, from which he drank a large mouthful, and looked up at the larger man. “Look, we’ve made very possibly the smartest machine in the world. The Committee for Ethics in Analytics would never have let us make it. Osman’ll have an imagination, he’ll learn from observation and from his mistakes; he’ll write bloody poetry if the Sultan wants him to. And it’ll be good.”