Time Hack

Beijing 2115 Ten floors below the former Beijing Ancient Observatory, close to the Forbidden City, the immense hall was deserted. The lone, luminous platform stood out among its dark counterparts as if it were floating in a dark, void space. The only sound came from huge two-bladed fans hanging from the ceiling, flapping recycled air around, along with the frantic brushing of ten fingers over a built-in screen on a mahogany desk, an asynchronous piece of furniture in the center of the floor. These fingers were the only moving parts of Colonel Malik, a stout figure frozen in a gazing disbelief across the rising foggy hologram in front of him. “Why haven’t I seen this before?” he moaned. If his jet-black face could have paled, it surely would have. “Why is it here in the first place?” While his fingers rapidly merged freshly digitized sources of the Army Analogue Archive, the foglet morphed into a 3D landscape of France. Malik launched a text-to-speech synthesis, then closed his eyes and listened: “According to the legend, Mary Magdalene was active in Southern France, spreading her deep-felt beliefs in Jesus as the Son of God. She also worked on an extraordinary plan…a plan that required the services of an architect. Allegedly, while on her deathbed, she finally shared her secret with the priest of Sainte Baume, who gave her the last sacrament.” The sonorous voice calmed him down only a little. “…And Jesus said to me, ‘noli me tangere.’ Do not hold me, because I have not yet ascended to my Father…” Malik’s eyes were now suddenly wide open. “She had made a vow to commemorate this event and had him pledge to continue searching for an architect. The secret was passed on to the priest’s successor, and during the next several centuries, it became the most important prerequisite for becoming a priest of the church of Sainte Baume—never to reveal the secret to anyone and to keep the quest for an architect alive.” Meanwhile, the contours of a huge church became visible, rising rapidly on a small hill. Malik whistled softly, the effort eased by the adequate gap between his two front teeth, as a small sign popped up. It read: NO LONGER EXISTENT. “In the early eleventh century, the relics of Mary Magdalene were transferred to Vézelay for reasons unknown. However, the priest fulfilled Magdalene’s last wishes. Her secret was magnificently perpetuated in the architectural design of the Basilica of Sainte Madeleine in Vézelay. In spring, the sun’s rays crept steadily farther across the floor until the summer solstice, when the beams of sunlight formed a pathway on the tiles, straight down the axis of the center aisle, almost like a code.” At the word ‘code’, Malik suddenly looked around, as if he suspected he was being watched. Satisfied that he was indeed alone, he continued rifling through even more 3D material, his mind spinning all the while. A source code? Ten floors up, two officers had been watching Malik all the time. “What is he thinking right now, Lieutenant Tong? How does this relate to the mission?” the general asked, standing next to Tong in the dimly lit control room packed with surveillance screens. Tong looked down on the chisel-faced woman and carefully chose the words. “We need a few more seconds, General. We’re processing the colonel’s think waves. He believes the code is somehow linked to the scientist.” “Does he suspect we’re monitoring him?” “No, General. We’re observing him now every night, when he feels nobody is watching him. He has no way of knowing that the paint on his office walls is capturing his brain activity from four angles.” Tong pointed at the monitor, and a 3-D laser image of Malik’s brain circled around. “Areas 21 through 28…” He stopped; something was happening. Malik was hastily perusing the complete digitized Vatican Archives. He accessed the phone logs of the Guardia Svizzera. The Vatican police had confirmed a French student’s last telephone call to the astronomy summer school teacher in Castel Gandolfo, asking for Brother Frank Bootsma and rambling about his astounding discovery of the code origin. When Bootsma couldn’t take his call, it was routed to the Vatican switchboard. Malik’s hands trembled as new chunks of data presented themselves. The student had been murdered, and his revelatory notebook was missing. This Bootsma had accused a U.S. Naval officer, one Captain John Pakula. “Why is Colonel Malik so disturbed?” the general asked, jerking her head toward the lieutenant. Her neck cracked like an old tree. “He knows Pakula is Major Roto Ashlev’s prime target. Do we have a full transcription of his thinking process?” The monitor filled with a series of mathematical calculations. Tong said, “The probability that Colonel Malik can figure out our plan is zero, and—” “I am not interested in your calculations, Lieutenant! And I think you are incorrect. He cannot and will not—” The general did not have a chance to finish her rant because the surveillance screen suddenly started to show a series of rectangular boxes, each in a separate foglet and each divided into twelve numbered compartments, which were, one by one, filling with words. Carefully, he picked up the small swatch of cotton cloth that was rolling slowly out of the 3D printer. “Lieutenant,” she barked, “do we have intel on that printing device?” “No, General.” He paused another second. “Our best estimate is that he knows we’re watching him. He’s using an extinct language to compose a message.” As she turned her head toward Tong, her neck cracked open a bit farther, displaying even more synthetic parts. She took a deep, hissing breath. “This is not looking good. Get us a copy of that tissue, the solstice, the notebook, secret messages—all of it. But their sources are what this is all about—both the priest’s and the scientist’s. When the major has left, we’ll deal with Colonel Malik.”