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László
Themachinehummedbeneathmy fingers, its rhythmic clicks of shifting rotors filling my dim workshop with a sound I had grown to know as intimately as my own heartbeat.
I fed another strip of punch tape through the reader, watching as the mechanisms engaged—delicate and precise, yet capable of encoding messages that no human mind could unravel. The polished brass drums rotated in a sequence that changed unpredictably with every keystroke, each new cipher a labyrinth of mathematical impossibility.
I leaned back, exhaling slowly, rubbing at my temple as I stared at the thing I had created. It looked, at first glance, like a monstrous evolution of Enigma—taller, bulkier, lined with rows of gleaming dials, its main processing array a fortress of interwoven wiring and magnetic reels—but unlike its crude predecessor, my machine was alive, constantly adapting, rewriting its own encryption rules faster than any known system could track.
If Enigma had been a locked door, this was a shifting maze.
The Soviets believed I was still perfecting the final stages. I had let them believe that, had strung them along, feeding them promising reports while I delayed the inevitable. But the truth was . . .
It was already finished.
I had solved the recursion problem two weeks earlier, had found a way to make the cipher self-replicate, folding layers upon layers of false outputs over the real transmission, making it functionally unreadable to anyone without the correct—perpetually changing—key.
No one, not even Alan Turing himself, could break it.
In the wrong hands, it would cripple the world.
I pressed my fingers against my eyes, trying to silence the rising unease that had been growing in my chest ever since I realized what this machine—my machine—could do.
The Soviets had come as liberators.
Their support had been generous, their interest in my work framed as scientific collaboration. They had given me everything I asked for—newly imported parts from Moscow, rare materials, even access to intelligence files that had once been classified at the highest levels of the Soviet bureaucracy.
They called me a comrade, said I was a visionary.
Then came the first demand.
And the second.
Now, I was little more than a prisoner in a gilded cage, my expertise shackled to their growing ambitions. They didn’t care about science. They cared about power. And with this machine, they would own the future.
A sharp knock at the door sent a jolt through me, though I forced my hands to remain steady as I reached for my notes. I turned as Major Gregor Koslov stepped inside, his dark eyes scanning the workshop with their usual predatory calculation. He was not a man of unnecessary words or wasted movements—everything he did, every glance, every pause, had purpose. His uniform was crisp, his boots polished to a mirror shine. He was the perfect image of Soviet self-control.
“Doctor,” he greeted, shutting the door behind him. “You have been quiet.”
I folded my hands behind my back. “I work best in silence.”
Koslov smiled, but there was nothing warm about it.
“How close are we?” he asked, pacing around the Vega with the air of a man appraising a weapon rather than an invention.
I’d given my invention the name of a bright star in the night sky, symbolizing hidden guidance and intelligence. I’d meant it to be poetic, a love song of sorts, to a work that had consumed my soul. The gesture seemed lost on my Soviet comrades.
I hesitated—only for a fraction of a second—but I knew he’d noticed.
“Vega is nearly complete,” I said. “There are still some minor stability issues in the recursive encryption layers, but—”
Koslov waved a hand. “Spare me the details, Doctor.” He stepped closer, his voice lowering to a predatory growl. “When will it be operational?”
I met his gaze, forcing my expression into one of passive concentration. “A month, six weeks at most.”
That was a lie.
Koslov studied me. He was good at this—the silence, the waiting, deciphering falsehoods.