Istanbul, April 1896
The dawn air over Istanbul was crisp with the scent of coal smoke and salt from the Bosphorus. Factories roared on the horizon, chimneys standing tall beside mosque minarets. Steam whistles pierced the city's morning prayers, as if calling out that the empire's faith now walked hand in hand with industry. Abdulhamid II stood on the balcony of Yıldız Palace, eyes cast not on the beauty of the strait but on the future he alone could see. To others, this was a city awakening. To him, it was a forge, and the fire must be fed with knowledge.
The courier's arrival interrupted his thoughts. Selim, commander of Crescent Eyes, approached with a file tucked beneath his arm. "Majesty," he said, bowing deeply, "the first delegation of foreign scientists will arrive within the week. The Americans bring Tesla himself. The French whisper of Curie, though the Sorbonne trembles at the idea of her leaving. And from Germany, Röntgen, whose rays pierce flesh as if the body were glass. They come, Majesty. To serve." His voice carried the faint awe of a man not easily shaken.
Abdulhamid took the file and skimmed the pages. To him, these names were not new discoveries but familiar legends. He knew what Tesla's mind could dream, what Curie would uncover, what Röntgen's rays would mean for medicine and war. In his former life, he had read of them in books, seen their shadows stretching across centuries. Now, in this life, they would not merely pass him by. They would serve the empire.
"Prepare their quarters in the old Imperial Arsenal," Abdulhamid commanded. "It is symbolic. Once it forged swords. Now it will forge lightning. Let them see that the empire does not cling to past glories but builds new ones." Selim bowed and left, already sending coded signals through Crescent Eyes to ensure the foreigners' safe passage. In truth, it was not safety alone that required such care. France and Britain would do anything to prevent their brightest minds from serving the Sick Man of Europe, who now seemed less sick and more iron every passing year.
By mid-April, Istanbul buzzed with rumors. Ships unloaded crates marked with strange symbols. Foreigners with pale faces and heavy trunks passed through customs under the watch of Crescent Eyes. The city's coffeehouses whispered of inventions: machines that could trap lightning, powders that glowed in the dark, rays that saw through flesh. Some called them miracles, others blasphemies. But Abdulhamid paid no mind to the chatter. He walked among his ministers in the Council Hall, where plans for the new Imperial Academy of Sciences and Industry stretched across the table in bold ink.
"This will be more than a school," the Sultan said, his voice steady, commanding. "It will be the empire's forge of knowledge. Our railroads are its veins, our factories its bones. But knowledge—knowledge is the blood. And this academy will be the heart that pumps it." He tapped the plans, where a grand complex rose along the Golden Horn. "It will house laboratories, observatories, workshops. Every foreign mind we gather will work alongside our brightest students. And every page of research will be written in Latin Turkish."
That last decree stirred unease among the ministers. The Minister of Faith shifted nervously. "Majesty, to write the sciences in this new script—will it not offend those still loyal to the holy letters?" Abdulhamid's eyes narrowed. "The Qur'an remains in Arabic. Faith is eternal. But science does not bow to script. Latin Turkish will bind knowledge to unity. Every child in Anatolia, in Mesopotamia, in the Balkans will read the same words, speak the same tongue. The foreigner may think in German or French, but when he publishes here, he publishes in Turkish. And when our people learn, they learn as one."
The council fell silent. In that silence, the empire's future was sealed. What began as decree became destiny.
The arrival of Tesla electrified the court in more ways than one. On a cool evening, the American inventor was received at Yıldız Palace. Tall, gaunt, eyes bright with feverish imagination, he bowed deeply before the Sultan. "Your Majesty," Tesla said in his accented voice, "I am told you dream of an empire lit by the power of the heavens. I will give it to you. Not with coal, not with oil, but with the currents of the air itself." Abdulhamid studied him, remembering the wild-eyed stories of Tesla's promises in the old life. Here was a man who could conjure wonders, but who often slipped into fantasy. Still, genius must be harnessed, even if with chains. "You shall have what you need," Abdulhamid replied. "But remember this: the empire rewards brilliance, and buries waste. Give me results, not only dreams."
Röntgen arrived quietly, more a scholar than a showman. He presented the Sultan with a photograph of a hand, the bones visible within, captured by his mysterious rays. Abdulhamid held it in silence, the image chilling him. He remembered hospitals in the Great War, X-ray machines revealing bullets lodged deep. To his ministers, it seemed sorcery. To him, it was foresight solidified into flesh. "With this," he declared, "our soldiers will live who once would have died. Our doctors will see as Allah sees beneath the skin." He placed the photograph on the council table. "This is not a curiosity. It is empire."
Marie Curie was the most difficult to secure. The French raged at the idea of her leaving Paris. Crescent Eyes intercepted letters, bribed officials, and whispered promises into the right ears. At last, she arrived under Ottoman protection, her husband Pierre beside her. She spoke little at first, wary of the Sultan's shadowed court. But when shown the new laboratories rising along the Golden Horn, her expression softened. "Here," she murmured, "we may discover what lies hidden in the atom itself." Abdulhamid heard her words and trembled inwardly. He alone knew the future path of that discovery—the brilliance of medicine, the horror of bombs. Yet he did not stop her. He could not. Knowledge was a double-edged sword, but it was a sword the empire must wield first.
The founding ceremony of the Imperial Academy was unlike any the empire had seen. Turkish students in crisp uniforms stood beside foreign scientists in European coats. Steam engines whistled in salute as the Sultan cut the ribbon with a sword once wielded by Mehmed the Conqueror. "This day," Abdulhamid proclaimed, "the Ottoman Empire takes its place not as student, but as master. We will not borrow science. We will forge it. We will not imitate Europe. We will surpass it." The crowd roared, their cheers echoing across the Golden Horn.
Inside the academy, work began at once. Tesla erected coils that spat lightning into the air, terrifying the locals who whispered of djinn. Röntgen's machines hummed in the infirmaries, revealing bones and wounds. Curie and her husband handled strange glowing minerals, their notebooks filling with equations. Ottoman students learned alongside them, translating theories into Turkish, publishing the first journals in the new script. It was not merely knowledge—it was assimilation by ink and electricity.
But shadows grew alongside progress. British agents attempted to bribe Tesla, offering funds if he abandoned the Sultan. French envoys whispered to Curie, warning her she betrayed her homeland. Crescent Eyes caught them all. Some vanished into the Bosphorus. Others reappeared, bound and gagged, their letters of treachery read aloud before the council. Abdulhamid sent a clear message: "The empire's mind is not for sale. Those who reach for it will lose their hands."
In the months that followed, Istanbul changed. Streets lit with electric lamps glowed at night. Hospitals treated soldiers with X-rays. Workshops built new engines, stronger and faster, under the guidance of foreign masters. Schools taught not only faith but chemistry, mechanics, and medicine. The children of Anatolia, Mesopotamia, and even the Balkans repeated new words: elektrik, radyum, ışık. Words born from science, carved into Turkish tongue.
Abdulhamid walked the halls of the academy one evening, the hum of machines and the scratching of pens surrounding him. He paused before a classroom where Arab and Balkan boys bent over Latin Turkish texts, guided by a stern Turkish teacher. For a moment, his expression softened. "One people," he whispered to himself. "Not by sword, not by fear, but by knowledge. This is Allah's true gift." Yet he told no one of the deeper truth—that his confidence came not from divine inspiration alone, but from memories of a century yet to come. He bore that burden alone, locked within his heart, as he had since the day of his rebirth.
When the academy's first journal rolled off the printing press—a slim volume filled with studies of light, oil, and steel—Abdulhamid held it high in council. "This," he said, "is sharper than any blade. Europe has its guns and ships, but we will have minds. And minds do not rust." He looked at Selim. "Guard them well. The empire now rests not only on steel, but on thought."
That night, as lightning arced across Tesla's coils and Curie's minerals glowed faintly in their flasks, Abdulhamid stood on the palace balcony again. The Bosphorus shimmered below, but his eyes saw farther—across deserts and steppes, across Balkans and beyond. The empire had entered not just the age of steam, but of science. And with it, the future itself bent closer, waiting to be seized.