Istanbul, Spring 1912
The first light of dawn rolled across the Bosphorus like a molten ribbon, catching on glass roofs and factory chimneys that glittered where once only domes had stood. Smoke curled upward from the shipyards and power stations, twisting through the morning air with the scent of oil and salt. Below, trams clattered along the new steel tracks, filled with men and women dressed in modern uniforms, badges of the Imperial Academy stitched proudly to their sleeves.
Abdulhamid watched it all from the balcony of Yıldız Palace, leaning on the carved rail as the city below came alive. He had lived to see his dream breathe—an empire of motion, discipline, and unity. Ten years ago, he had spoken of steel as prayer; now his people recited it as instinct. The old Ottoman cadence had softened into the sharper rhythm of Turkish speech. Even the muezzin's call, broadcast from new electric loudspeakers, rose clearer than ever, echoing over a city that no longer slept at dawn.
Selim joined him quietly. He was older now, silver threading through his beard, but his movements retained the precision of a man who had never forgotten how to vanish into shadows. He placed a leather case on the stone balustrade and opened it, revealing reports stamped with the crescent seal.
"Majesty, the Academy's new graduates have been assigned. Nearly all posts are filled. The ministries report no shortages of engineers or teachers this year."
Abdulhamid nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on the harbor where a black-hulled battleship slid past the docks under its own oil-burning engines. "They are the first true sons of the new empire," he said. "Born into Turkish letters, raised by Turkish schools, loyal to one flag. The Iron Generation."
Selim's mouth curved faintly. "They speak of you that way, Majesty. The old guard call them your children."
"Then may they surpass their father," the Sultan replied.
The Iron Generation had come of age quietly but completely. In the factories of Izmit and Adana, young women operated precision lathes that turned rifle barrels smoother than any imported from Germany. In the hospitals of Baghdad, medical officers inoculated children with serums developed by Ottoman chemists, not copied from Europe. In the academies of Salonika, students built the first prototypes of motor-driven airframes, inspired by sketches imported years earlier but redesigned with local materials. Everywhere the second language of the empire had faded; Turkish reigned supreme, practical and direct.
Schools had become the empire's arteries. Abdulhamid had ordered that every provincial capital possess an Imperial Institute, and by 1912, the network was complete. In Mosul, in Skopje, in Damascus, students learned the same syllabus: mathematics, mechanics, scripture, and the ethics of discipline. The blending of religion and reason that had begun a decade earlier was now a living creed. The imams who once resisted now quoted formulas from the pulpit; the professors who once scorned faith now opened lectures with Bismillah. Knowledge was sacred, work was worship.
That morning, the Sultan toured the Imperial Academy of Sciences and Industry himself. The main hall smelled of oil and ink, of brass instruments and hot glass. Young researchers stood at attention as he entered, flanked by guards in dark uniforms trimmed with silver. Among the rows of apparatus, Abdulhamid saw marvels that would have been unthinkable twenty years earlier: electric turbines wound in copper produced in Anatolia, experimental radios able to transmit coded messages hundreds of kilometers, steam engines modified to run on distilled oil.
Professor Ahmet Kemal, once a student of foreign physics, demonstrated a new artillery rangefinder—small, compact, and manufactured entirely in Istanbul. "Majesty," he explained, "it allows our batteries to correct fire in seconds, even in low light. We've tested it near Izmir. Accuracy increased by half."
Abdulhamid examined the instrument, felt the cool metal between his fingers. "And every part built here?"
"Every part, Majesty. The glass from Bursa, the brass from our own foundries."
He smiled—a rare, weary smile that broke through the steel of his face. "Then Europe will soon understand that imitation was never our destiny. Creation is."
Everywhere he went, he saw the same reflection: his people mastering the tools that once mastered them. The transformation was not only material but spiritual. Men no longer bowed to foreign merchants; contracts were written in Turkish law, engineers signed their work with pride, merchants shipped goods stamped with the imperial crescent.
In the afternoon, the Sultan visited a military review at the outskirts of the city. Lines of infantry stood under the sun, their uniforms spotless, their rifles gleaming. The officers at their head were scarcely older than thirty—the first generation to have grown under the empire's unified schools. They moved with unbroken precision, commands crisp, wireless signals relayed through portable sets strapped to their belts. Abdulhamid watched them march past, and for a moment he saw not soldiers but time made flesh: the children of his reforms, ready to bear the weight he had carried for decades.
When the parade ended, one young officer approached—a major from Edirne, broad-shouldered, his accent pure Turkish. "Majesty," he said, bowing deeply. "It was your schools that made us. We live to serve the empire you forged."
Abdulhamid placed a hand on his shoulder. "Then serve it with wisdom. Steel is strong, but it is the mind that gives it purpose."
He watched the young man return to his unit and felt a strange ache behind his sternum. These were the children he had prayed for in his first life—the generation he had not been able to save. Now they existed, disciplined and unbroken. He would not let them die as fodder in the trenches of ignorance.
That evening, the Imperial Council met in the grand chamber, where electric chandeliers now replaced oil lamps. The ministers assembled—many of them graduates of the very academies they now oversaw. They spoke in measured tones of progress reports: new railway expansions into Arabia, oil exports balanced with domestic needs, population growth in Anatolia exceeding all forecasts.
The Minister of Education reported proudly: "Majesty, the literacy rate has tripled since the start of your reign. Even in the eastern provinces, Turkish reading is nearly universal among the young. The last schools using foreign curricula have been absorbed into the state system."
Abdulhamid inclined his head. "Good. The empire can be invaded through its books as surely as through its borders. Let none be printed but those that bind, not divide."
The Minister of Industry followed with updates on scientific progress. "Our turbine research is advancing rapidly. The Academy's engineers have developed a prototype engine capable of powering heavier airframes. They believe within two years, flight may become practical for short distances."
"Do they know what to do with such power?" Abdulhamid asked.
"They see it as proof, Majesty, that the empire stands equal to Europe."
"Then remind them it is not equality we seek, but endurance," the Sultan replied.
He dismissed the council near midnight, leaving only Selim behind. The commander placed a new folder on the desk—Crescent Eyes reports from abroad. The tone was different now: fewer whispers of rebellion, more of watching eyes. Britain and France had not dared another provocation since 1910, but their fleets had grown restless in the Mediterranean. Spies counted ships, measured fuel consumption, noted the patterns of maneuvers.
"They are probing," Selim said quietly. "They test our reactions. The Entente is no longer theory, Majesty. It is agreement waiting for a spark."
Abdulhamid nodded. "Then let them wait. Each year they spend sharpening their claws, we thicken our armor."
He stood and walked to the window, looking down at the city. Lights glimmered from factory windows, from ships anchored in the strait, from trains moving westward. The empire breathed through the night, confident and alive. He thought of the children in distant provinces reciting Turkish verses, of engineers tuning wireless transmitters, of mothers teaching sons to read the new alphabet by lamplight. All of it—every heartbeat of progress—was the rhythm of survival.
"Selim," he said after a long silence, "when I was young, I thought victory meant conquest. Now I know it means continuity. If these children outlive the storm, that will be triumph enough."
Selim bowed. "And if the storm comes sooner?"
"Then it will find us awake," the Sultan answered.
Outside, thunder rolled faintly over the Marmara, a distant summer storm moving over the water. The Sultan listened to it and smiled without mirth. The sound was familiar—the prelude to another century he alone remembered. But this time, his empire would not stumble into the fire blind.
He turned back to the map spread across his desk. The lines of rail and telegraph pulsed like veins across the paper. "Let them come," he murmured. "The Iron Generation is ready."