Reincarnated: Vive La France

Jean-Pierre had dismantled one of the test rotors again, muttering as he inspected the alignment of the contacts.

Luc was bent over the wiring jig, threading thin wires with surgeon's precision, while Henri rattled away at the typewriter, pulling intercepts into fresh stacks.

Alan Turing stood at the chalkboard, coat discarded, sleeves rolled up, his handwriting sprawling in wide columns of numbers and letters.

The Frenchmen had begun to joke that the board itself was his second laboratory half mathematics, half battlefield map.

"Henri," Turing said without turning, "how many intercepts today from Stuttgart?"

Henri pulled a sheet from the stack. "Five so far. All in five-letter groups, none broken. One looks like a weather report 'wolken' appears twice."

"Bring it here," Turing said.

Henri rose with the sheet, but before he could hand it over, the door swung open.

"Gentlemen!" boomed a familiar voice.

Renaud stepped inside.

He was smiling in that easy, lopsided way of his the look of a man who had wandered in from a dinner party, though everyone in the room knew better.

"Don't stop on my account," Renaud said, brushing snow from his coat. "I've come to watch our English magician turn wire into miracles."

Jean-Pierre muttered under his breath, "Another visitor. We'll need a second typewriter just for the guestbook."

Luc smirked, but Turing said nothing.

He reached for the intercept Henri held and studied it in silence.

Renaud crossed the room, peering over Luc's shoulder. "And what's this? A toy engine?"

Luc didn't look up. "A rotor. Not a toy. One day, it may save your life."

"Ah, then I should be very kind to it," Renaud replied smoothly. "Perhaps give it wine."

Henri chuckled, but Turing finally turned. "You interrupt our rhythm."

Renaud raised his eyebrows. "So strict, this Englishman. But rhythm is important. Without rhythm, even soldiers stumble."

He looked around the room, his tone softening. "Moreau wanted me to see the progress. That is all. Continue as if I were not here."

Turing studied him for a moment, then went back to the chalkboard. "Very well. Henri, read the first three groups again."

Henri obeyed, voice steady: "L-K-Q-P-V. G-H-F-Z-T. W-E-R-O-B."

Turing underlined the letters, then turned to Luc. "The probability of repeated trigrams is low. If this sequence appears again tomorrow, we must assume either operator error or repeated key settings."

Luc adjusted his wire. "And if it is error?"

"Then error is our opportunity," Turing said simply.

Jean-Pierre slid the rotor housing back together. "What about this Stuttgart man? If he's sloppy, perhaps he will stay sloppy."

"Sloppy men," Turing said, "win us the war."

Renaud leaned against the doorframe, watching them with mild amusement. "I always thought wars were won by generals. Now I see it is by men with ink-stained fingers."

Henri grinned. "Generals may win battles, but we win their orders before they arrive."

Renaud tapped his temple. "Clever. Very clever. No headlines for you, though. No parades."

Jean-Pierre muttered, "We prefer it that way."

Turing turned again, chalk squeaking as he drew a long vertical column of letters. "Parades are noise. We work in silence."

Renaud watched him a moment longer, then finally stepped closer, lowering his voice.

"Silence, yes. But you should know Germany is not silent. Reports suggest troop movements near Danzig. Quiet, but steady."

Luc looked up sharply. "Already?"

Turing kept his eyes on the board. "He said he would move east after the Sudetenland. Did you think him a liar?"

Renaud gave a small shrug. "I thought him arrogant. And arrogant men sometimes wait too long."

"No," Turing said, chalk still scratching. "They rush. That's their flaw."

For a moment the room stilled, the only sound the click of Henri's typewriter.

Then Renaud clapped his hands lightly, breaking the tension. "Back to work, then. While Berlin prepares its noise, we prepare our silence."

The hours dragged into late afternoon.

Turing worked with Luc to test the rotor wiring against known patterns, sliding sheets of paper back and forth with calculated precision.

Henri fed him intercept after intercept, while Jean-Pierre adjusted tolerances on the jig with a jeweler's file.

At one point, Renaud perched on the edge of a table, cigarette in hand, observing.

"You all work like monks," he said. "No songs, no cards, no laughter."

Henri muttered, "Try laughing after three hours of typing 'Q-W-E-R-T.'"

Renaud exhaled smoke. "You see, this is why I was never a scholar. Too much patience required. Give me a cavalry charge, at least then I know when to cheer."

Luc glanced at him. "And who cleans the blood after your cheering?"

Renaud spread his hands. "Not me. That's why I prefer the charge."

Jean-Pierre smirked despite himself. "Always the dramatist."

"Always the realist," Renaud replied. "But don't mistake me. I believe in what you are building here. I believe in it more than in half the officers I meet at the ministry."

Turing turned, suddenly sharper. "Then don't waste our time with jokes."

Renaud's smile faded, just a fraction. "I never waste time. Jokes keep men sane. You'll thank me for them when your board is full of numbers and your head aches like a cathedral bell."

Turing stared at him for a beat, then went back to the chalkboard. "Perhaps."

By evening, they gathered around the first functioning rotor assembly, crude but operational.

Luc connected the contacts, Jean-Pierre cranked the handle, and the lamps flickered in sequence.

"Not perfect," Luc said. "But it rotates clean."

Turing leaned in, examining the lamps. "Good. We'll need six by week's end."

Henri stretched his arms. "Six? We've only just finished one."

"Then you must work faster," Turing said calmly.

Jean-Pierre groaned. "Faster, always faster. You think wires grow on trees?"

Renaud blew out another cloud of smoke. "Better wires than graves."

The room went quiet.

Henri muttered, "That's one way to put it."

Turing tapped the rotor. "Every hour we delay, someone else moves a piece on the board. I won't let them outpace us."

Luc adjusted the assembly. "Then neither will we."

As night fell, Henri finally pushed away from the typewriter, rubbing his eyes. "Enough for today. If I type another five-letter group, I'll start dreaming in them."

Jean-Pierre chuckled. "Dreams of letters. At least they'll be organized."

Renaud stubbed out his cigarette and rose. "Gentlemen, you've done more in one day than most armies do in a week. That is worth something."

Luc muttered, "Worth what? Another day of the same tomorrow."

"Worth the chance," Renaud replied softly. "And sometimes chance is all history needs."

Turing stood at the chalkboard, staring at the rows of letters he had written.

His voice was quiet, almost detached. "History needs more than chance. It needs preparation."

Renaud met his eyes. "Then you prepare, Monsieur Turing. And I will see to it that Moreau gives you everything else."

For once, Turing said nothing.

He only picked up the chalk again, as though the letters themselves were calling.

Renaud tipped his hat to the room. "Good night, gentlemen. Don't let the ghosts of Stuttgart keep you awake."

As he left, Henri muttered, "That man always enters like a storm and leaves like smoke."

Jean-Pierre shrugged. "Better smoke than silence."

Luc looked at Turing. "And you? What do you think of him?"

Turing didn't look up. "I think he's useful. And I think he knows it."

They worked another hour in silence, until the lamps burned low and the chalkboard was crowded with more letters than walls could hold.