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WHAT ZEUS DELETED FROM THE CASE FILE

A real police report, written the way an officer would write it, with the details of a key scene from The Loop that never made it into the novel. Sent by email, and only to those who ask for it: one-off access, no spam, no leaks other than this one.

LOOP 185 420

ORBITING EARTH, on the space city station Olympus— technological sanctuary of the planet's privileged elite—the inhabitants prepare to perform the ritual that has dictated their lives for the past five hundred years. It is a ritual so intrinsic to their existence that they perceive it as a natural function of their being.

Today, as every day for half a millennium, an imperturbable calm reigns in this place, the same calm that precedes each scheduled restart. Beyond the polymer domes that protect the station, surveillance ships move with an almost feral stealth, like specters in search of souls lost in the blackness. It is a meticulously rehearsed ballet, a liturgy of movements calculated to the millimeter in the solitude of sidereal space. In this dance of death, every turn, every maneuver, has the sole purpose of ensuring that the ritual of the temporal reset takes place without mishap or interruption. Each ship, like a monk in a trance, moves with the precision of an astronomical clock; in their silent dance, they ensure that time, that immutable tyrant, can once again retrace its steps.

Meanwhile, the inhabitants, unmoved by this symphony of surveillance surrounding them, remain immersed in their routines. Their faces are masks of civility that, behind the luminescence of their personal cybernetic devices, hide their arrogance. In the streets, in the markets, in the squares, the Olympians live their last minutes of the day as if they were figures in a great diorama, taking for granted the technological miracle about to occur above their heads; a new reboot that, in its mysterious alchemy, can change everything or leave everything the same, in an eternal repetition of destiny.

The name Olympus is no accident, for in their self-centeredness, its residents believe themselves akin to the ancient Greek gods, living above the rest of the planet and looking down on those on the surface with contempt. They are, after all, closer to the great sacred machine, for above the orbital city—and even more sheltered than Olympus itself—is the centerpiece of the magnificent miracle that is the Time Loop. Floating triumphantly several thousand miles above them is the megastructure, the spherical fulcrum of this symphony of twisted time. This artifact, a technological miracle, is the pulsar that gives rhythm to the cycles. It travels in orbit in perfect synchronization with Olympus, anchored by gravity to each other like two entities in a perpetual cosmic waltz, a couple in an endless gravitational dance. This voiceless dance, the dance of the megastructure and Olympus, is the master of ceremonies orchestrating the temporal repetition. Such is the synchronicity that this silent dance writes the score by which time swirls and rewinds in an endless cycle.

The megastructure is so vast that it rivals a small moon and stands majestically like a beacon for all humanity, a resplendent jewel defying gravity with celestial grace. At the technological heart of this great sphere, protected by an intricate envelope of the most sophisticated science, an artificial white hole is held prisoner. Contained by antigravitational fields of immense power, this white hole is a mirrored but opposing recreation of a black hole, glowing with the brilliance of a thousand suns. A tamed celestial anomaly, an antithesis of the devourer of light, it now serves as a source of inexhaustible energy, a powerhouse feeding the perpetual unravelling and reweaving of the temporal tapestry. Despite the megastructure's outer shell, light escapes through the vents and apertures surrounding it, bathing the entire Earth's orbit like the only caged Sun in existence.

The origin of this machine and its architects is an enigma, as is the very purpose of its constant periodic replenishments. Yet even under these taboos, all inhabitants throughout Earth's orbit— Olympians, terrestrials, lunar Selenites, and even the dwellers of the small orbital stations—ignore the megastructure, paying it little heed, just as in ancient times the sunrises themselves were taken for granted.

Patrol ships constructed from a cold alloy of chrome-plated steel surround the megastructure. So polished is the metal surfacing these ships that, like a mirror, it reflects the light emanating from within the machine, causing intermittent flashes as they orbit. They move with a grace and agility unexpected for their sheer size, navigating the vastness of the machine with a fluidity that defies comprehension. The glowing trails they leave in their wake resemble luminous scratches on the black canvas of space, fleeting marks of their constant vigilance. Safety is paramount, as a malfunction could have catastrophic consequences for the entire solar system; hence the high concentration of government swarms. As each ship proceeds on its monotonous patrol, the outline of the megastructure is revealed in all its splendor.

The vastness of its surface is such that, seen up close, it looks like an alien landscape, a horizon of intelligent metal and strange light. The details of its construction, the near-perfect symmetry of its geometry, the blinding glow emanating from its bowels—all whisper the miracle of its existence, the astonishing prowess of its unknown architects who, like the ancient builders of Egypt's pyramids, remain anonymous to history.

The intricate technological tapestry supporting this wondrous sphere is an enigma of biblical proportions; it is as incomprehensible in its magnitude as it is in its purpose, origin, and creators. An unanswered mystery looms like an imposing shadow over human intelligence. Its original builders have remained anonymous, obscured by the curtains of memory. No traces of their identity or indications of their intentions remain. Were they humans touched by a spark of unbridled genius, or perhaps an advanced alien race that left its mark here, a gift from a civilization that looked at the universe with different eyes? The purpose of this perpetual repetition of a day, a twenty-four-hour terrestrial interval, is another equally perplexing enigma: Is it an experiment? A trap? A gift? A punishment? Conjectures intertwine and knot, forming a labyrinth of possibilities that the human intellect struggles to unravel. For some, it is a gift; for many others, a punishment. Though no one in the entire orbit thinks about it anymore —they simply assume it to be normal, something that, like the fundamental forces of the universe, cannot be controlled—one indisputable truth stands above all questions. This megastructure exists; it is there, over everyone's heads. And its power, its ability to manipulate time and twist reality, is unparalleled in all the space surrounding the planet. It stands as a beacon of incalculable power, a testament to what can be achieved when the frontiers of knowledge are transcended. Despite its mysterious origin and enigmatic purpose, its undeniable presence influences the lives of every human being living under its light. No one escapes its almost divine influence.

With only five minutes to go, in the colossal building known as The Tower, located in the very center of Olympus, government employees oversee the entire temporal retrograde. Because the roof is made of a special translucent nanoparticle alloy, the light from the machine provides natural illumination for the entire room, creating an almost divine ambience. Thanks to this ingenious architecture, the engineers in this white, circular chamber have a direct view of the megastructure floating above them.

Only the best and brightest are allowed in here, those who, with the help of the most sophisticated artificial intelligence ever created, work tirelessly to ensure the stability of the technological prodigy alongside it.

ZEUS—known by its acronym, "Zero Entropy Unhuman System"—is a perfect, quasi-omniscient, eternal neural consciousness whose core personality, its very essence, resides deep within the megastructure. Like the conductor of an orchestra, it controls the entire temporal process. Some in antiquity would have undoubtedly equated it with a god.

With just minutes to go before the time rewind is due to begin, the Tower's workers scurry around the room, keeping a certain nervousness at bay on the off chance that there might be a glitch in the process. It is an inconsequential worry, as ZEUS controls everything automatically and never makes mistakes. The AI of the megastructure is perfect.

Despite not understanding the reason for the need to repeat the same journey repeatedly, everyone continues to wait for it, almost with the need of an unhealthy withdrawal, as if all of humanity were ordinary drug addicts. Some might think it is out of fear of the unknown; others will say that they have become accustomed to it and can no longer live without the peace of mind that nothing they do matters. Even death itself has no value in this world because, even if it comes, one always begins by reliving a "new" day. With this lack of consequences, almost nothing matters anymore, yet many cling to these new beginnings and, like a drug, cannot live without them.

Here in the monitoring room, activity continues as usual, with no apparent problems. The astrophysicists and engineers are finishing their usual twelve-hour day, and everyone there is running hectically to and fro, engrossed in their routines before the end of the time circle. All except one person. One who, in the bustle, goes unnoticed by the rest.

Amidst the frenetic energy of the laboratory, a man with a serene countenance becomes an island of stillness. Middle-aged, with the charm of the years etched on his features, he wears the pristine white lab coat that accredits him as a scientist. His brown hair sits in perfect order on his head. Unlike his colleagues, his face is polished and free of the chrome marks common in his environment. He stands transfixed in front of the observation hatch, staring into the deep void as if time and space have paused for him. His gaze, like the mirror of the soul, is lost beyond the walls of the laboratory, carrying an invisible weight. He stares out over the horizon at the distant ripples of deep red shrouding everything behind a quantum cloth.

The scarlet veil is a side effect of tachyons and has been the only visible ceiling mankind has been able to glimpse for centuries, since the beginning of the reconfiguration of time at will. Trying to see beyond it is as impossible as trying to see a coin at the bottom of a pond through the ripples caused by a stone falling into the water. The crimson curtain obscures everything beyond it. Even the sun itself is not discernible behind its quantum distortion.

As the revival approaches, the scientist in the white coat searches those blood curls of the universe for some answer, some key that neither science nor reason has yet been able to decipher. But his thoughts and doubts are lost in the hustle and bustle while everyone present ignores his figure, despite the importance of his position. His name is Oliver J. Landom, the general manager of the "Time Loop" project and the man in charge of system maintenance. The Tower's top man remains pensive and distant; one could almost say he is overcome by a deep inner apathy.

"All set, Mr. Landom," a wholesome-looking young man interrupts his thoughts.

"Go ahead with the restart," replies Oliver without even looking at him.

From the outside, judging by his appearance, the director might look like a typical academic, with a calm and polite character, but nothing could be further from the truth. He is firm and tough with the work at hand. An authoritative figure, yet typically introverted even with his colleagues in the profession.

Tonight, however, he does not look the same. His slumped posture betrays a deeply weary man. In just a few minutes, when the day rewinds, he will wake up again in the solitude of his empty apartment in Takion City, down on Earth, to begin another twenty-four hours. Monotony is the master of his actions, and he will do the same things: a cup of black coffee, no sugar, drunk on the balcony of his cold house, looking out over the city skyline. Then he will take a private hovercraft and head for the orbital lift to climb up here once more, to the space station city of Olympus, to work on the Tower. He is immersed in an endless cycle of selfconscious routines, as if trapped in a probability equation that always collapses to the same state.

So, Oliver goes through the same ritual every time, not because he expects anything different, but perhaps because in the relentless repetition he finds the only form of meaning in a universe that has ceased to make sense. Lost in thought, he ignores the busy scene around him.

As in every time iteration, today all the visual indicators of the great machine are in optimal operation; the red tachyon field is stable and ZEUS is performing the last quantum calculations to perform a new twenty-four-hour retrograde, just like every one of the hundreds of thousands of days that the same imperishable succession has been repeating itself.

"Do a standard check on quantum systems and the tachyon field," Oliver asks his engineers.

"Systems integrity correct and online, wave function stable and about to collapse. The countdown to a new time regression begins," replies one of the physicists on site.

"What is the integrity of the white hole?" asks the director.

"It's one hundred percent, Mr. Landom. The values of the quantum singularity are the same as always," says another engineer in the room.

"What about the tachyon field? How does it hold up?"

"Stable and covering the whole orbit," says the engineer. "Nothing out of the ordinary, sir, as in every cycle..."

"Any complaints?" Oliver authoritatively questions the employee's insolence.

"None, sir," the physicist hastens to clarify.

"So, is everything ready for the tachyon wave, then?" continues the director.

"Affirmative," says the embarrassed quantum physicist without looking up from his computer.

Everyone in the control room remains anchored to their consoles, watching the countdown on the screens. The stony silence of this place contrasts with the hustle and bustle of the streets outside.

"One minute to temporal reset. Standby to receive the tachyon wave," ZEUS announces to the entire orbital cluster via the universal communication systems.

Hearing that, Oliver uses the link to the ZEUS planetary information network, looks at the countdown, and checks it on his "Personal Assistive Device," the PAD—the smart holo-bracelet that all citizens and employees are required by law to wear. He realizes, as the AI says, that there are only a few seconds left before the day ends and a new cycle begins. He takes a deep breath to fill his lungs, relaxes, and waits for another bath of tachyon particles to catapult him back to his apartment.

Everything seems normal just before the time jump, but then the calm is shattered with overwhelming violence. A roar, a rumble, a detonation whose origin lies outside the steel sanctuary of the station pierces the stillness, and the entire station begins to tremble, shaking like a ship during a storm of cosmic proportions. The tremor reaches such a magnitude that it snatches Oliver from his precarious balance and knocks him off his feet, plummeting him to the ground with brutal indifference. Simultaneously, the emergency systems activate. The atmosphere fills with the discordant sound of alarms, an emergency hymn ringing throughout Olympus, shuddering the air and echoing in everyone's ears. Pulsing red lights emerge from every corner, painting the station with a magenta glow that illuminates the fear on faces, casting dancing shadows that play with the hysteria of the moment. Oliver feels trapped in endless chaos, unable to comprehend what is happening.

Then another detonation is heard, just behind the hatch leading to the control room next to him. Thoughts run through his mind like lost stars as the trembling intensifies. He wonders what the hell is going on as he struggles to get up. Still dazed, he doesn't know what is happening. He runs as far as he can away from the access door, trying to get away from whatever is unfolding out there.

Plasma rifle fire can be heard in the distance outside the monitoring room. The soldiers inside huddle by the access door to prevent anyone from penetrating the megastructure's control system.

Oliver takes a deep breath of air as he crawls across the floor. There is no longer any doubt in his mind that this is a premeditated attack on Olympus and the megastructure, but who would be stupid enough to do such a thing? They could destabilize the containment of the white hole and exterminate all life in the solar system.

The chaos and bustle in the base become frenzied as soldiers run in all directions, hysterical, like ants trying to defend an attacked colony.

"ZEUS, close the access gates immediately!" shouts a soldier as he runs.

The artificial intelligence obeys immediately by armoring the doors with a second layer of steel protection.

"Closed," replies the AI.

"Everybody back! Quickly!" the soldier shouts again as he takes up a defensive position in front of the gates.

"What's going on, soldier?" Oliver asks him from the cold ground.

"Stay away from the gates, I said! That goes for you too, Director Landom!" the soldier berates him, pointing his rifle in the direction of the compound gates.

Oliver nods quickly before the soldier drags him back.

Amidst the roar of explosions and shaking, the soldiers crowd around the entrance, waiting for a possible assault. It is a highly unusual situation; never in five hundred years of restarts have they tried to break into these facilities by force. Their confusion is remarkable, and their surprise great, but in a few seconds, they manage to form a defensive squad.

"Platoon Bravo! Tactical defense position! Don't let the enemy get beyond this line! The hall must be defended. The Loop is everything! Do you copy?" shouts the commander to his men.

"The Loop is everything!" they all respond in unison.

All rifles are pointed at the door while shots continue to be heard behind it, until, suddenly, there is silence.

Meanwhile, the ZEUS countdown continues, oblivious to the commotion, broadcast over the public address system.

"Five seconds to restart, four seconds, three seconds, two seconds..." reports the AI.

The director crouches behind a table. Well, in a few seconds time will reconfigure itself and this madness will be over, he muses as he tries to shield himself from the attack.

"Two seconds, one second. Initiating time reset," ZEUS ends the countdown.

Amidst the tempest of his despair, Oliver squeezes his eyelids shut as if trying to compress reality inside him, longing for the sweet release of a new round. In the final stage of the countdown, silence hangs over him—the calm before the storm.

But then, something unimaginable arises, something unprecedented in the annals of the Loops' existence. The countdown has ceased and against all reason, against all understanding and expectation, nothing has happened. There is no temporal launch backward, no repetition, just the inexorable march of the clock ticking in its constant linear flow.

A sense of disoriented wonderment clings to Oliver. There are no sounds of recoil, no sense of his being fragmenting and reforming into a previous day. Just the cold reality of flowing forward, unrestricted and with consequences.

This is uncharted territory. For the first time in the machine's long history, the date has not begun again. The present is unknown and the future, once so predictable, has become a dark and uncharted horizon.

The screams and explosions return.

"Critical error, system failure," ZEUS announces to the orbit with an almost frightening calmness.

There's no restart! What's going on? Is there a malfunction? Oliver thinks, startled, staring at his PAD, absorbed, as if he has lost the ability to speak. He watches, uneasily, as the twenty-four hours fade away, leaving him breathless. His heart beats with unbridled force, unhurried and frantic, a mad race against his own chest. A cold, treacherous sweat snakes down his back, a palpable confirmation of an indescribable fear growing inside him. The daily reset, that old and constant friend, ever faithful to its twenty-fourhour cycle, seems to have betrayed him. For centuries, it has maintained its constant dance, an uninterrupted cycle. But now, in some incomprehensible way, the dance has ceased. He had hoped to awaken in the familiarity of his apartment, but instead, the cold, metallic reality of Olympus remains his refuge. Why has time, so inexorable and predictable, decided to defy its own nature? he thinks.

With the world reeling around him, Oliver clings to the wall, using it as an anchor to navigate the storm. His shaky legs look like they belong to a newborn, unsure and fragile against the vibration of the ground beneath his feet. His route takes him in front of a window, and at that moment, the whole world seems to stop.

What he sees takes his breath away. The crimson curtain—an unfathomable and impenetrable veil caused by the temporal distortion of the megastructure, ever-present since the machine's first activation—is gone. That impenetrable barrier which obscured any vision beyond its red cloak has vanished, evidence that the loop has not been performed, stopping the wave of tachyonic particles.

It is as if the veils of time and space have been removed, revealing the vast canvas of the universe beyond. For a moment, everything seems to vanish: the trembling of the ground, the vibration of the structure, the insecurity of his legs... and all that remains is the emptiness of space.

The moment is transcendental. For the first time in more than five hundred years of cyclical temporal repetition, the crimson curtain hiding the reality outside dissipates. Oliver, with a mixture of awe and apprehension, looks beyond. There, in the distant orbit, is the Moon. Beneath his feet stretches the Earth. But that is all. Elsewhere in the firmament, there is only infinite, impenetrable blackness. A blackness as intense as an all-enveloping abyss. There is not even the sun—that star so familiar to mankind, giver of warmth, light, and life.

With a frantic gesture, he rubs his eyes, questioning the integrity of his perception. Is it a dream, or perhaps an optical illusion induced by the same quantum mechanics that sustains the time sequence? He forces himself to look again. The blackness persists, stubborn and total. The void is infinite.

His bewilderment reaches exponential levels. The starry sky, which should be visible between the majestic buildings of the space city, has disappeared.

What does this absence, this emptiness, mean? Where are the stars? the scientist asks himself. In this precipice of uncertainty, Oliver is confronted with a darkness deeper than the simple lack of light: the abyss of the unknown. Where has it all gone? he wonders as he turns back to the screen of his PAD. It's already thirty seconds since the loop was supposed to have been reset, but it hasn't happened. And besides, where has it all gone? It's just darkness and silence out there, he questions what he sees. What's going on?!

Thousands of thoughts and conjectures flood his analytical capacity, trying to understand what is happening with the apparent absence of stars outside, but suddenly, all these thoughts become irrelevant when the access hatch to the control room bursts in a colossal explosion, trapping many of the security guards who were guarding it. Smoke, debris, and a strong smell of gunpowder fill the air.

"Cover, everyone! Go, go, go! Alpha maneuver! Go, go, go!" shout the few soldiers still standing inside the room, as the survivors stand up in confusion from the explosion.

Like a puppet guided by the strings of an overwhelming revelation, Oliver submits and retreats behind the first obstacle he encounters. In the depths of his being, a glowing truth emerges, gripping his conscience with steely claws. This is not a whim of chance, nor an unexplained malfunction. This is deliberate, thinks the director.

The explanation of the situation settles in his head like a heavy stone of reality. Someone or something has infiltrated The Tower and now intends to gain access to the machine's monitoring room. The events are not mere coincidences, but threads of a sinister web being woven.

The serenity of Olympus, the impregnable fortress on high, is being threatened. An attack is underway, and the calm that once reigned is being replaced by the shrill cry of intrusion and war.

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