2734 Hiyama.
“What the…?” She tapped the device, rubbed its screen, scanned, and saw it again: the same number and name, followed by gibberish garbage across the screen.
“Okay,” she said. “Now I’m getting concerned.”
Cheryl paced across the gallery and scanned another work.
The same number, name and gibberish text cascaded over the display.
She checked a Monet, then tested Van Gogh; the same reading showed for each one. They hurried toward the modern wing; Cheryl rushed to its largest work. She scanned the colossal wall-spanning Rothko.
2734 Hiyama.
“This…” she said. “This makes no sense!” She snapped out her phone and called the guard desk. “Raj,” she said, “you guys have any problems last night?”
The guard chuckled. “I wish. Boring as ever, Dr. Carter.”
“No interruptions or anomalies or… anything?”
“Nope. Everything’s smooth; video and sensors were verified each hour. Not even a fly passed through last night. Archived logs are set if you’d like to confirm.”
“Thanks, Raj.” She scanned the ceiling. “Might do that.” Cheryl clicked her phone off. She reviewed the room’s motion sensors, its lasers, and camera array. Mike followed her gallery walk; they strode back toward classic works. Cheryl passed a covered frame—it was set near a transport box. She lifted its sheet and scanned oil paint.
The device’s screen remained blank.
“Finally,” she said. “This one reports older dyes.”
Mike looked at the box. “Shipping out?”
“Yes. It’s the Caravaggio we had on loan. It’ll be gone before opening today.” She sighed. “Let’s head back and figure out this glitch.”
They returned to the museum’s restoration lab; Cheryl slumped in her chair. Mike dragged over a seat of his own and settled down along-side.
“Hiyama,” Cheryl said. “What could that mean.”
“Error code?”
“Nah. Error codes trigger if the reader breaks. Corrupted scans are ignored, and there would be dozens of crystal reflection stamps in any drop of modern paint.” She looked at the device. “To get a scan that shows up like this, there would have to be a valid read. But paintings should have a fingerprint that never parses identical.”
Mike scooted closer.
“The crystal format is static,” Cheryl said. “It has a set grammar: year and manufacturer in the header—that won’t ever change; then identification code after that. Any new stuff would be tacked on the end.”
“And if there was new stuff?”
Cheryl shrugged. “The reader would parse it, but couldn’t decode it.”
“So, display gibberish?”
“Maybe.” She looked at the jumbled scan. “Kinda like… this.”
Max Lark lives in Toronto, Canada with two affectionately obstinate rescue cats. You can follow his writing at www.maxlark.com
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