The Sundering (32 page)

“There you are,” said Spence. “You want to rewrite the executive file to give you permanent access.”

“Will it let me?”

“I don’t know. Whose passwords are you using?”

“Lady Arkat,” Sula said. “She’s the head of System Security.”

Spence laughed. “You’d think the head of security would have thought to change her passwords the second you were out the door.”

“She’s rather old. Maybe she’s a creature of habit.”

“Or maybe she’s, well, on our side.”

Sula thought that the elderly Torminel was not as sympathetic as all that, but conceded she might be wrong.

“System,” she ordered, “open file
Executive.
”

The file sprawled out before her, thousands upon thousands of if/then statements. Sula gave a low whistle.

“How good are you at programming?” she asked.

“I
use
computers,” Spence said, “I don’t program them.”

“My programming courses were a while ago,” Sula said. Though she did some programming now and again, her skills were hardly first-class.

“Back up everything,” Spence advised, “go very slowly, and make use of any help files.”

“Right,” Sula said, and backed up the executive file first thing, both onto the Records Office computer and into the system in her desk. She made herself a pot of strong, sweet tea and prepared for a long night.

“I’m very good at puzzles,” she reminded herself.

It was the copy on her desk that she worked with. Fortunately the actual changes that she wanted to make were minor, even though they had far-reaching implications.
Whenever you change the password, send me a copy.
How complicated could such an order be?

She told the computer to send the copy to her hand comm, the one she carried with her. After a few catastrophic syntax errors, the program seemed to run, at least in Sula’s desk.

Sula took a deep breath and scrubbed her palms on her thighs, drying any hypothetical sweat. She would now have to load her altered program back into the computer at the Records Office. She pictured the thousand consequences of this attempt going wrong, Hong’s fury at one of his secret team being exposed, official reprimand, scathing reports in her file.

She sent her altered program to the Records Office and held her breath. Nothing happened.

Sula slowly let her breath out, then reached for her tea. It had turned cold, and the thick liquid was like a stripe of molasses on her tongue. She went to the kitchen for a few moments to reheat her tea, and when she came back, nothing had changed.

She sent herself some simple mail—“hello”—using the Records Office computer, and opened her hand comm to discover the mail waiting for her.

The next test was to see if she could create a set of identification. If she succeeded, she could simply mail the documents to herself here at the apartment. She began work, but stopped when an incoming message icon blinked onto her hand comm. She triggered it, and a text message appeared on the small screen.

My Lady Arkat,

We have detected an attempt to rewrite the Executive File of the main computer at the Records Office. This attempt occurred at 01:15:16. We will erase the corrupt copy and reload the Executive File from backups.

You have been assigned a new, temporary password: 19328467592.

Please change your temporary password to a permanent password of your choice as soon as you arrive at your desk in the morning.

In service to the Praxis,
Ynagarh, CN5, Assistant Data Administrator

Words leapt to Sula’s lips, words that would disconnect her at once from the Records Office computer.

She didn’t utter them.

Instead she tried to work out what had just happened. Though the intrusion had been detected almost ten minutes ago, she was still inside the computer. If the administrators had bothered to check to see who was connected remotely, they would have found her to be Lady Arkat, their own chief, a fact that would have made them reluctant to disconnect her.

Whatever the case, she still had access to the Records Office computer. She had Lady Arkat’s temporary password, which would be good for the next few hours, until Lady Arkat arrived at the office and changed it. But after that Sula would be frozen out, because the executive file that Sula had ordered to send copies of the new password had been erased.

As long as Sula stayed connected to the computer, she was still able to make changes, at least as long as she avoided whatever error it was that had caused her altered program to be detected in the first place.

She took another sip of her tea, jasmine and citrus honey gone tepid, and wondered what her error could have been.

Sula looked again at the error message.
01:15:16.
They had her intrusion down to the
second.

That gave her the first clue. Some rummaging in administration files revealed no less than six automated messages that had been sent toAssistantAdministratorYnagarh, each stating that the executive file had been replaced by one of a later date.

“Ah. Hah,” Sula said.

It had been the file’s date that had given her away. But in that case, why six messages, and not one?

The automated system had sent six messages because she had been detected in no less than six different ways. A second mentioned that the file size had changed. The other four informed Ynagarh that a change in the “hash signature” had been detected.

What the hell are
those
? Sula wondered. She turned to ask Spence if she knew, but Spence had long since gone to bed.

First things first, Sula decided. Dates were something she understood.

She checked the date on the executive file that had been loaded over her altered file, and found that it had last been changed nine years before.
Nine years.
The file itself had been created over
six thousand years
ago. It was obviously stable and required very little tweaking. No wonder her executive file had set alarm bells ringing.

Sula reheated her tea again and drank a cup while she contemplated the problem. Could the answer be as simple as changing the date on her file? She had the very high privileges that came with Lady Arkat’s account, and found that it wasn’t a problem: she changed the date on the file to nine years before, and when she made a backup file onto her own computer, the altered date didn’t change back to the real one.

And a message would go to the administrators if the file’s size changed: that was clear from Ynagarh’s messages. The program that she loaded into the Records Office computer would have to be the exact same size as the one there now.

She clenched her fists in a cold frenzy. Now she was going to have to go through the program line by line in hopes she could pare out enough redundant programming to make up for the lines she’d added. This was
maddening
…

Rather than even contemplate this task, she dug for a frantic hour through Lady Arkat’s help files and searched through the program’s architecture, and in time discovered what a hash signature was.

The ancient executive file was compiled into a binary form that, in addition to performing its various tasks, was itself an integer. By performing a calculation that was very easy to do in one direction, but difficult to backtrack—say dividing by
pi
and using the first thousand digits of the remainder—the resulting arithmetical signature—the “hash”—could identify even tiny changes in the file’s size.

Sula opened the file again and let the lines of code scroll in front of her bewildered eyes. She was too tired to think properly. She rose from her chair, stretched, and flapped her arms in hope of bringing a surge of blood into her weary mind. She stepped to the window and gazed down at the street below, the busy life of day much subdued now, the haunt of street cleaners and Torminel.

Sula’s eyes lifted to the eastern horizon, soon to turn pale green with rising of Shaamah. She had bare hours in which to perform her calculations. Somehow, she had to reverse-engineer the calculation that produced no less than four wildly different hash signatures, without knowing what the algorithms were or where they could be found.

She dragged her weary feet back to her desk. The executive file was
ancient,
she thought. It was so old it might have been written by the
Shaa
…

And then she stopped dead, as she remembered the fondness of the Shaa for prime numbers…

All weariness sizzled away as she made a galvanic leap into her chair. A list of prime numbers was available in a public database, and she disregarded the first thousand as too small, then seized the next nine thousand and ran them against all values in the executive file.

One
…The first match appeared in the display.

Two
…

Three
…

Four.

All the hash numbers were located in the same part of the program, which was clearly the part of the program having to do with alarms and security. She couldn’t have found the alarm program with a month of random searching.

The Shaa weren’t so damned smart, she concluded.

Sula scanned the program with great interest. There were the access codes, which were the key, and the alarm files, which were the lock, and there were the log files that recorded all changes in the system, which was a record of which key went with which lock, and when.

What she had to do, it turned out, was change both the lock
and
the key. And then the records had to be changed to read,
This has always been the lock,
and
This has always been the key.

In the next hour Sula added extra code to the executive file. In order, this set permissions on the log files to unwritable, which would prevent her manipulations from being detected, deleted the last line of the log file, which otherwise would have included her previous command, sent a copy of any new password to Sula’s comm, and then set permissions on the log file back to writable, which returned everything to normal

She prepared all the hashes for the alarm files.

Then Sula created a new program that would load her own executive file into the computer at the Records Office, something that would manage the whole procedure a lot faster than could Sula by giving orders or typing commands.

The program had a number of familiar commands, and some that were new: it set permissions on the log files to unwritable, deleted the last line of the log file, engaged all diagnostic programs, updated size and hash information on all alarms, copied her executive file over the old one, altered the dates of creation and modification on her new file to those of the old one, then ended all diagnostic programs and reset permissions on the log files to writable.

She tested the operation several times in her own computer. Then, holding her breath, she triggered her new program.

Sweat prickled on her forehead as she looked at Assistant Administrator Ynagarh’s messages, and saw no message alerting him to anything amiss with his computer.

She let out a long breath. It seemed that she’d got away with it.

Dawn was greening in the east. Sula made a last, obsessive scan of everything once more, just to make certain the file was as she left it, and then broke the connection. She told the apartment’s system to wake her in the morning just before the Records Office opened for business, so that she could be sure to get into the computer on Lady Arkat’s temporary password before it was changed.

As she prepared for bed Sula looked at herself in the mirror and was appalled. Her eyes had deep shadows under them, her hair was stringy, and there were blooms of sweat under her arms. She couldn’t abide sleeping in such condition, so she took a thorough shower. She went into the bedroom she shared with Spence, groped her way to her bed, and fell into it.

For once, oblivion did not take long to reach her mind.

It seemed as if she took only a few breaths before the alarm chimed her awake, and she threw on clothing and ran to the desk. It was broad, brilliant daylight. Spence was making herself breakfast, and Macnamara had already left on his morning errands—as the team’s courier, his task was to check certain public places to find if any messages had been left for the team, and he’d been provided with a two-wheeled vehicle for the purpose.

Sula called the Records Office and used Lady Arkat’s temporary password to gain access to the main computer. Spence silently brought to her desk a cup of heavily sweetened coffee, shortly followed by a toasted muffin and a pot of jam.

The question was how long it would take Lady Arkat to turn up at her desk. If she were like many of the Peers in the civil administration, she might turn up at midmorning, or even after a long luncheon.

Sula opened her hand comm and put it on the desk in front of her. She ate her muffin and asked Spence for another.

She ate her second muffin. She paced. She made more coffee. She emptied her bladder. She brushed her teeth and combed her hair.

She tried to keep from screaming aloud.

Spence stayed very much out of her way.

Lady Arkat turned out to be one of the midmorning Peers. It was just after midmorning, at 13:06, when Sula saw that the head of security had checked in and viewed her morning’s messages.

A few minutes later, Sula’s hand comm chimed. She checked the message, and found Lady Arkat’s new password waiting for her.

She leaped up from her chair to give a shriek of exultation. Then she deaccessed the Records Office and bounced joyously around the apartment, tidying the breakfast things.

Macnamara returned from his errands and walked into the apartment carrying a bag of provisions. “No messages,” he reported. Then, seeing Sula’s state, he asked, “Something happened?”

“I’ve become the Goddess of the Records Office,” Sula said.

Macnamara thought about this for a moment, then nodded. “Very good, my lady,” he said, and went to the refrigerator to put away the groceries.