Masada's Gate: A Space Opera Noir Technothriller (The SynCorp Saga: Empire Earth Book 2)

by Bruns, David

  Gregor let the room breathe. Bekah had seen it before on projects. He was fine with the uncomfortable silence, wanting it to spur his senior staff to offer up constructive suggestions. Daniel flitted his eyes at Bekah like he hoped to crib the answers to an exam. Carrin studied her fingers, which seemed to be typing what she was unwilling to say aloud.

  “Ms. Franklin, what do you think?” Gregor asked finally. “You’ve been very quiet.”

  Rahim made a soft, amused sound. “She’s always very quiet.”

  A nervous, light laughter passed around the table.

  Smiling, Bekah glanced around without making eye contact. “I’m just listening,” she said, hoping that would be enough. She hated talking in meetings, especially when Titan’s regent presided.

  “I’ve noticed that about you,” Gregor said, not unkindly. The smile on his face was less weary now, more familial and lived in. “But when you speak, you always have something intelligent to say.” His compliment, unexpected in a public setting, seemed to open up a box inside Bekah. She was surprised by the quiet pride she found inside it. “Speak your mind.”

  “Come on, Bekah,” Rahim prompted. “Cut through the code.”

  Bekah’s expression relaxed. It was what Rahim always said when he wanted her to use her fabled ability to see past the eye-crossing clutter of programming to find an error obscure to everyone else yet obvious to her. He called it using her Oracle’s Oculus.

  “Sometimes it’s better to look at what we know first,” she said. “Or at least what we think we know. To keep from building on a foundation of faulty data.”

  Gregor nodded. “Start at the beginning, then.”

  “The Masada mainframe contains every R&D project we’ve ever conducted,” Bekah said. She ignored Daniel’s and-then-the-dinosaurs-came look of impatience. “If Rahim is right and the SSR has already infected the mainframe, then it’s only a matter of time before they steal everything in it.”

  “Even the experimental stuff,” Carrin said. The significance of that was obvious. “The new stunner prototype that penetrates first-generation MESH. The folding-space jumpgate simulation model. The—”

  “Yes, that is what is at stake, Carrin,” Gregor said. “But our analytics have found no breach. I’m asking all of you how we can best protect our data.”

  “We first have to identify the threat,” Rahim said. “Aberrant code, maybe, newly introduced as a virus.”

  “Or code that looks old and legit because its timestamp has been forged,” Daniel added.

  “We must assume the firewalls we have in place—sophisticated as they are—will be breached at some point,” Gregor said. “This Cassandra, the leader of the Soldiers of the Solar Revolution—she is the result of human procreation and artificial intelligence. The AI that controlled the New Earthers thirty years ago was destroyed, but not before altering Elise Kisaan’s DNA. Cassandra is the hybrid child resulting from that experimentation.”

  “You’re saying we’re not just fighting another group of programmers working for the SSR,” Rahim said. “We’re fighting an artificial intelligence that’s sophisticated enough to gene-splice human DNA?”

  “One whose thought-to-action processes aren’t as limited as a human’s,” Gregor said.

  “But how can we outthink an AI that can process trillions of operations per second?” Carrin asked.

  “We can’t,” Bekah said. “We can’t think faster, so we have to think smarter.”

  “What does that mean, though?” Carrin asked.

  “It means,” Gregor said, “we have to think beyond the standard anticipate-counter model of viral response.”

  “All right, sir,” Rahim allowed in a way that said he was again trying hard to be cordial. “But what does that really mean in practice?”

  “Buried treasure,” Bekah said.

  Gregor’s head tilted. “Explain, Ms. Franklin.”

  “Every viral attack has a purpose,” Bekah said. “To steal data, compromise the data holder … something . Cassandra has secured CorpNet to cement her power by controlling the means of communication with citizens across the system. It makes sense she would target us next.”

  “Once she steals the Company’s tech secrets, she can build the next-generation stunner,” Carrin said soberly. “Or the next-generation warship.”

  Gregor pursed his lips. “Knowledge is power.”

  “But what if our goal weren’t simply to keep Cassandra out,” Bekah continued. “We already agree—it’s almost impossible. Over time, the processing power of her AI brain will breach the best security we can offer—no offense, Carrin. You said it yourself: sieges always end. It’s only a matter of time.”

  “So, we should just let her in?” Carrin asked, her security expert’s ethics clearly offended by the idea.

  “Not just ,” Bekah said.

  The three team leaders around the table shared impatient expressions. Gregor Erkennen seemed intrigued.

  “What if we created thousands—millions—of buried treasure sites across a mirrored backup of Masada’s databanks?” Bekah said. “If we can convince Cassandra that the fake mainframe is the real one by fighting hard enough to protect its fake secrets…”

  Rahim tapped his finger on the table. “It’s a cool idea, but her attacks could number in the billions. Cassandra can always think faster. We’d never be able to keep up. We’re back to the speed issue again.”

  “A Holy Grail,” Gregor said.

  “A what?” Daniel asked.

  “A Holy Grail. A decoy so convincing, you believe it’s real because you want to believe it’s real.” Gregor leaned forward, his voice alive with the idea. “We already have a backup site for the mainframe at Prometheus Colony, in case of a catastrophic event up here. Let’s invert that reality, ladies and gentlemen. Let’s turn the backup from a perfect replica of the mainframe into a perfectly flawed replica that appears to be the real thing . With thousands of flawed fakes of every technological innovation we’ve ever produced, going back thirty years. No, not thousands, millions of flawed fakes—Holy Grails. And around each one, the highest level of security—the moat of code around the castle, yes?” Gregor’s enthusiasm was shining from his eyes. “We put millions of Holy Grails behind the strongest of castle walls—the toughest, most robust security protocols we can produce. Innovations so well protected, Cassandra will identify each and every one as must-have tech.”

  “So you’re suggesting,” Rahim said, “that the AI’s own prioritizing algorithms will sucker her into thinking they’ve found top-level tech behind top-level security. Lead her down rabbit holes.”

  “Rabbit holes full of Holy Grails.” Carrin’s earlier incredulity had turned predatory.

  The excitement of the idea seemed to pass from person to person.

  “Millions of Holy Grails,” Bekah said.

  Daniel raised his hand before speaking, as if in school again. “But what about the real data? The actual tech secrets, especially the experimental stuff. How do we protect that?”

  “We cut Masada Station off from outside contact,” Gregor said. “The station goes dark and stays dark. Nothing but passive network monitoring. The station will seem abandoned. Cassandra will think we’ve turtled up on Titan to protect our data. And we’ll build a data history showing the station was never anything more than an outpost—that all the real discoveries made in the last thirty years happened at Prometheus. Not up here.”

  “So all Cassandra’s efforts will be aimed at Titan,” Carrin said, her tone what a smile must sound like. “And its millions of moats surrounding millions of coded castles with their millions of fake Holy Grail artifacts.”

  “We don’t have time to create the tens of billions of yottabytes of code we’d need to pull off such a masquerade,” Gregor said. “So we’ll have to adapt existing code.”

  “You mean, use actual discoveries as bait? Even the experimental stuff?” Daniel asked. “Isn’t that dangerous?”

  “Yes, but we can
build in critical errors and gaps in the code,” Gregor said. “We hide the new stunner tech, the folding-space gate, and the rest in plain sight. But with the code fatally flawed in such a way that the tech would never work.”

  “Turn alphas into gammas,” Rahim said. “Null sets into factorial expansions. Divide by zero now and then. But we have so little time … it would literally take years to do all that.”

  The quiet that followed was strange in the wake of the excitement that had permeated the room.

  “We write our own worms,” Bekah said.

  As one, the table turned to her.

  “We fill the Prometheus decoy d-base with our own programming worms specifically aimed at changing equations, cutting lines of code, and blowing out all the performance thresholds,” she said.

  Gregor Erkennen pushed his seat away from the table and stood. “We need two teams. We’ll need the vast majority of our staff on Titan, creating the fake mainframe and its security protocols. It doesn’t just have to look good, people. It has to fool the most sophisticated AI that’s ever existed. Cassandra’s worms must be convinced that Prometheus Colony is home to SynCorp’s secrets. And that fake history of the colony itself I mentioned—work schedules, meal orders, the number of times the toilets have flushed—thirty years of data documenting human existence, tied to all of your names, which Cassandra may very well know by now. And another thing—the Prometheus decoy must be entirely detached from Masada. We can’t take a chance on Cassandra finding a back door to the real data—one open data port could compromise everything.” He scanned the table, emphasizing that fact. Then, “I’ll head the Prometheus team myself. A second, smaller team will remain here on Masada Station, monitoring what’s happening and prepared to defend the real treasure chest of SynCorp secrets, should Cassandra discover our ruse. Bekah, I want you leading that team.”

  She looked up sharply. “Sir?”

  “It’s your insight that helped us determine a viable defense. I want you and your insight here, protecting our most sensitive data.”

  “Okay,” she said with an awkward glance at Rahim. To her surprise, he wore a proud expression. He didn’t seem jealous at all.

  “We’ll need to fast-evacuate the station to Titan,” Gregor said. “I’ll oversee that effort. Rahim, you’re in charge of setting up the greatest diversion in human history. I want hourly updates on your progress. Local network only. No CorpNet connection.”

  “Of course, sir. I’d be honored.”

  “Get to it, ladies and gentlemen,” Gregor said. “We’re already behind, and we have no idea how far.”

  As chairs scraped the floor, Rahim beamed warmly. “Time for the big leagues, Bekah.”

  “Doesn’t get much bigger,” she answered. Gregor was already on the station’s comms, ordering the evacuation.

  “What’s wrong?” Rahim asked. Then, as realization dawned: “It’s your grandfather, isn’t it?”

  Bekah nodded. “I doubt he’s healthy enough to move to Prometheus.”

  “You should go see him.”

  “Yeah. And now, this … it’s a lot to take on.”

  “Hey, Bekah,” Rahim said, reaching over to squeeze her hand, “you’re the best natural coder I’ve ever seen. You’re like a savant or something. If anyone can protect Masada, it’s you.”

  His belief in her was almost enough to inspire the same confidence in herself.

  “Thanks.”

  “Tell your grandfather I said hi,” Rahim said over his shoulder. “And that I miss his hummus!”

  Bekah watched him go. She should really get her team together. To prove to Gregor that his faith in her wasn’t misplaced.

  But first, she needed to visit her grandfather.

  Chapter 4

  Kwazi Jabari • Valhalla Station, Callisto

  “Again!”

  Kwazi Jabari got to his knees on the deck. More slowly, this time. More carefully.

  The endurance training he’d undergone after signing his contract to work in the Qinlao mines on Mars hadn’t been this rigorous. Then again, it’d been in a point-four-g environment, not the variant half- to one-and-a-half g’s Carl Braxton was inflicting on him. His stomach felt loose, suspended on rubber bands. Braxton appeared to take a grim delight in literally jerking him around by varying the gravity in the training room without warning.

  “Tell me again why this is necessary?” Kwazi asked, standing up.

  “Need to know. And you don’t. Not yet, anyway,” Braxton said, arms crossed. “But I’ll tell you this much: you never know when artificial gravity will fail. Grav-reaction skills are good to have. I’m training your body to keep you from losing your lunch. It’s like riding a bike on Earth. Once you muscle-memory VG, you never forget.”

  Braxton leaned against the padded wall of the training arena, his magnetized boots firmly clamped to the metal floor. A permanent expression of distrust painted his face. “Now, back on your feet, Hero of Mars. Back to first position.”

  Don’t call me that, asshole .

  Kwazi resumed his place at the start of the obstacle course.

  “Course setting: alpha-two,” Braxton told the tech outside the arena. Then, to Kwazi: “Don’t try to anticipate. You can’t. That’s where you’re going wrong. That’s what the pads are for.”

  “Okay.”

  “Ten second warning.”

  Kwazi adjusted the strap of his left elbow pad, trying to cinch it tight without cutting off his circulation. Either he’d master the course without the pads eventually, or he’d be off the strike team. Braxton had made that much clear. What he hadn’t made clear was the target of their strike.

  “Go!”

  The lighting changed from the amber of Callistan norms to the shadowed crimson of a starship on alert. Kwazi didn’t fall for it this time—Braxton’s “Go!” and its implied start to a race. Instead of sprinting forward, he moved at a measured pace toward the first small shipping container along the course track. His step was light but cautiously so, and for good reason. The half-g gravity doubled suddenly, making his extremities feel thirty pounds heavier. It was like the weight of the iron in his blood was being dragged downward.

  Expecting another gravity shift at any moment, Kwazi knelt behind the container, ready to adjust. He reconned the corner to clear it, then rose. The shift came and his limbs lightened, his stomach floating like a suspended balloon, a fluttering giddiness tracking up his gullet. He leaned into the feeling, didn’t fight it, like Braxton had taught him. Turning the nearly non-existent gravity to his advantage, Kwazi stepped quickly, springing upward to launch from the top of the container. Twisting to redirect his momentum, he caught the wall with his right kneepad, wincing as the shock reverberated up his leg. Bouncing off, he redirected toward the course’s center, propelling upward with near weightlessness. Using his arms to deflect the ceiling, Kwazi angled back to the floor.

  Gravity reengaged, and the shift snatched him from the air, but once again he embraced the pull instead of fighting it. Drawing his limbs in, Kwazi angled toward the cover of a second cargo container. His feet touched the floor and he rolled, halting only when his back flattened against the crate’s hard edge.

  Now, that’s the way you do it .

  “Better!” Braxton barked, sounding almost impressed. “But you’re dead anyway.”

  The momentary heat of joy at finally besting the course evaporated, becoming instead the familiar blanket of Braxton’s disappointment. Kwazi stood and turned to see his trainer pointing at a console jutting out from the wall at the eight o’clock position relative to his own. It wasn’t really there of course, just an optical illusion painted by the skinning tech onto the wall. But in the training scenario, it was a 3D reality Kwazi should have seen easily when he’d gained enough height to deflect from the ceiling.

  But he’d been so intent on performing the low-g maneuver, he’d neglected to clear the area hidden by the corner of the console. The jutting shadow created by the faux alert’s red l
ighting was a dead space where an enemy could easily hide. In a real action, Kwazi could very well have been shot in the back while he congratulated himself for conquering the demands of gravity manipulation.

  The arena’s illumination snapped back to Callistan norms. Kwazi met Braxton’s eyes. For once, they were surprisingly non-judgmental.

  “Maybe I should go in the second wave,” Kwazi said.

  “Stow that,” Braxton said, cutting a thumb across his neck at the tech outside. They were done for the day. “No time for tiny violins. You’re the face of this thing. You won’t be point guard, but you’re going in early. And going out live on The Real Story .”

  The face of this thing .

  That had a familiar ring. But at least this was a choice Kwazi was making. Fighting with the troopers of the SSR—this was him, taking back his ability to make choices. This was him making a difference.

  “You’ve earned some downtime,” Braxton said. Attempting to sound empathetic was strange coming from him. Like a boxer quoting poetry. “Get some food. We go again in eight hours. No pads, then.”

  “Okay. I’ll be in my quarters for a bit, then.”

  “Set an alarm! We’ve got priorities here, Jabari. I don’t want to have to pull you out of Dreamscape again.”

  Kwazi gave a lazy wave of acknowledgment, already anticipating his time alone with Amy.

  • • •

  Entering his temporary quarters beneath Loki’s Longhouse elicited, as usual, mixed emotions in Kwazi. Braxton’s bar, like the rest of Valhalla Station’s Entertainment District, was built over the remains of the graveyard of Earth’s first attempt at domesticating Callisto.

  That early base had been carved right out of the moon’s surface. The first expedition to Jupiter’s least-radiated moon had ended tragically when an uncharted asteroid impacted Callisto’s surface. The rock missed the colony by half a lunar diameter, but the resulting moonquake had fractured the plastisteel dome. Earth’s first humans to venture beyond the Asteroid Belt had perished without so much as a goodbye to their inner system relatives.