For both political and practical reasons, Mag-8 in Jordan had been chosen as the main centre of operations for the entire Project as the final countdown got under way. There was nothing more that could be done at this point. All the tests and checks were complete, and security was now so tight that nothing barring a major incident was going to stop Ignition going ahead. But the world could not afford for anything to go wrong, so it had been agreed that if any of the eight facilities was compromised or developed an unforeseen last-minute glitch, the entire run would be called off.
The threat of a strike of some kind by the Purifiers was uppermost in everyone’s minds. But Marc also worried about another aspect of the Project. Tomorrow, control would pass over to the eight AI Minds, one at each facility around the globe. At T-minus three hours, the entire operation would go into Lockdown, meaning that while the Minds could communicate with each other, to raise any last-minute problems that might trigger a postponement, there would be no means whatsoever to intervene from outside. It was a radical decision. But the very real threat of cyberattack by the Purifiers meant that this was deemed to be the safest option.
And so, the fate of Homo sapiens would for the first time be in the hands, metaphorically speaking, of artificial intelligences. Marc would never have believed that such a day would come during his lifetime.
For a few days last week there had been a real possibility of delay to Ignition. First Mag-6 on New Zealand’s South Island and then Mag-7 on Hawaii’s Big Island had had to deal with mild earth tremors. Neither site was geologically ideal, but they were the only two locations in the vast Pacific Ocean that could host the bending magnets. The tremors hadn’t persisted, and they didn’t seem to be precursors of more serious seismic activity that could have disrupted the alignment of the bending magnets, so the decision was taken not to postpone.
Then, just three days ago, Marc heard that J-PARC Laboratory, the site of one of the primary dark-matter accelerators, had problems with one of the superconducting magnets in its proton beam booster ring. Sections of a fifty-kilometre-long niobium cable wound around its central solenoid seemed to have degraded and had had to be replaced. The problem was quickly fixed, with the only damage being to the pride of the Japanese accelerator engineers.
And now everything appeared to be on track. After months of intense worldwide activity, the most ambitious, and certainly the most consequential enterprise ever attempted by humankind was ready. He hoped.
It all came down to this now. The waiting.
Over breakfast, Qiang looked agitated and irritable. ‘I can’t understand why so many VIPs have come to Jordan,’ he said. ‘I know Mag-8 is the designated epicentre of the whole operation and I can understand the need for the world’s media to be here to report on it, but everyone else …?’
Marc didn’t respond. Qiang was right, of course.
‘… I mean, either the ground opens up under our feet, and that will be that, or nothing happens, and we won’t know if it’s been successful for months.’
Marc nodded. ‘True. But a lot of people want to be part of history. They will be able to say they were there when the world was saved. Anyway, don’t forget that most people have chosen the sensible option of spending what might be their last days at home with their loved ones.’ Again, he thought about Evie.
It was Sarah who asked: ‘For that matter, why are we even here? It’s not like we can do anything now.’ She had been intending to return to England to be with her family, until she realized she’d left it too late to travel.
Marc sighed. ‘I guess it’s our moral obligation to see this through. Well, mine and Qiang’s anyway. But, hey, we’ll all be global heroes when we save the world! And besides, if I’m going to be witness to the end of the world then what two better people to share the experience with.’
He’d meant it as a light-hearted joke, but it fell flat.
The decision to choose Mag-8 as the focal point of the operation had been made carefully. It was agreed that giving just one of the eight Minds, the one here in Jordan, override control was the only way to ensure the run couldn’t be compromised. Every decision made by any one of the other seven Minds had to be passed through the Mag-8 Mind. The isolated location of the SESAME facility in the Jordanian desert also made security easier.
And meanwhile, the rest of the world became ever more nervous. All transport had now come to a virtual standstill; banks, offices and schools had closed; in many countries, the military had assumed control. All but essential emergency services had ground to a halt as entire communities gathered together for comfort. Old scores were settled, and differences resolved, sometimes peacefully, sometimes violently. Some people partied, some prayed, while others couldn’t shake off an overwhelming sense of nihilism and futility. The number of suicides, by those not willing to wait around to witness the destruction of the planet, soared. A few hid themselves away in underground bunkers in the misguided hope that they would be protected if the Project failed.
Most people, however, remained resolutely optimistic about the success of the Project, unable to contemplate failure. Marc regularly heard the ‘hope for the best, prepare for the worst’ philosophy, where in this case the superlative ‘worst’ really meant that. No one could see beyond 12:45 Coordinate Universal Time on Tuesday, 17 September: the moment when all the waiting, all the preparation, all the testing and checking of formulae and calibration of instruments, was over. The moment of reckoning. Salvation or Armageddon.
It would be 15:45 here at Mag-8.
Two Jordanian military approached their table. The younger one, a soldier in army fatigues holding an impressive-looking semi-automatic M26 gun against his chest, stood just behind the senior officer, a man in his forties, immaculately dressed in khakis and sporting a magnificent thick black moustache. He spoke to them in perfect English. ‘Excuse me for interrupting your breakfast, but we’re about to depart for SESAME in a few minutes and we need all guests accounted for in the lobby.’
Marc and the others nodded their thanks, finished their coffee and readied themselves.
Situated an hour’s drive outside Amman, the SESAME facility had begun its scientific life as a synchrotron source, with its first beams produced in early 2020 after many delays and huge political stumbling blocks. Now a major high-energy facility and the largest in the Middle East, it was still one of the few places in the world where Israeli, Saudi and Iranian scientists worked in close collaboration. So, if there ever was a place that symbolized humankind’s ability to come together in the face of global adversity, this was it. What also made it an ideal location was that it already had the necessary infrastructure in place to build one of the giant bending magnets.
Marc, Sarah and Qiang arrived together with an army of other dignitaries, politicians and journalists in a large convoy of military vehicles and were ushered inside the building by nervous-looking soldiers. The main reception hall resembled the entrance to a grand palace. Marc marvelled at the high sheen of the luxurious patterned tiles on the floor and could smell the walls had been freshly painted in readiness for the eyes of the world.
As they shuffled along with the other guests he noticed Sarah stiffen. He followed her line of sight: on the far side of the room stood Senator Hogan, talking to a group of men and women. Marc touched her arm gently, making her jump. ‘Ignore him, Sarah. I know he can be an unpleasant bully, but as soon as this is over you won’t need to have any more to do with him.’
Sarah didn’t respond.
They were led through to the main conference centre and asked to take their seats while 3D visors were handed out. They were to be given a virtual tour through each of the eight facilities. Marc had seen this several times before but placed his visor over his head anyway. He found it hard to believe that it was only seven months ago that Qiang had outlined his crazy idea of firing beams of dark matter into the Earth. And yet here they were. It had become a reality. He sat in his seat while he was transported around the world. At ea
ch of the eight sites, the local Mind in human avatar form acted as their guide, explaining the physics involved. Right now, any distraction that helped eat up the remaining hours was welcome. He reached out to Sarah, who was sitting next to him and, finding her hand, gave it a squeeze.
39
Tuesday, 17 September – 00:02 (EST), Washington, DC
While the world held its collective breath in the final hours before Ignition, Shireen had been busier than ever. The cybercrime centre in Washington, DC, was larger and far busier than Bletchley. No more sedate cycling into work for her. She hadn’t left the building in days and hadn’t slept for forty-eight hours. Nor could she afford to – not now that she had finally found a way into the Purifiers’ network.
Following the events in London the previous week, she had been informed that her unique skills were needed now more than ever. The authorities were certain the Purifiers would try something again, but when, where and how? Frustratingly, there had been no major breakthroughs following the arrests in London. The kidnappers had obeyed instructions without any knowledge of their chain of command. Now, a whole army of cybs had been recruited to try to break into their network using what meagre leads they had.
Since Shireen’s role at Bletchley had been leaked following Evie’s kidnapping, she’d been informed she could no longer continue to work there and had instead been flown to Washington. She had desperately wanted to get back home to Tehran to be with her parents before Ignition, but all commercial flights had been suspended. She’d had a long and, she admitted, tearful chat to them two nights ago. Yes, she’d assured them, she was being looked after and treated well.
She estimated there had to be hundreds of international cybersecurity organizations now working alongside the Sentinels to ensure that both the hardware and the software of the Project were secure from attack. Many wanted to believe that the threat from the Purifiers had lessened – that the Project was safe.
But Shireen knew better. She had learned early on that this cult was not one to boast about its ideology or one that felt the need to spread its propaganda. After all, its whole raison d’être was to bring about the end of humankind, not to recruit new followers. Not any more. And whatever they planned to do, it would already be in place.
Paradoxically, as Ignition Day drew nearer the task of hacking into the Purifiers’ network had become easier. As security surrounding all aspects of the Project tightened, the options available to the Purifiers narrowed. Shireen thought of it as a game of chess in which her opponent was losing pieces from the board, limiting the moves available to them.
It was quite clear to her, along with almost everyone else here in DC, what the Purifiers hoped to achieve. Their mission was simple. They saw the dying field as a fulfilment, a vindication, of their ideology. To start with they had tried everything they could to stop the Odin Project from getting off the ground. The slow, certain death of the entire human race had been their safest option. But now, with time running out to stop the Project, the quick, albeit incomplete annihilation of life brought about by a catastrophic malfunction if one of the eight beams failed was far more appealing. And with just a few hours left before Lockdown, when all eight facilities would be completely isolated from the outside world, Shireen knew that time was running out for the Purifiers – by deliberate design, no human intervention or interference would be possible after Lockdown.
But that also meant time was running out for her.
Then, just before midnight, she had her first real break. It was so unexpected that, at first, she thought it was a hoax. She’d found an obscure dark-web forum whose members displayed all the right ideological views. By hacking into the account of one of its members, a Texan white supremacist who believed that God was about to destroy everyone apart from the chosen few, of whom he of course was one, she was able to read all the postings. That was when the message came through. It appeared to have been distributed throughout the Purifiers’ network, and it was all she’d needed to track it back to its source. Within minutes she’d found it. She stood and raised her visor. She needed a drink of water, needed to clear her head and try and make sense of it.
Shireen returned to her desk. She couldn’t speak to anyone here. Not yet. She tried to calm down, hoping no one had noticed her excitement. But all the other cybs in the vast open-plan space had their visors on. The air-conditioned office suddenly struck her as very cold and she shivered. Feeling both elated and horrified in equal measure, she had to decide, quickly, what to do with the information. She needed to speak to Sarah and Marc. Her eyes flicked to the display on her visor. It would be early morning now in Jordan. The morning of the day of Ignition.
She pinged Sarah, and moments later the solar physicist’s face appeared in the top right quarter of her visor display. The picture quality was poor, but all but essential communication drones had been switched off to limit net traffic, so the secure line she was using didn’t have the necessary bandwidth. But she could still make out dark shadows under Sarah’s bloodshot eyes. Shireen wasn’t the only one unable to sleep, then.
Not having given any prior thought to how she was going to break the news, she decided to take it slowly.
She spoke softly so as not to be overheard. ‘Hello, Sarah. Is Marc with you too?’
‘Hi, Shireen. We haven’t got you in vision. Are you contacting us through a visor?’
‘Yes. Sorry it’s a bit rude, but I’m, you know, still working.’
‘Ah, OK. Of course, it must be gone midnight for you. But yes, Marc’s here too.’ The picture shifted as Sarah lifted up her wristpad so that Shireen could see Marc behind her. He smiled weakly and gave a little wave.
Suddenly aware of those around her, she took a deep breath.
‘OK, listen. I’ve found something. The Purifiers are definitely planning some sort of attack.’
Sarah gasped, and Marc’s face loomed large on Shireen’s display as he leaned closer to Sarah’s wristpad. ‘What?’
‘I don’t know any details yet, but I’m working on it. I picked up a brief message that suggests they have something in place.’ She paused, gathering her thoughts. ‘You’re the first people I’m telling about this. I mean, it’s not so much what the message says as who it’s from. Let me read it out to you.’ She slid the window containing the message up her display alongside the video link so she could see it clearly. ‘It says: “To all those who seek to purify Mother Earth of the scourge of Homo sapiens: Rejoice. The Day of Judgement is almost upon us. Tomorrow, we witness humanity’s destruction by our own hands.” And it’s signed “Maksoob”.’
Marc spoke first, his voice echoing. ‘OK, it’s from their top dog. But it doesn’t really say anything. For all we know, this is just propaganda. There’s nothing there to suggest they actually have a plan in place.’
‘I agree. But that’s not why I’ve contacted you,’ Shireen said, a little too loudly. She pulled her visor up and quickly scanned the room to make sure she hadn’t been heard. She’d got away with it. She lowered the visor, and her voice. ‘It’s who the message comes from! Everyone knows that Maksoob is this near-mythical leader, right? The man behind the Purifiers who is most likely much more than just a talismanic figurehead.’
She paused, her heart pounding. ‘This is why you both needed to know. You see, I’ve found the source of the message. I know who he is now. Maksoob … it’s Gabriel Aguda!’
Sarah and Marc seemed to freeze. They were aghast. Then Sarah spluttered, ‘Aguda? It can’t be. Surely that’s ridiculous?’
Marc was frowning. He looked as if he was puzzling over a particularly difficult equation. ‘Come on, Shireen, seriously? This sounds like some weird conspiracy-theory bullshit. What’s the link between a respected academic geologist and a genocidal maniac terrorist? I mean, I’ve had my doubts about Aguda ever since the satellite data episode, and everyone knows he prefers the MPD option over Odin, but this … It’s ludicrous.’
Shireen tried to control her frustra
tion. She hadn’t expected this reaction. ‘Well, you’re wrong, Marc. I know it.’
‘OK, Shireen,’ Sarah interjected. ‘The question is what do we do about it? No one knows about this apart from the three of us, right? So, tell us, what evidence do you have?’
‘I know this sounds crazy, but I traced the message back to Aguda’s personal account—’
‘Hang on, Shireen,’ interrupted Sarah again. ‘If he is Maksoob, why would Aguda be so stupid as to send an incriminating message from his personal account? Is this message enough to arrest and interrogate him?’ Then after a pause, she added, ‘It would of course mean postponing Ignition, until we could find out what they planned to do.’
Once again Marc’s face loomed large on her screen. ‘Another thing. Don’t we need to consider the possibility that the Purifiers want you to think Aguda is Maksoob by constructing a bogus link? That they want to, you know, sow the seeds of doubt, just to postpone Ignition? That may be the best they can hope for now.’
Shireen couldn’t understand what seemed to her like a defence of Aguda. Of course, they knew him better than she did and so might have been prepared to give him the benefit of the doubt, but … She tried again.
‘Even if there’s the slightest possibility Aguda is behind this and there is a sabotage plan in place, we have to let the authorities know. You know that, right? If Ignition is postponed, then so be it – at least we would be sure.’
Sarah shook her head slowly. ‘Two problems with that. Firstly, if we go to the authorities now and demand that Aguda is arrested and interrogated, who are they going to believe? It’s his word against ours. And we need to remember that Gabriel Aguda is vice chair of the Odin Project Committee. All we have is an inflammatory statement traced to the account of one of the world’s most influential scientists by a young cyb who came to prominence when she hacked into government secret files. I’m sorry, Shireen, but that’s what people will think. And we simply don’t have time before Lockdown to persuade the right people, whoever the hell they might be.
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