He should say something. Man of Action - sure. He couldn't even politely ask the man to move his leg a little. Wald tries diplomacy, adjusting his position to relinquish room without admitting that he had done so. He stretches his right leg out further, stealing some room from 17-C, who is still balled up tightly, asleep in her seat.
The man turns a page with his left hand, resting the weight of the book on his right arm. He is spilling over to Stephen's seat, left hand pointing over passages in the textbook, while at the same time pulling his leg back and tucking his right foot under his left. Well, what in the hell am I supposed to do with this? Wald looks right at the man, who fails to notice. Are you showing me your diary or are you getting ready to grab my tits in a movie theater? Wald leans to the right and stretches out his left leg, enjoying a moment of satisfaction. This is a shitty first date.
Maybe 17-A was oblivious. We shall see, thinks Wald. He bends forward and begins rummaging through the seat pocket, making a fair amount of noise. The woman in 17-C jerks her head for a moment, disturbed, then lapses back into unconsciousness. Wald's attention, however, is on 17-A, who continues flipping through his book without glancing up. Stephen finds a catalog of foolish products, which he dangerously begins to browse. No one is immune to the urge to buy stupid junk -- just like no one is immune to advertising -- especially when the audience is completely captive. He spends a minute glancing at the pictures without reading the descriptions or the outsized price tags, then closes the catalog and slips the corner into the seat pocket. He lets go of the pages as they fall open, glancing against 17-A's leg. A flicker of attention. Oh - ah, excuse me, could you .. The man bends over, swiping the catalog from the ground and returning it to Wald. Thank you, says Wald, as the man arches his back, then moves his elbow to the armrest, now blocked by Wald's left forearm.
Wald checks out of the corner of his eye, looking for a glance or pause; anything to indicate an acknowledgment of the shift of power that has occurred. The man's elbow had backed away immediately, resting now against the metal side of the separator, but the man didn't even blink.
A very small victory for a Man of Action. 17-A stares at the text unconcernedly, still occasionally mouthing phrases he is intent on memorizing. But each time he lifts his right arms and turns the page, the elbow temporarily presses against Wald -- softly at first, then a bit more persistent. A bit harder to deny.
###
Q: What are the legalities involved in hacking gravplates?
A: We are not lawyers and nothing herein constitutes legal advice. Laws vary from jurisdiction to jurisdiction and country to country. We do not condone any attempt to investigate, alter or circumvent encryption protections in gravplates in any locale where said activity is illegal. Distributed processing software dedicated to breaking the encryption used in gravplates is readily available via a simple search; it WILL NOT be linked here.
Basically, unless you live in Sealand, it's probably highly illegal.
Q: What evidence is there that gravplates are vulnerable to attack?
A: Here are the facts:
Fact: There have been 12 firmware revisions circulated to all networked gravplates since public release. These are stealth patches deployed without any official announcement.
Fact: None of these updates have introduced verifiable additional functionality.
Fact: Gravplates that are shielded from these updates default to safe mode within a short period of time (details)
Either VIG is making fixes to potentially dangerous bugs -- and you should be concerned about that too! -- or they are filling holes ripe for exploitation.
Q: Are there any verified cases of exploits in the wild?
A: Currently, no.
Q: Are there any documented cases of people claiming to have created and/or employed exploits?
A: YES
Q: What exploits are possible?
A: There are several (as yet, theoretical, or extant but unverified) possible exploits. The exploits vary in both direction of attack and level of access to the hardware, firmware and software required. Here are just a few:
1. A denial of service attack induced by faking large amounts of traffic on the multiple bands by which gravplates communicate. The advantage to this attack is that the firmware does not need to be compromised and the communication protocol does not need to be decrypted in order for the attack to succeed; the gravplates simply need to be overloaded with fake messages, making them unable to communicate with each other. The disadvantage is that gravplates communicate over very short distances and across dozens of bands, making this attack impractical on a large-scale. It is unknown how much traffic is required to disrupt communication even between two gravplates.
2. Brute force attacks against the encryption in gravplate communication. This attack is the most resource intensive, but would enable permanent and full communication with individual gravplates. If this scenario seems unlikely, recognize that there is distributed software working on this right now and the time it will take decreases with each successive processor generation.
3. Physical exploit of the devices. These attacks center around either physically manipulating the electronics of the devices -- extremely difficult, since the science of why they deactivate when the casing is cracked is still not well understood -- or confusing the device's sensors to relay incorrect information.
Q: What if an exploit is found and utilized?
A: Buildings falling from the sky. Gravcars crashing left and right. No power, no water, no food. Surprised? You shouldn't be.
Q: What about redundancy and fail-safe mode?
A: Fail-safe mode puts individual gravplates into a "hover" mode that automatically lifts the weight attached in a way that keeps the plate stable in orientation and position with respect to the force of gravity. If the gravplate fails entirely and cannot communicate with adjacent plates, fail-safe mode will not help. If the gravplates in a structure are dislodged or moved too quickly for the gravplates to adjust, fail-safe mode will not help. If the force of gravity shifts too quickly, fail-safe mode will not help. If there is a viral attack that disables fail-safe mode, fail-safe mode will not help!
Q: Aren't you guys just a bunch of conspiracy theorists?
A: First, it is a precept of computer science that all systems are vulnerable to attack. That is not in dispute. Whether or not an exploit has already been discovered, it is virtually guaranteed that one will be found eventually.
Second, while many of us do not prefer this term, I guess you could say: if the shoe fits, wear it. We theorize that a conspiracy has taken place to cover up the vulnerabilities of gravplate technology. Note that there is nothing in conspiracy theorist that implies untruth.
###
Siri and Chandrasekhar raced through the towering cliffs of metal and glass. They fled the coming of the beast-things.
Chandrasekhar tracked them on his gauntlet, at least a dozen of them closing in by the moment. He and Siri were deep in the Second Ring, and looming buildings obscured their sight in all directions. These were the warrens, just as on New Atlantis: winding thoroughfares and dead-end alleys, a retread of ancient architecture where capacity was measured in bodies rather than lanes. Chandrasekhar checked his wrist: the creatures were a minute away -- no more.
Abruptly, the panorama opened before them. They were in an expansive silver courtyard; pure silver, tarnished in large patches. Here and there, other metals criss-crossed the surface, sometimes married perfectly into the surface, other times poking up like the intersecting blocks of pyrite clusters: verdigris copper; brilliant chromium; blue-tinted molybdenum. Gradual paths had been walked into the surface as the soft metal had bent under the weight of trampling feet. Once, passage had probably kept the paths brightly burnished; either the intervening years or the abundant free oxygen molecules had turned the place mostly black.
A sculpture garden or a materia bank of rare metals? Knowing Anders, probably both. Concentrate. This is a bad position t
o be ambushed in. The skyscrapers that bounded the park were hundred of meters away. Ahead, a series of massive, inwardly curved arches described the edge of the First Ring. The sun's eclipsed light peeked through the arches and their missing keystones -- another architectural joke -- appearing strangely hard-edged. Geometric, even.
A fibrous mass scaled the edge of a building walling in the courtyard, scrambling down the vertical face. A moment later, three more of the beast-things had joined it.
Siri -- run. He saw her sprint toward the arches, then lost sight of her as he ducked behind a cluster. He worked his right hand furiously, working his fingers in front of the gauntlet, manipulating the tiny generator that powered the computer. He kept one eye on the projection on the ground in front of him: nearly a dozen of the beasts approached in a staggered swarm. Several were coming straight on, while others were hiding in the shadowed cover of the metal blocks. The pin drones were not picking up any outside the courtyard. Small favors, thought Chandrasekhar. He linked up the gauntlet to his ceramic implants. There is a time for certainty in human/computer communication, and it is now.
He stepped into the open. The beast-things came on swiftly, not reacting to his sudden appearance. The gauntlet was beaming an overhead view; whether it was tactics or the visceral repulsion he felt when looking at the creatures, Chandrasekhar kept his vision centered on the shifting dots. Some of the beasts were still protected, but the lead beasts were seconds away. He couldn't wait any longer. He held his forearm out at a right angle, barring his sternum, and clicked his tongue.
Chandrasekhar saw a blur of grey as his arm kicked back into his chest, ripping his shoulder from its socket and dragging him backwards like a ragdoll. He bounced across the ground, once, and fell into a crumpled mass as the gravity device turned off.
He was still alive, still conscious. He was laying on his left arm, obscuring the gauntlet's projection. With exhausting effort, he rolled to his right side and screamed with pain, falling back. Chandrasekhar -- are you alright? He needed to read the gauntlet, now. The pain was surprisingly bad, not just his shoulder but along his back, and his lungs stung. He grunted, shifting his weight heavily, and freed the gauntlet. He read eight signatures drifting across the screen; two, bearing the brunt of the gravity blast, had been knocked back many meters. They were not moving.
Chandrasekhar? I'm coming back for you. It hurt to breathe; it was infinitely harder to talk. No, he spat, The effort wracked his body with coughing. I'm coming for you.
The beast-things grew near. They were not being careful now; they moved pointedly, directly toward him. No more skulking in the shadows; if their alien instincts had taught them to pounce on a wounded foe, it should be kicking in now, but they continued to approach steadily, out in the open.
Chandrasekhar cracked his jaw. The gauntlet projection shifted; the dots stopped moving, though he could see the wiry masses were still approaching through his clouded vision. Then, the overhead view cut-out entirely. He missed the nearly instantaneous flash of metal bits. A few milliseconds later, loud pops echoed against the surrounding skyscrapers as the pin drones drove themselves through the creatures into bare metal with ballistic certainty. If the creatures made a noise as they died, Chandrasekhar was in too much pain to hear it.
After what seemed like hours, a shadow loomed over him. Siri bent down, raising her face shield and offering her hand. He grabbed onto her with his good arm and raised himself with difficulty. How's your breathing? He unconsciously put his hand to his chest. Bad. My lungs itch. Why? Oh... He followed her gaze to a large tear in his suit leg -- too large for the sealant gel to stitch. A line of blood dribbled down from an unlocated wound higher on his body. We'd better get you into one of these buildings; bring the oxygen down to normal levels. He protested. No. Let's get to the spire, now. I can move.
He lurched forward, gaining his legs underneath him. You coming? Siri had stopped to look at the corpse of one of the things. She caught up with him, pulling his arm around her neck and supporting his back with her other arm. Those things don't have teeth. Chandrasekhar grunted. So?
So, they don't have teeth or claws, or even discernable jaws. Meaning, they probably didn't want to eat us. Chandrasekhar almost laughed, sputtering instead as the air burned his throat. Tiny flecks of blood splattered the inside of his helmet. Siri continued. I was wrong. I said they were cockroaches, but I think they might be closer to dust mites. He asked her why, and she answered with a slight choke in her throat. Because this whole world is dead, and there's nothing for them to eat but the dust of ghosts.
Chandrasekhar's eyes were clouded; he could feel a growing pressure. His sense of time was slipping as he struggled onward, but he could not stop. We have to get to the repper. That's what matters now. Siri turned her head away from him, pulling down the helmet's shield. We won't find it at the spire. He was huffing, trying to restrict the air cutting through his lungs. She answered the question he couldn't find the energy to speak. I know, because that's not where I built it.
Chapter 15
No Smoking | Fresh Air | Oxygen
I need some air. The nervous girl in 17-D gets up quickly, and her father gives her a reassuring pat as she stands with her face to the personal air jet, cupping it with her hand. She spends a few moments there with her eyes closed, then walks toward the back of the plane -- toward the bathroom. Wald experiences a mental kick, like yawning in response to another's yawn: he could go to the bathroom too. The flight was almost over. He could stretch his legs, relieve his bladder and by the time he was back in his seat, they would be descending. His body tenses expectantly, unconsciously, until he glances back and sees the girl and two others waiting for their turn.
Stephen leans back and feels a sudden flush against the back of his neck. He had been stupid, forgetful. He had not planned to go to the bathroom and hadn't considered that he would be leaving his carry-on unattended. So? No one's going to touch it. His mind battles back and forth on how physically simple it would be for one of his neighbors to reach down and pull out a slip of paper from the bag, and how ridiculously, socially complicated it was for it to actually happen. He considers pulling out the check; imagines folding it over in his concealing hand before he pulls it from the bag, slipping it into his pocket as he gets up. No -- that's paranoid, as paranoid as that girl cringing every time the plane hits turbulence.
Stephen is rapidly becoming aware that he has given his bladder false hope -- the urgency has increased considerably in the last minute. He cranes his neck to check out the situation. The girl is pacing a bit, still waiting behind another woman for the bathroom. Wald forces himself to concentrate on something else: not his bladder; not numbers; not work; not another seat. He stares at the no smoking indicator on the panel above his head.
How old is this plane? It was incredible that all these passenger planes still had no smoking lights, as if there was still a possibility those lights would go off and the cabin would be flooded with attractive Pall-Mall smokers, swilling complimentary Manhattans. You'll find few people these days that would welcome smoking on an airplane, but maybe there is something to be said for the intoxicating permissiveness of a bye-gone era. This is an old veteran, pressed into service well beyond its tour of duty, running extended flights with iced wings. Maybe 17-D is right to be nervous. She has walked down the aisle in front of him; she stops briefly at a few rows, around where he has calculated row 11 to be. He feels one last sting of annoyance thinking of the seat, as the girl walks back up to the rear bathroom.
The intercom crackles. Ladies and gentlemen, the flight crew has informed us we will be beginning our descent in about 15 minutes. We do ask those of you that are up and about in the cabin to return to your seats and securely fasten your seatbelts. We remind you that due to security concerns, you may not leave your seat until we have safely arrived at the terminal.
What does that mean? Wald wonders. Shit. Are we already in lock-down or is there a grace period? It's hard to argue with t
he idea that it's more secure, not to mention safer, to have all the passengers sitting as you descend, but it's the compounding that turns safety in absurdity -- and Wald really needs to use the bathroom. An unsuccessful terrorist dreams up a shoe bomb, and changes the world. A small idea that provides a picture of the times: men and women shuffling along in holey socks like it's the most natural thing in the world.
Miss, you need to be in your seat, now. 17-D is receiving a talking-to behind him. Grace period over. Do flight attendants have their own surreptitious bathrooms or do they just get trained in self-righteous bladder retention? He presses his thighs together, recognizing that it is just like 17-D dwelling on this hunk of metal hurtling towards the earth: thinking about it was only making it worse.
###
It started with wind, water and a bitch named Joyce. Joyce was an assumed name; she acquired it when her gathering winds reached the milestone of 74 miles per hour and a column of low pressure air gave her a visible eye. Her christening occurred as she was barreling toward the Leeward Islands of the Carribean. A brief dip in velocity reduced her status to tropical storm as she struck St. Lucia -- flooding homes and causing massive power outages -- before she picked up energy again in the warm tropical waters and headed to the Gulf of Mexico with a speed a floating citadel could not outrun.
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