by Paul Dueweke
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The networks connecting all the distributed mainframe computers and the thousands of slave computers and workstations all over the country were a maze of links. More than a hundred levels and sub-levels of security classification, each with its own list of authorized users, codes, and procedures, wove through the computers and networks. Many classifications even required encryption.
The COPE computer system had been developed by high-tech wizards smitten by a virulent disease universal in computer jocks—the obsession to maximize system flexibility and growth capacity. This translated to more bytes, more FLOPS, greater speed, and more nodes than would be required by the most imaginative estimate of the system requirements. The corollary disease was also rampant—a computer system swells to fill all available capacity.
The whiz kids at COPE also adhered to another rigid code—the quality of the documentation is inversely proportional to the complexity of the system. In other words, the more complicated the programming gets, the less gets written about it. This makes it very tough for new people coming on board to know what they are inheriting. It results from the developers pushing on the state-of-the-art so hard that they’re always behind schedule, over cost, and too busy to properly document what they’ve done. In addition, computer nerds are notoriously poor writers and view documentation as unclean drudgery that someone else might do if they just ignore it.
In one of her ramblings through COPE’s brain, Jenner had referred back to her electronic notebook for a password into a classified account. This one was unusual, however, since it was a word that had personal meaning to her even though someone else was using it. But she found the password in her classified notebook had been changed. The original was GRUMBUG, which just happened to be the name that her grandmother had called her when she was little—an odd, but memorable, coincidence. When she returned to her notebook, it had been changed to GRUMBLE. But only the system manager could gain access to her protected account. Apparently, the system manager had been monitoring her exploratory activity and chose to make this change in Jenner’s personal notebook.
What Jenner was too naive to appreciate was that the system manager had access to her personal-history file in which the Grumbug nickname had appeared, realized that this change would probably be noticed by Jenner, and had issued it as a subtle warning. It was the computational equivalent to a shot across the bow. But Jenner either didn’t get the message or chose not to heed it.
She pieced together what information she had to try to determine the identity of the system manager. This took a month of late night hacking, and she was shocked at the inescapable conclusion. The system manager, who was responsible for maintaining the computer system, correcting errors, modifying programs, managing passwords, and directly influencing the control of every aspect of COPE operations, was not a person. The system manager was another computer, or at least a partitioned section of the main COPE supercomputer. And this wasn’t just an ordinary system manager. Its software was so broad and complex that it made daily recommendations to every level of upper management. It was so trusted that those recommendations were generally followed without question.
But this computer had gone well beyond the role of a system manager. It had compromised its own security by invading a personal locked file and modifying it. This was exactly contrary to the most basic function of a system manager—to insure error free files to the users. It seems almost malicious, she thought.