The Darkfall Switch

by David Lindsley

  They finished the coffee and set off on the tour, leaving a considerably depleted pile of doughnuts on the plate. Beckermann led them along long corridors and through vast grey, windowless offices where men and women pored intently over glowing computer screens. Towards the rear of the building, from a platform overlooking the manufacturing floor, they looked out over gleaming ranks of steel cubicles that stood, with many little lights twinkling on their panels, while white-coated people swarmed around them. Foster had to agree that it was indeed a very busy and successful operation.

  From time to time he had stolen a glance at Worzniak, who seemed to be quite unimpressed by all that he was seeing. He had, however, taken interest whenever a pretty young woman came within range of his leering gaze. It was quite evident that the engineering operations of this building were not new to him: he seemed to know his way around before Beckermann gave any directions. And he asked no questions and showed no sign of taking any real interest in any of it. A well-turned ankle, on the other hand, was clearly a better thing.

  After the tour they returned to Beckermann’s office. This time they sat round the central conference table and Foster explained the reason for his visit. He was very careful to avoid any reference to Luke’s pathetic last note.

  ‘What puzzles me,’ he said, ‘is how the hacker managed to shut down the power stations so very effectively.’

  ‘Just luck,’ Beckermann said, shrugging, his tone echoing Worzniak’s earlier view. ‘He just happened to hit on something. I’ve had my staff look into it: they say they’ve found what he did and they’ve plugged the hole. We’re just about to send out a patch to all our customers. Nobody else will be able to repeat what he did.’

  Foster looked at him in amazement. The CEO was quite calm, seemingly forgetting the fact that his company had been responsible for unleashing on the world a computer system that had carried a major defect and, because of that defect, forty-seven people had died in London. He probably thought of this – if indeed he thought of it all – as merely an unfortunate incident, one whose cause could be easily eliminated. Clearly, he saw his company as the victim of a crime, because he went on to say, ‘That kid was typical of the lunatics we have to deal with in this business. They think it’s funny,’ he added angrily, ‘to shaft a complex operation like this, and screw it up.’

  Foster suppressed his anger: the kid, as he’d called him had been the only son of a nice, respectable couple; he’d been an isolated, vulnerable and misguided youngster who had died a lonely death in an old barn. And his death might even have been a murder. ‘OK,’ he said. ‘But I’d still like to know precisely what he did. Shutting down a running plant involves several sequential operations that all have to be carefully co-ordinated, otherwise the whole thing trips out on its safety systems.’

  ‘That’s what he did then,’ Worzniak said drily, his tone showing his evident boredom at the British engineer’s continued curiosity about something that he himself saw as being quite simple and cut and dried.

  ‘No,’ Foster said firmly. ‘The safety interlocks of a power station are designed to prevent major damage occurring if anything goes wrong. But this time what the boy did just shut it down quickly. The interlocks normally act to protect the plant in an emergency, but their actions aren’t very graceful. What Luke did was.’

  ‘Graceful?’ Worzniak sneered. Beckermann, sitting beside him, seemed to be contemplating his fingernails with great interest.

  ‘Compare it with you driving a car and suddenly slamming on the brakes,’ Foster retorted acidly. ‘That’s one way of stopping, but you’d only do it in an emergency. Generally you come to a halt carefully and safely, so that you end up by the side of the road, out of the way of other traffic.’ He turned his attention to Beckermann and asked, ‘What I really need to know is whether the Generation 300 system includes any standard procedure for initiating a plant shutdown.’

  There was an awkward silence before Beckermann responded. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, ‘but honestly, I don’t know. You may not believe it, but you have to see that, OK, I set all this up, but the technology’s moved on – it’s always moving on, as you probably know – and I can’t pretend to be up with all the latest gizmos. I’ll get our software manager to talk it over with you.’

  He reached over to a phone on his desk, picked it up and commanded, ‘Diane, get Joel up here.’

  They discussed a range of questions while they waited. Beckermann seemingly ever attentive and responsive, Worzniak silent and looking bored.

  After a few minutes of this, the door opened to admit a tall, well-built young man with a thatch of bright-red hair. ‘Hi, Joel,’ Beckermann said. ‘Dan, this is Joel Matthews, my software development manager. Joel, this is Dan Foster, from England. He’s come to ask some questions about the 300.’

  Foster stood to shake Matthews’ hand and then they both sat down.

  ‘Joel,’ Beckermann started, ‘Dan’s been asking about what happened when that guy hacked into the systems in England. He wants to know if we have a shutdown routine in the system.’

  Foster’s ears pricked up at Beckermann’s use of the word ‘routine’. It was the first time it had been used in their discussions. Was this confirmation that the Darkfall Switch was indeed a subroutine, as he had guessed?

  Matthews threw a brief look at his boss and Foster felt that he could detect a slight flicker of concern in his eyes as he did so. Beckermann gave a small tilt of his head and, clearly reassured, the software man turned to Foster and said, ‘No, we don’t. Though it’s something we are developing for one client – in Germany, I think.’

  ‘Will that be like the emergency shutdown systems they use on offshore platforms and in the process industries?’ Foster asked.

  Matthews’ expression brightened. He nodded. ‘Yes. Very similar to an ESD.’ Then he added quickly, ‘But you must remember that it’s still in the development stage. We haven’t released it yet.’

  ‘But what happened in the UK had all the marks of such a system,’ Foster said. He watched Matthews’ face for any sign of a response, but there was none, so he went on, ‘Tell me, even though it’s no more than a development idea, is there any chance that this ESD system was included in the UK plants? Perhaps by accident?’

  Again, Matthews looked at his boss and, again, he proceeded only after receiving a silent signal of consent.

  ‘No,’ Matthews said. ‘Absolutely not.’

  There was a long silence. It was clear that this argument would get nowhere.

  Foster decided to change tack. ‘Tell me,’ he asked, ‘is there a subroutine in your system? Something called a Darkfall Switch?’

  A thunderflash of shock exploded in the room. If he’d hit them all in their faces he could not have caused a greater jolt. But the effect was short-lived: the expressions of surprise were quickly erased. In Worzniak’s case the shock was replaced by thunderous, silent rage. Beckermann tried to look puzzled.

  But Foster was particularly struck by Matthews’ reaction. It was stark fear. All the colour drained from his face and his eyes were wide open. He stared first at Beckermann and then at Worzniak, but, if he was looking for any sign of help or support from them, he received nothing of the kind. They seemed to have worries of their own.

  ‘Where did you hear that title?’ Worzniak asked, his tone aggressive and hectoring.

  Foster decided to tell a lie. ‘I dug it out of the system at Queensborough,’ he said.

  ‘That’s impossible,’ Matthews started. ‘The Darkfall sub—’

  But Beckermann quickly interrupted him with a wave of his hand before he could blurt out anything more. ‘All right,’ the company chief admitted, ‘I don’t know how you found out about it, but the Darkfall Switch is a very closely guarded secret. It’s a brand new concept. It’s a subroutine, part of the remote diagnostics system. It allows our engineers working from our headquarters to check the health of any system, even one on the other side of the world.’

 
‘But that’s not new. Lots of systems have remote diagnostics.’

  ‘Not like this,’ Beckermann snapped. ‘The existing systems monitor only the hardware and software of the control computers; Darkfall is a totally new concept. It monitors the plant as well. When it’s fully deployed, our clients will be able to tell if a motor bearing is running hot, if a pump is about to fail. It will give them the ability to fix things even before the plant begins to suffer in any way. It’s a very powerful tool, and it’s the ace up our sleeve.’

  ‘And it’s nothing to do with a shutdown system?’ Foster asked, watching Beckermann’s face.

  But there were no visual telltales as he gave the stark answer. ‘No. Absolutely not.’

  ‘And there’s nothing in Darkfall that could have been triggered by the hacker, which would have caused a shutdown.’

  ‘No. Darkfall monitors the plant and all its systems. It doesn’t carry out any executive commands.’

  There was a long silence, during which Foster stared at the CEO. Did he really mean what he said, or was he lying? If he was he must have been a good poker player, because there had been nothing in his expression to provide any clue.

  Then he turned his attention to Worzniak. He had recovered his composure. The rage had been replaced now; his expression was implacably stoic.

  Once again, it was Foster who broke the silence. ‘OK, if it’s nothing to do with any type of ESD system,’ he asked, ‘if it’s part of the remote diagnostics system, then why call it a switch? That’s an odd title for a diagnostics package, isn’t it?’

  ‘These computer people,’ Worzniak interrupted dismissively, shrugging as he spoke. ‘They dream up all sorts of crazy names, like “Windows” and “Google”. Don’t amount to a hill of beans.’

  ‘But why Darkfall?’ Foster repeated. ‘It’s surely unfortunate to use a word with blackout connotations, particularly in a power-station control system.’

  ‘There’s nothing sinister in it,’ Beckermann said. ‘Not at all. Darkfall was the name we gave to the diagnostic routine. The reasons are long gone now. Forgotten. That’s the end of it.’

  Foster stared at them, one after another. He addressed his next question to Matthews, ‘OK, but tell me, this Darkfall Switch that you were working on, if it was going to be sold generally, it would take a lot of engineering work for each new contract, wouldn’t it?’

  No two power stations are the same: some burn gas, some oil, some coal. And some are nuclear. Although controlling each type of plant involves using broadly similar concepts, in fact the fine details are all very different. And then, even if you divide them into groups, such as those that burn the same type of fuel, you still can’t have one solution for every plant in each group: each plant is different from the rest.

  ‘Sure!’ Matthews answered. ‘Although the basic principles are the same, you’re right, there wouldn’t be a “one size fits all” solution. We’d have to deploy dedicated engineering teams to customize each system.’

  Foster grunted. Then he changed tack and asked, ‘You know that when the two British plants tripped they both experienced hardware failures?’

  ‘What hardware failures?’ Beckermann asked innocently, as though this was news to him.

  ‘The output drivers failed. They all had to be replaced.’

  ‘Oh yes,’ Beckermann said, furrowing his brow as if a faint memory had returned. ‘Yeah. I remember now.’

  I bet you remember! Foster thought. They were all under guarantee, so PPD had been obliged to replace them free of charge. The financial loss should have burned into his mind.

  ‘It was triggered by the outage,’ Beckermann continued. ‘When the units tripped there was a power surge. Those cards were vulnerable. That’s why they failed. We’ve upgraded them now, though. Won’t happen again.’

  It was a possible explanation: in fact, Foster had considered it himself when he first heard of the failures. When a generator that’s been pumping out millions of kilowatts is suddenly cut off from its connected load, the carefully balanced power system surrounding it is suddenly thrown into chaos. Voltages swing wildly, and any weak design becomes vulnerable. Under such circumstances, it is quite feasible that some components may be stressed to the point of failure. It was always a matter of balance: the stronger the design, the greater the cost. Somewhere, a compromise would always have been made, and in this case it could have been that the wrong decision was taken.

  And that was about as far as anyone would go. In spite of coming at them from a variety of angles, Foster could wring nothing further from them that day.

  But there was one more interesting development: when he asked for a disk with examples of the diagnostics routine, Beckermann curtly refused. Surprisingly he looked for support from Worzniak, and received it. Foster was told in no uncertain terms that this was commercially secret information, and could not be handed over. ‘Not without a court order,’ Worzniak said and then added with a sneer, ‘And you’ll never get that.’

  As he left, Foster wondered even more about Worzniak. Initially he had thought that he had been no more than a civil servant assigned by the US Government to liaise with the British, to smooth paths and open doors. But Worzniak seemed to be much more than that: it was quite clear that he had deep and extensive involvement with PPD and with its chief executive officer.

  Janet moved restlessly in his arms. It was dark, but she was still on London time. Foster, on the other hand, having had a little more time there, had already adapted somewhat to the time difference and her movement woke him from a deep sleep. Sensing that she was awake, he kissed her neck and whispered, ‘It’s three o’clock.’

  ‘God!’ she complained. ‘Is it really? I’m wide awake.’

  ‘I know. I’ve been here a day longer than you and I’m still feeling the jet-lag.’

  When he had picked up his key at the front desk at the Brown Palace after returning from his inconclusive meeting, the clerk had told him that Janet had arrived and gone up to their room. He had found her asleep and it had been only after some difficulty that he had managed to get her to rise and eat. ‘I know,’ he said, ‘you’re not hungry. But if you don’t eat something now you’ll be starving in a few hours.’

  She had finally seen the sense of this argument, got out of bed and thrown on one of the hotel’s white fluffy gowns. Foster ordered from the room-service menu: he had no desire to go down to the hotel restaurant, excellent as it was, because he knew Worzniak would be there.

  Having eaten their meals they went to bed. Now, still concerned that she should get more sleep, he released her from his embrace and turned his back to her.

  ‘Where are you going?’ she whispered.

  ‘Nowhere. I just felt you needed to sleep.’

  ‘Silly!’

  ‘Well, perhaps I need to sleep.’

  He could feel the warmth of her body against him as she snuggled up to him and then her hand reached over and stroked his chest. Then it moved down over his belly.

  She snorted. ‘Asleep indeed!’

  ‘Yes, really.’

  ‘What’s this then?’

  ‘OK. But the rest of me’s asleep.’

  ‘Fine!’ she said as she threw the blankets off him and reached down. ‘I’ll engage with this old fellow. The rest of you can stay asleep: I won’t be able to talk to the rest of you for a bit anyway.’

  She paused, switched on the bedside lamp and dimmed it until their naked bodes were lit by a dull orange glow. He kept his eyes closed, feigning sleep. He heard her chuckle and then she returned to her pleasant task.

  He smiled as he felt her long hair brush against his belly.

  She was very, very good. His head pressed back against the pillows and he arched his back in ecstasy as her head moved up and down. He opened his eyes and looked down: when she moved her head up he could see that her saliva had made his skin glisten in the pale light.

  He laid his head back on the pillow and shut his eyes.

  Aft
er a while he touched her shoulder and whispered, ‘I’m very near.’

  She stopped, smiled at him and said, ‘Well, don’t stop me now.’ Then she returned to her occupation.

  Realizing her intention, he closed his eyes and reached down to thread his fingers through her hair, pressing her down on him. In response, the movement of her head became more violent and suddenly his world exploded.

  After the blaze of lights in his head had died down he let out the breath that had been pent-up inside him, seemingly for hours. In the dim light she slid up against him so that she was looking into his now open eyes. ‘Nice?’

  He sighed. ‘Fabulous!’

  She gazed at him for a long while and then traced the outline of his lips with her finger. ‘Mr Dan Foster,’ she whispered, ‘you’re really something. I didn’t thank you for bringing me here in First Class. That was by way of saying it.’

  Then she bent her head and they kissed. His tongue explored hers, tasting the saltiness in her mouth.

  When she eventually lay back he said, ‘Well, Ms Coleman, that does it. All of me’s thoroughly awake now.’

  She looked at the digital clock beside the bed. ‘What’s on American TV at nearly four in the morning?’ she asked.

  ‘Loads of rubbish. Not that it’s much better in the day anyway.’

  She reached for the remote and eventually found a news channel.

  While they watched he told her about his meeting in Broomfield.

  ‘This Joe Worzniak,’ she said, ‘he sounds quite a piece of work.’

  ‘Perhaps I’m too suspicious, but I feel I need to be very wary of him.’

  He pressed the remote and skipped through the endless variety of chat shows and product demos before finally returning to the news channel.

  ‘Well,’ he said eventually. ‘After that, we should be well up on world events.’

  She laughed. ‘Oh yeah? All I’ve learned about is a bit of American scandals, politics and sport.’

  He managed to get a few minutes of fitful sleep before dawn lit the room and he rose. ‘Time we got ready for breakfast.’