The Gomorrah Gambit

by Tom Chatfield

  “That’s correct, yes. Keyed to our voice signatures. You know the ‘Star Trek’ computer—”

  “I need you to turn off your system, please. I want everything to be private. Completely private, before I can tell you what’s on my mind.”

  Chuck leans forwards, his demeanor shifting as if he has smelled something unexpectedly delicious. Azi has his full attention, which is precisely what he was waiting for. As Chuck nods vigorously, Azi hovers his fingers above two buttons on the side of the phone in his pocket.

  If he and Ad have set everything up correctly, this phone will do one thing when Azi presses both buttons: transmit a nugget of code through the medium of sound in the ultrasonic range. It’s known in the trade as a dolphin hack. Because computers can detect a far wider range of sounds than humans, it’s possible to issue secret instructions to a voice-activated system in the presence of countless witnesses. Azi has never had a hope of getting his hands on a networked computer inside the Institute—but, he and Ad reasoned, it should be possible for him to deploy a dolphin hack at the precise moment someone with high-level clearance speaks to unlock their system. If his timing is perfect. If Ad’s software works.

  Chuck, fortunately, is far too busy emoting to be suspicious. “I get the idea, I understand completely! Consider me a friend, it’s done. Computer, username Charles Bartlett,” Go, go, go! Ad bellows unhelpfully in Azi’s ear, “verify and engage full privacy mode.”

  Azi activates his phone.

  And nothing happens. There’s no word from Ad, and—given that inaudibility is one of the hack’s main advantages—no way Azi himself can tell if activating the phone did anything.

  Glancing at the two very earnest, very young men now loitering outside Chuck’s office, Azi sips his atrocity of a coffee and tries to look innocent. At a table in a nearby diner, Ad should right now be receiving the crucial notification: confirmation that the backdoor in the Institute’s core operating system has opened wide.

  Casually, Azi taps his earpiece. Half a minute has elapsed and, he realizes, Chuck is waiting with vulpine eagerness for the commencement of his revelations. Which is a problem because, without Ad’s input, Azi doesn’t have anything to say.

  If the hack worked—Azi tells himself—Ad should be back in his ear any moment, freshly armed with master administrative access to every single network and device in the entire campus.

  Azi tries to stay calm. Now that he thinks about it, this last prospect is deeply alarming. How far can Ad be relied upon to play his part with any modicum of sense?

  As if in answer, alarm bells start to sound.

  Forty-three

  You can tell when things are about to go wrong, if you know how to watch for the signs. First, the coincidences start to accumulate. Second, you start reassuring yourself that everything is fine. Third, you start ignoring the evidence that it’s not.

  Amira is focused on stopping the rot at step one—because the coincidences she’s contemplating are, when taken together, anything but coincidental.

  It turns out that the man the Islamic Republic enthusiastically strangled and dismembered for treachery was Munira Khan’s surviving cousin—and that he may have managed to access some files that she really, really doesn’t want the world to see. This is vexing in the extreme.

  It also turns out that Azi and chums aren’t replying to the lovely Munira’s messages with either the ingenuity or the enthusiasm she expected. Her first pitiful missive was designed to let them know roughly where she was, followed by sufficient clues to sketch a tragic tale: the fair maiden trussed up in the back of a dark vehicle, transported between dens of iniquity into the Middle East, typing heroic dispatches in the dark.

  By Amira’s calculations, at least a few people ought to be en route to the locations she designated. Instead, although several promises of rescue have been sent, these have been muted to the point of indifference. Amira’s access to the Organization’s internal systems was finally shut down after Athens, but that was to be expected. What she can’t understand is why they no longer seem to care whether Munira Khan lives or dies.

  She has barely enough time and attention to make new arrangements—but adaptation is required. They may know about Munira. And if they’ve somehow found out about her, there’s no end to what else they may think they know.

  It’s doubly enraging because, after so long and so much planning, she is close. Across Europe, the Islamists whose locations she betrayed to Azi are under constant observation. She has been watching the Americans and Europeans watching them. These sacrificial idiots will be isolated and captured within hours.

  Around Görlitz, however, the second piece of her puzzle is slipping perfectly into place. Two dozen more jihadis are converging on the Defiance rally site with enough explosives in their very special vans to massacre the crowd ten times over. These are the ones who will sear today into the world’s consciousness—and will precipitate the chaotic repercussions her employers have so carefully anticipated. This will be her masterpiece. It’s too late for anything to change it.

  And yet. There are tigers on the bank, crocodiles in the water. This affectionate tip, courtesy of her maternal grandmother, remains one of the few fragments of childhood worth remembering. Danger is everywhere—as are morons like Michael. Lifting herself regretfully out of the vast marble bathtub that commands one of her suite’s bathrooms, she slips into a robe and disinters a variety of dedicated devices from her luggage: one for each distinct identity or facet of her operations.

  There’s an update from the Islamic Republic, which she ignores: they’re ripping apart the hotel in which the traitor was killed, most likely because they can’t find enough actual people to execute. There’s an update from her sources in Defiance that suggests everything is proceeding smoothly ahead of this afternoon’s rally: they’re moaning about the fact that Tomi has banned the beating-up of anti-fascist protesters. Finally, there’s an update from the Institute campus telling her that something unusual in the core operating system is under urgent investigation.

  She idly plucks one eyebrow, letting the pain sharpen her discomfort. This last coincidence means she can no longer even contemplate inaction. With a wince, she unearths the most secure and least-used of all her devices, switches it on and confirms her fingerprints, passcode, facial features and hardware key. It looks like every other generic phone in her possession, yet it can make and receive calls only to one secure number.

  Suppressing any hint of a tremor in her hand or voice, she dials and waits. It’s a full minute until he picks up, but she knows this is nothing to do with status. This man has no need to play games. His voice, when he answers, is pure self-assurance.

  “My dear. I have just been on the line to Michael.”

  She smiles softly. “And how is my colleague?”

  “Not so good. I hope you said your farewells. He is not a man for detail. He lied, then he allowed me to find out that he lied. Then he denied it. Triply disappointing.”

  This is heartening, even if it’s irrelevant to her current concerns. “I am pleased to report that the plan is unaffected, despite his incompetence. If anything the presence of protesters will enhance its impact.”

  There’s a thoughtful pause. “You are right, of course. I mistrust unnecessary complexity—but some anti-fascist corpses will make the mess more piquant. Not that Michael will know.”

  She allows herself to sound wistful. “It’s a shame, I would have liked to be there. To deal with him personally.”

  He chuckles. “If you wish, I will delay. You can kill him yourself.”

  “I would love to, thank you.” Enough chat, she regretfully thinks. Time to get down to business. “I am afraid I have serious news.”

  The play vanishes from his voice. “What do I need to know?”

  “Three things. The surviving cousin in Syria has been executed. The Organization are not pursuing Munira as expected. And, as you must be aware, the core operating system is reporting urgent
errors.”

  “What do you propose?”

  She hardens herself, focusing her anger. “That I investigate in person. That I keep you apprised of all developments. And that all contingencies are active.”

  “I agree. Nobody enters the research area apart from you, nobody but you leaves. No witnesses. You have discretion to handle everything. If there are points of failure, we may not speak again…”

  “I understand.”

  “…but I have every confidence.”

  She touches one hand to the smooth skin of her cheek.

  “Thank you, Erasmus.”

  Forty-four

  You’ve got to admit, mate, the alarm was a nice touch.”

  “No. It wasn’t.”

  “How else was I going to get onto the campus? How else was I going to get you out, come to that? And I saved you from making a tit of yourself on the bullshitting front. Greater love hath no—”

  Azi has to stop himself grabbing Ad by the shoulders and shaking him. “This wasn’t the plan, Ad. We agreed you’d investigate from the diner, feed me info through the earpiece, keep it low key. Alarms are literally designed to alarm everyone. They attract attention. This was meant to be a subtle infiltration. Instead, what you’ve done—”

  Ad is fast approaching full self-righteous mode. “I mixed things up. My exploit, my call. You were out of time, they were about to pull the plug. And this,” Ad gestures expansively at the scene of chaos and devastation surrounding them, “is the only way we can access those IP addresses.”

  Azi looks his friend up and down, then at the screaming hellscape of the campus. He has to admit, Ad has a point—although simultaneously setting off every fire and earthquake evacuation alarm while deactivating the entire internal security system still seems excessive. And that’s before taking into account whatever Ad has done to the Institute’s public-facing autonomous systems, which have developed a chaotic life of their own.

  Hot off the back of the technical meltdown that sent Azi, Chuck and five thousand other employees hurtling towards emergency evacuation zones, four robotic cranes have appeared from their silos and are now busy demolishing the landscaping chunk by chunk. Meanwhile, electric carts of varied sizes are screeching like anarchic arthropods up and down their pathways, herding phalanxes of evacuees onto manicured flower beds and lawns.

  All of this provided enough of a diversion for Azi to obey the directions Ad was screaming through the earpiece, and to slip off the edge of a densely landscaped path towards the immense metallic sculpture—an angel, perhaps, or a melted Airbus—behind which they are both currently lurking. The sight of a fifty-foot tree being splintered effortlessly into fragments by a one-hundred-foot metal arm is not something Azi will forget in a hurry. But he isn’t in the mood for forgiveness.

  “If I didn’t know better, I’d say this is a prank you’ve been wanting to pull ever since they chucked you out. Is this your revenge, your big laugh? Well, it’s fucked up. You’ve fucked up. How are we going to get in and out? Now everyone involved knows something is happening. We’re fucked, fucked, fucked.”

  When did Azi last get this angry? He already knows the answer: half a lifetime ago, in a shed in Croydon. After all he’s been through, there’s something ludicrous and shameful about standing in this car park watching disaster unfold; about the stupidity of coming this close, working so hard, then blowing it all up into a giant practical joke. But Ad isn’t giving any ground. Gesturing towards the rear of Building One’s gigantic bulk, he shudders with fury.

  “That’s where we need to go. And this is the only way, mate. You need to get your head around that. Because, as it turns out, the origin of those Gomorrah IP addresses you’re so desperate to track down is off the master grid in a top secret fucking research facility: a triple-secured bunker with rings of automated lockdown bollocks. And the only way into that facility is a full-on natural disaster evacuation shit-hits-fan scenario. Which is what I’ve delivered, for you. It’s a wonder of the fucking world, mate, and we’re standing here, together, and…” Ad has started to choke on his intensity of feeling “…you’re the same ungrateful goody-goody prick you always were. Taking my charity then throwing it back in my face. You dumb fuck.”

  Azi stares at his friend, raging amid the chaos, hunched in blinding sunshine under a vast abstract statue in a billion-dollar campus, tanned and lean, five thousand miles and fifteen years distant from their childhood—yet still their past surrounds them. His fear, Ad’s anger. They’re drowning in who they used to be.

  “I’m sorry,” Azi says. “I’m sorry, Ad. You’re right. It is the only way. I just…I’ve been through a lot. And this…”

  He gestures towards the maelstrom.

  “…is not how I pictured our reunion.”

  Azi drops his arm and grins. Ad scowls, throws both his arms wide, then grins too.

  “Is this the bit where we hug?” asks Azi, innocently.

  “No fucking way. This is the bit where we kick ass.”

  “Right. And how long do we have?”

  Ad glances at the computer tucked under his arm, then at the mayhem still unfolding behind them, then shrugs. “If we start running now, if we make it in through all the airlocks, about half an hour. Depending on how fast the military get here.”

  Azi inspects their route—a simple enough scramble through the deep cover of ornamental beds, so long as crazed robot gardeners don’t mow them down. It ends in a zone of inscrutable shadow.

  They start running.

  What does it look like when you invest more than a billion dollars in the future of virtual, augmented and mixed reality technologies? This is not a question Azi has ever thought about. Even if he had, however, he would never have guessed that it involved so much empty space.

  Via a series of gaping airlocks—immense steel-and-concrete chambers, mercifully open to the air in the aftermath of the Institute’s tech meltdown—Azi and Ad have finally arrived in the research area beyond the cliff where Chuck’s office nestled. Azi had expected it to hold something similar to the corridors, mezzanines and meeting spaces through which Chuck guided him. Instead, as he and Ad step back from the final soundlessly pivoting door, they enter a space so cavernous that its ceiling and far walls are invisible.

  “Bloody hell, Ad. Have you been here before?”

  “Of course not. Nobody comes here, ever. It’s fully automated, locked down…we’re only here because they never dreamed someone could compromise everything at the same time.”

  “While pretending there’s an earthquake going on.”

  “Yeah. Total evacuation protocols are a bitch.”

  There are no echoes, Azi notices, their resonance damped by the carpet-like coating on every surface. It’s like the Empathy Suite, expanded to monstrous proportions.

  It’s also, despite their bravado, dauntingly bizarre. There are no obvious sources for the dusky light to which their eyes are gradually adjusting, and no paths or compartments dividing up the interior, save for a few boxlike structures. It takes a while for Azi to place what they remind him of: the mock rooms used to display IKEA goods. Ad points towards a lighting rig suspended above the nearest one.

  “They’re projection boxes. Next-generation shit. You stand inside, the machinery tracks your movements, you wear a pair of special glasses. It’s just like being in a fully furnished virtual room. Or whatever else they want you to see.”

  The boxes are each the size of a respectable garden shed, yet they look like children’s toys against the scale of this building: blocks casually strewn across a giant’s playground.

  “Why is it so huge?” Azi asks, his good arm testing the bandages under his shirt. They’re hot and damp, with more than sweat. Rapid movement is very much not what his body needs at the moment.

  “No idea, mate.” Ad squints into the dusk. “The power drain is ridiculous, but I couldn’t pick up any details from outside. That’s why we’re here.”

  Azi gathers himself. They have
a plan, they have a purpose. “Right. You’ve narrowed down the IP addresses to somewhere inside this zone. So we’re looking for a hub, anything you can network with. And we’ve got less than half an hour to find it, and then to use your hack and gather evidence. If we’re lucky, we’ll get inside access to everything in Gomorrah. If we’re unlucky…”

  Azi’s determination tails off as the soft semi-darkness swallows his words. Beyond the farthest projection boxes, he can make out something skeletal stretching high into the air. It’s hard to assess distances. The invisible ceiling can’t be less than three hundred feet away, while the far wall might be as much as a thousand. After what’s outside, the desertion is uncanny. The twilight seems to shimmer and pulse.

  “Why are there no people, Ad? I mean, not even any evidence of people. It’s like a mausoleum.”

  Clutching the laptop, Ad steps briskly ahead. “Now there’s an image. Come on, mate, keep up. All the mixed reality stuff, even the light boxes, is old news. Their research is all about automation, now. Isolated systems, self-monitoring. Like whatever the fuck this monstrosity is.”

  They approach the skeletal outline, which has resolved into a massively jointed arm supporting a sphere perhaps a hundred feet above them, the arm’s base cantilevered with jet-black metal beams. It’s like the chitinous limb of an impossible insect. Azi shivers.

  “What in God’s name has this got to do with saving humanity?”

  Ad opens the laptop, types for a frantic few moments, then whistles. “Sod all, so far as I can tell. Odi’s beautiful machine has got a lot of non-standard sensors, and it’s telling me that this thing is crazy with electromagnetic activity.”