He tapped a few keys and a new screen came up:
HMS BRITANNIA – CENTRAL SYSTEMS
AUTONOMOUS SERVICES (MAINTENANCE MODE)
PROPULSION
GUIDANCE
HVAC
ELECTRICAL
FINANCIAL
TRIM / STABILIZERS
EMERGENCY
Penner moused over GUIDANCE and chose AUTOPILOT from the sub-menu that appeared. An error message came onto the screen: AUTOPILOT MAINTENANCE MODE NOT ACCESSIBLE WHILE SYSTEM IS ENGAGED.
Well, he’d expected that. Exiting the menu system, he brought up a command prompt and began typing quickly. A series of small windows appeared on the screen.
“What are you doing now?” Hufnagel asked.
“I’m going to use the diagnostic back door to access the autopilot.” Just how he was going to get access, he wouldn’t say: Hufnagel didn’t need to know everything.
A phone rang in a far corner of the server room and one of the technicians answered it. “Mr. Hufnagel, call for you, sir.” The technician had a strained, worried look on his face. Penner knew he’d probably be worried, too, if he didn’t have such a high opinion of his own skills.
“Coming.” And Hufnagel stepped away.
Thank God . Quickly, Penner plucked a CD from the pocket of his lab coat, slid it into the drive, and loaded three utilities into memory: a systems process monitor, a cryptographic analyzer, and a hex disassembler. He returned the CD to his pocket and minimized the three programs just before Hufnagel returned.
A few mouse clicks and a new screen appeared:
HMS BRITANNIA—CENTRAL SYSTEMS
AUTONOMOUS SYSTEMS (DIAGNOSTIC MODE)
SUBSYSTEM VII
CORE AUTOPILOT HANDLING SUBSTRUCTURE
He thought he’d ask a question before Hufnagel started in again. “When—I mean, if—I transfer control of the handling routines, what next?”
“Deactivate the autopilot. Kill it completely, and switch manual control of the helm to the aux bridge.”
Penner licked his lips. “It isn’t really true that Captain Mason seized the—”
“Yes, it is. Now get on with it.”
Penner felt, for the first time, a stab of something like apprehension. Making sure that the process monitor was active, he selected the autopilot and clicked the “diagnostics” button. A new window opened and a storm of numbers scrolled past.
“What’s that?”
Penner glanced at the process monitor, sighing inwardly. Typical IT chief, he thought. Hufnagel new all the latest buzzwords like “blade farm load-balancing” and “server virtualization,” and he could double-talk the officers until he was blue in the face, but he didn’t know jack about the real nuts and bolts of running a complex data system. Aloud, he said, “It’s the autopilot data, running in real time.”
“And?”
“And I’m going to reverse engineer it, find the interrupt stack, then use the internal trigger events to disrupt the process.”
Hufnagel nodded sagely, as if he understood what the hell he’d just been told. A long moment passed as Penner scrutinized the data.
“Well?” Hufnagel said. “Go ahead. We have less than an hour.”
“It’s not quite that easy.”
“Why not?”
Penner gestured at the screen. “Take a look. Those aren’t hexadecimal commands. They’ve been encrypted.”
“Can you remove the encryption?”
Can a bear shit in the woods? Penner thought. Quite suddenly, he realized that—if he played this right—he’d most likely get himself a nice fat bonus, maybe even a promotion. Corey Penner, IT mate first class, hero hacker who saved theBritannia ’s ass.
He liked the sound of that—it even rhymed. He began to relax again; this was going to be a piece of cake. “It’s going to be tough, real tough,” he said, giving his tone just the right amount of melodrama. “There’s a serious encryption routine at work here. Anything you can tell me about it?”
Hufnagel shook his head. “The autopilot coding was outsourced to a German software firm. Corporate can’t find the documentation or specs. And it’s after office hours in Hamburg.”
“Then I’ll have to analyze its encoding signature before I can determine what decryption strategy to use on it.”
As Hufnagel watched, he piped the autopilot datastream through the cryptographic analyzer. “It’s using a native hardware-based encryption system,” he announced.
“Is that bad?”
“No, it’s good. Usually, hardware encryption is pretty weak, maybe 32-bit stuff. As long as it’s not AES or some large-bit algorithm, I should be able to crack—er, decrypt it—in a little while.”
“We don’t
have
a little while. Like I said, we have less than an hour.”
Penner ignored this, peering closely at the analyzer window. Despite himself, he was getting into the problem. He realized he didn’t care any longer if his boss saw the unorthodox tools he was using.
“Well?” Hufnagel urged.
“Just hold on, sir. The analyzer is determining just how strong the encryption is. Depending on the bit depth, I can run a side-channel attack, or maybe . . .”
The analyzer finished, and a stack of numbers popped up. Despite the warmth of the server room, Penner felt himself go cold.
“Jesus,” he murmured.
“What is it?” Hufnagel asked instantly.
Penner stared at the data, confounded. “Sir, you said less than an hour. An hour until . . . what, exactly?”
“Until the
Britannia
collides with the Carrion Rocks.”
Penner swallowed. “And if this doesn’t work—what’s plan B?”
“Not your concern, Penner. Just keep going.”
Penner swallowed. “The routine’s employing elliptic curve cryptography. Cutting-edge stuff. 1024-bit public key front end with a 512-bit symmetric key back end.”
“So?” the IT chief asked. “How long is it going to take you?”
In the silence that followed the question, Penner suddenly became aware of the deep throb of the ship’s engines, the dull slamming of the bow driven at excessive speed through a head sea, the muffled rush of wind and water audible even over the roar of cooling fans in the windowless room.
“Penner? Damn it,
howlong
?”
“As many years as there are grains of sand on all the beaches in the world,” he murmured, almost choking on the words from the feeling of dread.
63
THE THING WHICH HAD NO NAME MOVED THROUGH SHADOW AND audient void. It lived in a vague metaworld, a world that lay in the grayness between the living world of theBritannia and the plane of pure thought. The ghost was not alive. It had no senses. It heard nothing, smelled nothing, felt nothing, thought nothing.
It knew one thing only: desire.
It passed through the mazelike passages of the Britannia slowly, as if by feel. The world of the ship was but a shadow to it, an unreal landscape, a vague fabric of shade and silence, to be traversed only until its need had been fulfilled. From time to time it encountered the dull glow of living entities; their erratic movements were ignored. They were as insubstantial to the thing as the thing was to them.
Vaguely, it sensed it was approaching the prey. It could feel the tug of the living being’s aura, like a magnet. Following this faint lure, it made an irregular progression through the decks of the ship, passing through corridor and steel bulkhead alike, searching, always searching for that which it had been summoned to devour, to annihilate. Its time was not the world’s time; time was but a flexible web, to be stretched, broken, shrugged off, moved into and out of. It had the patience of eternity.
The thing knew nothing of the entity that had summoned it. That entity was no longer important. Not even the summoner could stop it now; its existence was independent. Nor did the thing have any conception of the appearance of the object
of its desire. It knew only the pull of longing: to find the thing, to rend the entity’s soul from the fabric of the world and burn it with its desire, to consume it and satiate itself—and then to cast the cinder into the outer darkness.
It glided up through a dim corridor, a gray tunnel of half-light, with the flitting presences of additional living entities; through clouds heavy with fear and horror. The aura of its prey was stronger here: strong indeed. It felt its yearning grow and stretch out, seeking the heat of contact.
The tulpa was close now, very close, of its prey.
64
GAVIN BRUCE AND HIS LITTLE GROUP—NILES WELCH, QUENTIN Sharp, and Emily Dahlberg—followed Liu and Crowley toward a port-side hatchway onto Half Deck 7. It was marked Lifeboats;a similar hatch would be found on the starboard deck. A crowd milled before the hatch and, as soon as they appeared, converged on them.
“There they are!”
“Get us on the lifeboats!”
“Look, two ship’s officers! Trying to save their own asses!”
They were besieged. With a shriek, a heavy woman in a disheveled tracksuit grabbed Liu.
“Is it true?” she shrieked. “That we’re headed toward the rocks?”
The crowd surged forward, sweaty, smelling of panic. “
Is it true
?”
“You’ve got to tell us!”
“No, no, no,” Liu said, holding up his hands, the grimace of a smile on his lips. “That rumor is
absolutely
false. We’re proceeding on course to—”
“They’re lying!” a man cried.
“What are you doing here at the lifeboats, then?”
“And why the hell are we going so fast? The ship’s pounding like crazy!”
Crowley shouted to make himself heard. “
Listen
! The captain is merely bringing us into St. John’s at all possible speed.”
“That’s not what your own crew is saying!” the woman in the tracksuit bellowed, grabbing the lapels of Liu’s uniform and twisting them frantically. “Don’t lie to us!”
The corridor was now packed with excited passengers. Bruce was shocked by how wild and unruly they had become.
“
Please!
” Liu cried, shaking off the woman. “We’ve just come from the bridge. Everything is under control. This is merely a routine check of the lifeboats—”
A younger man pushed forward, his suit coat hanging open, the buttons of his shirt undone. “Don’t lie to us, you son of a bitch!” He made a grab at Liu, who ducked aside; the man took a swing and struck Liu a glancing blow to the side of the head. “Liar!”
Liu staggered, dropped his shoulders, turned, and, as the man came back at him, slammed his fist into his solar plexus. With a groan, the passenger fell heavily to the floor. An obese man charged forward, his bulk heaving, and took a wild swing at Liu while another grabbed him from behind; Bruce stepped forward, neatly dropping the fat man with a counterpunch while Crowley took on the second passenger.
The crowd, momentarily shocked by the outbreak of violence, fell silent and shuffled back.
“Return to your staterooms!” cried Liu, his chest heaving. Gavin Bruce stepped forward. “You!” He pointed to the woman in front, wearing the tracksuit. “Step aside from that hatch,now !”
His voice, ringing with naval authority, had its effect. The crowd shuffled reluctantly aside, silent, fearful. Liu stepped forward, unlocked the hatch.
“They’re going to the lifeboats!” a man cried. “Take me! Oh God, don’t leave me!”
The crowd woke up again, pressing forward, the air filling with cries and pleadings.
Bruce decked a man half his age who tried to rush the door and won enough time for his group to pile through. Within moments they had pressed the hatch shut behind them, shutting out the crowd of panicked passengers, who began pounding and shouting.
Bruce turned. Cold spray swept across the deck, which was open to the sea along the port side. The boom and rumble of the waves was much louder here, and the wind hummed and moaned through the struts.
“Jesus,” muttered Liu. “Those people have gone frigging crazy.”
“Where is security?” Emily Dahlberg asked. “Why aren’t they controlling that crowd?”
“Security?” said Liu. “We’ve got two dozen security officers for more than four thousand passengers and crew. It’s anarchy out there.”
Bruce shook his head and turned his attention to the long row of lifeboats. He was immediately taken aback. He had never seen anything like them in his navy days: a line of giant, fully enclosed torpedo-shaped vessels, painted bright orange, with rows of portholes along their sides. They looked more like spaceships than boats. What was more, instead of being hung from davits, each was mounted on inclined rails that pointed down and away from the ship.
“How do these work?” he asked, turning to Liu.
“Freefall lifeboats,” Liu said. “They’ve been deployed on oil platforms and cargo ships for years, but the
Britannia
is the first passenger vessel to use them.”
“Freefall lifeboats? You can’t be serious. It’s sixty feet to the water!”
“The passengers are buckled into seats designed to cushion the g-forces of impact. The boats hit the water nose-down, hydrodynamically, then rise to the surface. By the time they surface they’re already three hundred feet from the ship and moving away.”
“What kind of engines you got on these?”
“Each has a thirty-five diesel, capable of eight knots, and they’re all supplied with food, water, heat, and even a ten-minute air supply in case there’s fuel burning on the water.”
Bruce stared at Liu. “Good God, man, this is perfect! I thought we were going to have to launch old-fashioned boats on davits, which would be impossible in these seas. We could launch these right now!”
“I’m afraid it’s not quite that simple,” Liu said.
“Why the hell not?”
“The problem is our forward motion. Thirty knots. That’s almost thirty-five miles an hour—”
“I know what a knot is, damn it!”
“It’s just that there’s no way to know how our forward speed might affect the boats. The rules are very emphatic that the boats have to be launched from a stationary ship.”
“So we launch a test boat, empty.”
“That wouldn’t tell us how passengers might be affected by the lateral g-forces.”
Gavin Bruce frowned. “I get it. So we need a guinea pig. No problem. Give me a portable VHF and put me in there. Launch the boat. I’ll tell you how hard it hits.”
Crowley shook his head. “You might be injured.”
“What choice do we have?”
“We couldn’t let a passenger do that,” Liu replied. “I’ll do it.”
Bruce stared at him. “No way. You’re the bosun. Your expertise is needed up here.”
Liu’s eyes darted toward Crowley, darted back. “It might be a rough landing. Like being in a car, hit broadside by another moving at thirty-five miles an hour.”
“This is water we’re talking about. Not steel-on-steel. Look, somebody’s got to be the guinea pig. I’ve taken worse risks than this. If I get hurt, at least I’ll be off the ship. As I see it, I’ve got nothing to lose. Let’s not waste time.”
Liu hesitated. “I should go.”
Bruce frowned with exasperation. “Mr. Liu, how old are you?”
“Twenty-six.”
“And you, Mr. Crowley?”
“Thirty-nine.”
“Children?”
Both nodded.
“I’m sixty-eight. I’m a better test case because my age and condition are more in line with the other passengers. You’re needed on the ship. And,” he added, “your kids still need you.” Now Emily Dahlberg spoke up. “One occupant isn’t a sufficient test for the launch. We’ll need at least two.”
“You’re right,
” Bruce said. He glanced toward Niles Welch. “What about it, Niles?”
“I’m your man,” Welch replied immediately.
“Wait a minute,” Dahlberg protested. “That’s not what I—”
“I know what you meant,” Bruce replied. “And I’m deeply appreciative, Emily. But what would Aberdeen Bank and Trust say if I endangered one of its most important clients?” And with that, he took the VHF from Liu’s unprotesting hand, moved to the stern hatch of the nearest orange spaceship, and turned the handle. It opened on pneumatic hinges with a soft hiss. He stepped into the dark interior, nodding for Welch to follow. After a moment, he poked his head out again.
“This thing is fitted out better than a luxury yacht. What channel?”
“Use 72. There’s also a fixed VHF and SSB radios on board the lifeboat, along with radar, chartplotter, depth finder, loran—the works.”
Bruce nodded. “Good. Now quit standing around like a bunch of sheep. Once we give you the signal, say a Hail Mary and pull the bloody lever!”
The Wheel of Darkness p-8 Page 31
