The Codex File (2012)

by Miles Etherton

“In the past the app has been able to download to any designated IP address. Providing the user completes the registration form, which of course they have to in order to use UKCitizensNet, we can locate their geographical location through their IP address. The problem we’ve had though has been a network clash, getting the app to interface properly with other networked utility applications that are separate and which were developed outside of UKCitizensNet. The remote system hasn’t been able to successfully isolate specific designated applications on other networks. The upshot being that we’ve no idea whether the app is operating the toaster, the home computer, or turning the heating on.”

  Trevellion frowned a little.

  “Yes, I know all of this,” he said, slightly impatiently.

  “Until now that is,” Wainwright continued enthusiastically. “We went back and spent days re-evaluating the software and the code. But in the end it struck us that it was actually a problem with UKCitizensNet itself.”

  Wainwright pointed even more fervently at the right side of the screen.

  “We’re sure that it’s a network configuration problem on the UKCitizensNet side that’s causing our baby to be less than co-operative.”

  A smile slid across Trevellion’s reptilian features.

  “So, how long will it take to re-write the code and reconfigure the system?”

  “A couple of days taking into account the variations on the regional server clusters.”

  “You’ve got 24 hours,” Trevellion said firmly.

  Wainwright’s face dropped a little at the prospect of not going home for a while sank in.

  Trevellion patted his arm.

  “You’ve done a good job. Just get this thing working for me.”

  Wainwright forced a slight grin. It wasn’t often anyone got praise from Vincent Trevellion.

  Trevellion studied the screen again as he felt a surge of triumph coarse through his veins. If this was the solution, then half of the lingering problems with the app were close to being solved. But there was still one more issue that needed to be completed for the project to proceed any further.

  “So, tell me about the wireless deployment of the app?”

  Wainwright rubbed his chin thoughtfully and sat back in his chair, slightly fearing Trevellion’s previous praise would be quickly diluted by his next remarks.

  “Wireless deployment is proving more problematic. We know that the problem with the network coding errors have been hampering the app in any environment. But there’s still a problem with the wireless handlers and that’s making the wireless network flaky to say the least. More often than not the wireless system simply isn’t robust enough. It’s experiencing far too much downtime. And that’s assuming the app has deployed at all to a remote wireless IP address, which is by no means guaranteed at the moment. All of the regional hubs are being upgraded and diagnostic testing is currently taking place whilst we re-examine the handlers our end.”

  Trevellion nodded, but didn’t reply. He watched as Wainwright brought-up more on-screen diagrams, although he hardly heard what he said as his thoughts mulled over the problem.

  Once this problem was sorted out they would be in a position to move to Phase III, the most decisive and defining moment of the whole project. They could still progress to Phase II without the wireless component being fully operational. But Tate had demanded a quick resolution to all the technical problems slowing the project down before they went after their next target.

  Andrew Wainwright was an outstanding programmer Trevellion thought as his colleague explained how they would solve the problem of wireless deployment of the app. But despite his work on the project Wainwright didn’t see the whole picture. Nor had he been briefed on the real purpose of the app - only those in the CODEX project team were privy to the contents of file OP09/ST. And like everyone else in the office he was working under the impression that the app was a user-friendly network application, a tool offering the user even greater interaction with UKCitizensNet. It was a mechanism to make life easier and less complicated - the complete migration to the online, networked world.

  Trevellion smiled knowingly. Wainwright and his programmers didn’t need to know. Only a select few needed to know about the CODEX status and what that truly meant. He just needed to get the bloody thing working properly.

  As Wainwright brought up yet another screen of network diagrams for the regional server clusters, Trevellion’s mobile phone began ringing. Pulling the narrow, state-of-the-art device from his suit pocket, he read the message on the screen:

  ‘Sebastian Tate calling. Answer?’

  “Keep me informed,” Trevellion ordered, exiting the office and slipping back into the quiet, corridor.

  “Trevellion,” he said, answering the call.

  “Vincent, we need to meet. And I hope there’s good news to report.”

  Trevellion’s expression broke into a half-smile.

  “Things are progressing well.”

  “Good. Contact my secretary and make an appointment to come and see me as soon as Phase II is complete.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Sir Donald Allison gently brought his Jaguar XJS convertible to a halt, the soft gravel swishing noisily beneath the tyres. Looking to his house as he exited his car, he stood for a moment, admiring their home. Light shone through the Victorian latticed window frames, illuminating the grand facade against the evening sky.

  They’d moved to Elvetham seven years earlier from their expensive flat in Mayfair, although they still kept it if they needed to stay over in town. But this was their home now, not the city.

  The house boasted six bedrooms, adjoining stables and three acres of land in leafy Hampshire.

  Margo had had enough of living in London and wanted a ‘quiet retreat’ in the country as she had put it. And once SemComNet had moved from Croydon to purpose-built premises in Brookwood the location in Elvetham seemed even more ideal.

  He never seemed to tire of coming home to this house. It was a sign of their wealth, their success. But above all it was out of the public eye.

  Since SemComNet had secured the tender to run UKCitizensNet his position as company president had thrust him into the limelight. There were meetings at Downing Street. Dr Marcus McCoy had, understandably, taken a keen hands-on interest in UKCitizensNet from day one, ensuring the state network delivered his national online vision. Then there were parliamentary sub-committees and strategy groups, and endless requests for interviews from the press. This was now a way of life. And they all wanted a piece of him.

  But he knew it was worth it. He looked at the house again and across to the stables to the right of the building. It was definitely worth it.

  As the great oak front door closed behind him Sir Donald emerged into his expansive reception area. Margo appeared at the top of the marble staircase that snaked up the centre of the house.

  “Ah, there you are darling,” she said crisply, fastening a diamond earring she’d bought that day. “I wasn’t sure whether you’d be back before I left.”

  “Are you going out?” Sir Donald asked with slight disappointment, his gaze tracing up the short, clinging, black dress his younger wife shone in.

  They’d been together for eleven years. A lot longer than most observers had predicted. The predictable snide whispered comments about the beautiful ‘gold digger’ had been muttered in most quarters. When they married six months after meeting he’d been two months short of 50 and she’d been a young and voluptuous 29.

  But despite all the underhand comments from supposed friends about Margo’s intentions she had good breeding. Good enough for him not to worry about a claim on his substantial estate six months after they got married. And to this day he’d still been proved right about Margo.

  Unsurprisingly, those supposed friends had been all too keen to rub shoulders with them again when SemComNet had won the UKCitizensNet tender. They were bastards, all of them. He’d had to take many tough decisions in his business life, especially where U
KCitizensNet had been concerned to make it financially viable in its early stages. But one decision he’d made in his life had been the easiest of them all - telling those two-faced wankers exactly what they could do with their false friendships and ‘knowing the right people’ attitudes.

  He hadn’t let them get away with snubbing his young wife and he was proud of that. He was almost prouder of this than the huge success UKCitizensNet had become. And he wasn’t too big to admit that this business success owed a lot to the tireless efforts of his deputy, Vincent Trevellion.

  Trevellion primarily looked after R&D developments and regulatory issues. In the two years UKCitizensNet had been operational SemComNet hadn’t been fined once for failing to meet the tender’s service level agreement. The online feedback users were regularly encouraged to complete also showed a huge rise in consumer confidence in what UKCitizensNet had developed. The integrated 5 generation semantic web platform had transformed people’s lives.

  On the product front Trevellion had successfully developed better and faster upgrades for the service. His devotion to UKCitizensNet and to him would make him an excellent successor if ever he decided to retire. Not that he had any plans to do so for quite a few years yet. Margo doubted he would ever be able to tear himself away from the industry he loved so much.

  Margo gracefully descended the stairs, her long, wavy red hair cascading alluringly over her shoulders.

  “It’s the charity gala tonight at Highclere, darling. I did tell you last week.”

  Sir Donald nodded, the vaguest recollection of their conversation the week before coming back to him.

  She kissed him tenderly on the cheek, her sweet perfume intoxicating his senses.

  “I’ll see you later. I’m going to take the sporty, OK?”

  He nodded, a slight grin crossing his face. They’d bought the classic Aston Martin three years ago, but still Margo affectionately referred to it as the ‘sporty’.

  As the front door shut firmly behind her, Sir Donald sauntered into his study. Pouring himself a scotch he flicked on his eCitTV unit and slumped onto the sofa. Selecting the ‘Web’ button on the console the channel output seamlessly melted into the UKCitizensNet logo. The symbol of his company’s success gleamed in front of him.

  Selecting the ‘Finance’ channel the screen again altered, displaying a fresh set of choices. Skipping over the ‘Home banking’ option he clicked on the ‘Stock Market’ link. Locating his reading glasses Sir Donald hungrily scanned over the latest market predictions for SemComNet’s shares.

  But, as he nodded appreciatively at a modest rise in the share price, an alert on a remote system was being activated. An alert which prompted the remote server to pinpoint an IP address. And an alert which instructed the server to send a Java app file to that location.

  Sufficiently satisfied SemComNet’s shares weren’t taking a battering because of uncertainty in the Asian markets and constant gloomy forecasts of global recession, Sir Donald moved into the bathroom.

  On the wall of the marbled bathroom was the electronic display controlling the water and networked throughout the entire house. It had been a long day he thought, casting his mind back to a heated meeting of the parliamentary sub-committee on national IT infrastructure and development. He’d had quite a job persuading the members that UKCitizensNet and eCitTV units were suitably compliant with the nationalised utilities’ networks. This interfacing to link the entire nationalised services’ structure together was pivotal to support the government’s long-term strategy of a networked future. It would also secure future UKCitizensNet developments, providing more comfortable lives for everyone.

  It had been a tough meeting and he needed a long soak he concluded, punching a couple of buttons on the display. He didn’t want to run out of hot water.

  Returning to the master bedroom he sat on the edge of the four poster bed and slid open his bedside drawer. Pulling out the electric shaver he quickly plugged the cable into the socket on the wall above his bedside table. Listening to the sound of the water slowly filling the bathtub he brought the razor to rest on his throat. He’d had to replace the blade the week before so he was guaranteed a close shave.

  As his finger began to ease the ‘On’ switch into position the telephone on Margo’s dressing table began to ring. Lowering the electric razor he considered answering the call before deciding the answerphone could take a message. If it were important, he’d ring them back.

  As the machine clicked into life his interest faded. The call was from one of Margo’s horsey friends wanting to reschedule a dinner date.

  As the sound of water running filtered back through to the bedroom Sir Donald put the razor down. Leaning across the bed he reached for the switch of the electric lamp on the bedside table. The light flickered into life and he rose from the bed and headed for the bathroom, flicking off the bedroom’s main light. He’d shave after his bath.

  Submerging himself into the fragranced bubble bath, he felt the worries and stresses of his week float away. Closing his eyes for a lingering moment an alien, acrid smell permeated his senses. Gently sniffing the air, and almost expecting the odour to have vanished, his eyes quickly opened. The smell was growing stronger.

  Sitting up in the bath his senses quickly stirred from their brief relaxation. The acrid smell was thick in his nostrils. He could hear a sharp crackling noise from downstairs. And now he knew what the smell was. It was burning.

  Leaping out of the bath as fast as his tired limbs would allow he ran down the hallway until he reached the top of the stairs. His eyes widened fearfully as spitting flames engulfed the first third of the wide staircase. Licking a rapid path up the wooden, recently lacquered wooden banister rail, the flames ignited the paintings lining the wall adjacent to the staircase. A long antique tapestry occupying a large space on the wall caught the path of the fire, hungrily sucking the flames up the wall and onto the upstairs of the house.

  Sir Donald felt his breathing becoming more rapid as the thick black smoke seeped into his lungs. Coughing violently he stepped slowly backwards, almost paralysed in disbelief.

  Retreating sluggishly along the hallway, coughing from smoke inhalation, the wall of fire crept threateningly over the top of the stairs. Turning away in panic he hurtled into his bedroom, slamming the door shut.

  Racing across to the window he roughly shoved the curtains back before throwing a glance to the bedroom door. His eyes widened even further as black smoke snaked mercilessly under the door and filled the room. His senses were overwhelmed by the familiar crackling noise as the bedroom door was slowly but surely, eaten up by the flames.

  He began coughing again, but worse than before, as he weakly tried to open the latticed windows.

  Open damn you, open.

  Pulling frantically at the window he fought in vain to open the firmly secured window lock. He’d always made security a top priority in their dream house.

  What a bloody irony.

  Turning back into the room he began to cough more violently, peering through the intensely hot gloom of the smoke-filled room. He could feel dizziness rising up within him as he doubled-up in a coughing fit.

  Unconsciousness threatened and he sluggishly reached for the small stool that always sat in front of Margo’s dressing table. He needed something, anything, to break that bloody window.

  As he moved towards the stool a thunderous crackling noise deafened the fire-consumed room. The bedroom door disintegrated like brittle matchwood. He barely heard the sound or saw the persistent flames as they shot over the bed linen and up the frame of the four poster bed.

  Sir Donald screamed as the fire engulfed him, burning his flesh away in a few murderous seconds.

  His screams were rapidly drowned out as the fire consumed the whole room and everything else in its path.

  CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

  Michael closed his front door and began to climb the stairs, suppressing the same feelings of nausea he felt everytime he had to go to their bedroo
m. Dismissing the thought he opened the door and entered. And grabbing a bag from the wardrobe he began to pack his clothes.

  Initially his four allies, they were hardly at a stage yet they could call each other friends, had told him to return home. Jones said it would create the appearance of normality while they attempted to get the app operational.

  But he knew despite not understanding how the technology really worked there was no way he could remain at home, twiddling his thumbs waiting for their call. Of course they’d protested at first, fearing his presence would be too big a distraction. But eventually they’d acquiesced. He’d virtually begged them to let him stay. The only condition had been that he had to follow the same method for getting to Aldershot. If he remotely suspected they’d successfully followed him he wasn’t to go to the deserted mobile home park and risk compromising their security. Reluctantly he’d agreed as the prospect of another three-hour train journey loomed. But it was still more tolerable than not knowing if any progress was being made.

  Piling shirts, jumpers, underwear and anything else that looked suitable into his bag he was as confident as he could be that no-one was watching his house. Nobody had been loitering on the street or watching avidly from a parked car or van. The only parked car on the street was old Mr. Thomas’ Robin Reliant. He doubted anybody would try and monitor his movements in that.

  A fresh thought struck him and he moved to the window. Pressing his face to the glass he peered through the net curtains. What if they were in one of the houses in the street, carefully concealed, watching his every move?

  He shook his head, realising he was becoming more and more like Brown. There was nothing he could do about it even if they were camped in a house with intrusive telescopic lenses pointed at him. He would just have to stick to Jones’ instructions.

  Turning away from the steamed-up window the telephone began to ring in the lounge downstairs. Michael’s pulse quickened expectantly.

  Maybe they’ve got the app working already?