The Eidolon (16 page)

Dana Bishop smiles. “Come with me.”

S
HE OPENS A
security partition in a quiet corridor of A Sector and leads me to the last door. She turns to me before we enter. “He can be a little weird. Don’t take it personally.”

Inside is a large room. The hum of extractor fans comes from the ceiling between white neon panels. Two large white semicircular desks take up most of the space, lined with banks of computer consoles. Inside the circle sits a man in a black baseball cap.

He doesn’t look up from his console. Dana taps him on the shoulder and he spins round slowly on his swivel chair, pulling the earphones from his ears. He stares up at her through small round shades, his head inclined to one side, unsmiling. He has a matching omega sign on his black baseball cap and tee shirt, sallow skin and dark hair. Beside him is a fruit bowl piled high with cola bottle sweets.

“Robert, this is Mr Y. Mr Y is one of the most gifted programmers on the planet. If you tell him your idea, he’ll find a way to make it happen.”

Mr Y studies me, bouncing gently as he leans back on his chair, and reaches for the bowl of cola bottles. He pushes a handful into his mouth.

“Robert has identified a potential weakness in the CERN system.” Mr Y doesn’t look at her as she speaks, but just sits there, watching me, chewing. “I’ll leave you two to chat.” I hear the swish of the door closing.

Mr Y takes a deep breath and leans over to pull another chair from the semicircular desk opposite. He gestures for me to sit down.

“So, eh...”

He raises a finger, silencing me, then turns and taps on the keys of his computer, breaking only to grasp another handful of sweets. The software I’d been examining downstairs appears on the screen.

He turns to me. “So what’s your plan?” His voice is soft, an American accent with a hint of something far-eastern.

“I need a two-layered virus that will alter the parameters of the superconductor and silence the Quench Protection System alarm.”

“A man-in-the-middle attack. Are you sure it’s a virus you want?”

“I need something that attaches itself to an existing program. Something that will evade detection once it’s in there.”

“
We can do that with a good worm. A rootkit, periodically moving and changing its name to avoid detection. What’s your trigger?”

“
The launch of the particles from the source chamber.”

He nods.“Where do you plan to release your worm?”

My
worm? I shift uncomfortably in my seat.

“The Operator’s Room in the Computer Centre.”

He turns back to the screen, scrolling through data.

“Linux 6 Scientific and YUM. And you want in to the Quench Protection System...” He studies the screen, chewing on more cola sweets. I scan the room. There’s a life-size standee of a busty, scantily-clad woman next to a wall-mounted digital display showing time zones across the globe. My foot catches against something under the desk, and I glance down to see a large clear tank. Something is sliding across the bottom, a slither of gold and black. A snake. I stare at Mr Y. Weird doesn’t come close.

“What’s the cut-off temperature for the magnets?”

“Nine point six degrees Kelvin, maximum.”

“And the current?”

“Two thousand amps.”

He continues to study the screen. After a long silence, he sits back. “I’ll get you your worm. You’ll have admin access from the Operator’s room, but you’ll need five to seven minutes there to upload the file. Have you thought of a name for your worm?”

It’s not my worm. “No.”

“You need a name.”

“Why?”

“Because it’s cool to name your worm.” I want to laugh, but he says it seriously, almost reverently.

His gaze wanders to the ceiling as he chews on another handful of sweets. “How about... Kali.”

“Kali?”

“The Hindu Goddess. It means she who destroys.”

“Oh.”

He turns back to the screen.

“What’s the hardware for carrying it?” I ask.

He holds up a USB flash drive without looking at me.

“That’s it?”

“D’you know the US Department of Defence banned the use of these little numbers because malware was spreading like the common cold? We did a lot of damage with them. It doesn’t look like much, but it can spoil your day. Enough to wipe out an entire databank.” He punches in a code on a small number pad on the desk, and the drawer to his right clicks and slides open. It’s stacked with upright USB drives in foam bases. Next to each drive is a small label with a code in black typeface. “There’s more destructive power in this drawer than there is in the entire US air force.”

“Did you create all of these?”

He smiles.

“Wow. You must have made a few waves in your time.”

He nods, looking smug, and picks through the drives, handling each one like it’s made of thin glass.

“This one, for instance...” He picks up a stick from the third row. “This one shut down the International Monetary Fund for thirty-six hours. And this one... this one wiped out the software of a leading Canadian bank, just with an email. They had to replace the entire mainframe – the whole lot. It took them thirteen months to get back on their feet. It’s a one-way ticket.” He shakes his head. “Masterstroke.”

“What language do you use for the programs?”

“C and C ++.” He holds up the Canadian crippler. “This one’s a generic program – you could use it against any system operating on Linux 6.”

Like here?
I think, but I don’t say it.

He replaces it in its slot in the top right corner of the foam base and slides the drawer in. It beeps and locks with a click.

“So is this what ORB does? Shut down banks and the IMF?”

“Those were my endeavours. Nothing to do with ORB.”

“Right.” It makes me feel a bit better. I realise that I’m talking to someone who has operated in high-end digital crime, but we’re here for the greater good – I have to keep telling myself that.

I pause while he empties another packet of cola bottles into the fruit bowl, then ask, “What about the security cameras?”

“Not a problem. When you work out how you’re going to do it, email your contact. I’ll tap into the cameras in the Computer Centre over the next couple of days and record some of the shifts – your contact can overlay it onto the security recordings when you make an appearance. They won’t see a thing. Anything else?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Fine.They’ll be growing mushrooms on the CERN site in a couple of years.”

He leans down and opens a mini fridge under the desk, pulling out something grey and furry. I retreat back into my chair as he opens the lid of the tank and drops the dead rat inside. There’s a rustle and a slither as the snake unhinges its jaws and engulfs the rodent. Mr Y watches my reaction.

“His name’s Reggie,” he says.

“Oh.”

“Do you like snakes?”

“Never given it much thought.”
Of course I don’t like snakes, you fucking weirdo.

Mr Y grins for the first time, revealing rotting teeth, the product of too many sweets. He picks up the phone on his desk and dials. “I’ve finished with him. You can take him away.”

A
S THE PARTITION
slides closed behind us, Dana glances at her watch and lifts her phone to her ear. “Carson, when’s the last departure tonight?” A pause. “Okay. Let the pilot know to be ready in ten minutes. And bring Mr Strong’s rucksack to the atrium.” She turns to me. “I think you’ll make the last flight.”

“What do you mean?”

“Our aircraft will take you to Heathrow airport, where you can board your flight for Geneva.”

“What, tonight?”

“You need to become established in the CERN community as soon as possible. The last of the tests are being conducted over the next six days, and we need you in there for as many of them as possible, starting tomorrow morning. We’ve arranged all the paperwork. They’ll be expecting you.”

“But I don’t have my passport –”

“Like I said: it’s all taken care of.”

W
HEN WE REACH
the atrium, a woman at the desk hands me a large brown envelope. “You’ll find your tickets and everything else you need inside,” says Dana.

A man walks briskly towards us as she ushers me onto a buggy. He hands over my rucksack as the buggy pulls away.

T
HE SKY IS
overcast and there’s a cold drizzle on the air, when the substation doors open onto the field. The cab door is pulled back and the pilot’s checking the overhead controls in the cockpit. Outside, an engineer is tinkering with the engine. I climb into the cabin.

“We’ll forward the final product to you within twenty-four hours,” says Dana. “We’ll be in touch with further instructions. You did a good job, Robert. Thank you.” She smiles and looks beautiful.

“It’s clamped out over the whole country,” the pilot says to her. “There’s no IFR option, so we’ll go down the east coast and refuel at Newcastle. I’ll do what I can, but we may be pushing it for your flight. ”

There’s a thud as the engine compartment closes and the engineer steps back from the aircraft. I recognise him – Abrams – the guy from the library. He wipes a rag over a spanner and glances up at me as the engine whirs into life. Dana swings the cab door closed, then backs away as the blades begin to spin, blowing her dark hair across her face. The pilot turns to me, handing me a set of headphones. When I put them on, I hear his voice. “Switch off your mobile phone, Mr Strong.”

As I reach into my pocket for my phone, something falls onto the floor of the aircraft beside me. I pick it up: the photograph Banks dropped yesterday; the woman with the dangerous eyes.

“Can you get this to Peter Banks when you get back?”

“Hold onto it until we touch down,” says the pilot. “We need to keep ahead of the weather. There’s a cold front coming in from the west and this cab doesn’t have icing clearance.”

I look out over the darkening clouds as I push the photograph back into my pocket. “Is it safe to fly?”

He turns and grins. “As safe as it’s going to get today.”

The helicopter lifts and banks into the cloud.

What am I doing?

I close my eyes and try to sleep the thought away, concentrating on the purr of the engine, the
thub-thub
of the blades. I drift in and out, uneasy dreams coming and going.

A
SUDDEN JOLT
jars me awake. I grip the seat to steady myself. “What the hell...”

“Make sure you’re strapped in,” comes the pilot’s voice. “Things could get a little bumpy.”

Another violent lurch thrusts me forwards, locking me against the harness as an alarm sounds from the cockpit.

“Shit!” comes the pilot’s voice over the headset.

I grip the straps of my harness as the helicopter plummets, amidst a high-pitched whine.

“
MAYDAY! MAYDAY! MAYDAY! Alpha-whisky-two-one smoke in the cockpit forced landing position two miles east of Crail
...”

Is this really happening? The scream of the engine ringing in my ears, the stench of smoke, the harness squeezing my chest like a vice; all of it beyond my control.

“BRACE! BRACE! BRACE
!”

I squeeze my eyes shut, gripping the shoulder straps like a lifeline, something swelling in the pit of my gut.

Impact. A meteorite striking granite, it rocks my core, every fibre bouncing with the force, which rips the air into pieces with the deafening screech of breaking metal. My head smacks the headrest, the lights go out. Water, flooding in as cold as ice... seeping up onto my shins, my thighs, my torso. My breaths are shards of glass in my chest. My fingers, numb and useless in the frozen water, fumbling at the buckle that’s pressing into me. Water’s rising to my neck, I’m panting like a dog, shivering, dizzy with it. I’m grappling with the catch, another lurch, forcing my head into the liquid tomb, enveloping me in watery sounds. I seize a last breath, and go under
.

Groaning in the darkness, scraping and screeching – a tortured whale-song, consuming me. I’m falling into cold black...
Open the fucking harness!
The catch bursts loose. I’m fumbling in the dark... what way’s up? A door... a handle. I yank at it as my lungs scream for air...
must breathe
... a tearing pain in my chest. My head pounding like it will explode...
Air... please...
my heart’s splitting; it’s going to burst...
air
...

Fear erupts in me – deep, visceral, wild fear. It’s happening all over again – it’s all coming back to me. I’m not ready, not yet.

The door glides away from me into the black. I push through the threshold and then...

...and then...

Peace.

I am still.

I float gently in the current, the urge to struggle gone, the pain, a distant memory.

I become the water, the waves, the tide, part of it all. Such stillness, such peace.

I’d forgotten.

There’s light, a gentle radiance, flooding me with all the peace that ever was. It’s brightening. A blizzard of silent light.

It makes sense now.

There is nothing to fear.

Chapter Eight

I
FEEL AS
though I’m being washed clean and all that’s bad is flooding away and in its place there is warmth and refuge. My senses come alive and every particle in my body seems perfectly tuned, vibrating in unison with everything. I’m energised and alive and radiant, like nothing I’ve ever experienced.

The world falls away. Suspended amongst the galaxies and the gas clouds and the suns, I watch as the cosmos creates and destroys itself in its timeless cycle of birth and death. Red giants folding in on themselves, great seething furnaces of gold and crimson in their last fervent gasps. Cataclysmic explosions, scattering white light and energy and the elements of life into the darkest corners of the universe – new beginnings. Space isn’t black. It’s not silent or empty or cold or unchanging. It’s dynamic, full of violence and turmoil and evolution, an animal continually struggling to shed its old skin to make way for the new creature inside. There’s something else, between all those suns – a radiant, billowing web of myriad colour. And I’m part of it, part of that unspeakable majesty, just as it is part of me. And then, for a moment as brief as it is eternal, I know everything there is to know.