Part of the reason for her being at Wilholm was so she could be his secretary. Philip Evans needed a secretary like he needed another overdraft, but the idea was to give her executive experience and acquaint her with Event Horizon minutiae, preparing her to take it over. A terrifying, yet at the same time exhilarating prospect.
Then this morning at breakfast he'd taken her into his confidence, looking even more haggard than usual. "Someone is running a spoiler operation against Event Horizon," he'd said. "Contaminating thirty-seven per cent of our memox crystals in the furnaces."
"Has Walshaw found out who was behind it?" she'd asked, assuming she was being told after the security chief had closed down the operation. It was the way their discussions of the company usually went. Her grandfather would explain a recent problem, and they'd go over the solution, detail by detail, until she understood why it'd been handled that particular way. Remote hands-on training, he'd joked.
"Walshaw doesn't know about this," Philip Evans had answered grimly. "Nobody knows apart from me. I noticed our cash reserves had fallen pretty drastically in the last quarterly financial summaries. Forty-eight million Eurofrancs down, Juliet, that's fifty-seven million New Sterling for Christ's sake. Our entire reserve is only nine hundred million Eurofrancs. So I started checking. The money is being used to cover a deficit from the microgee crystal furnaces up at Zanthus. Standard accounting procedure; the loss was passed on to the finance division to make good for our loan-repayment schedule. They're just doing their job. The responsibility lies with the microgee division, and they've done bugger-all about it."
She'd frowned, bewildered. "But surely someone in the microgee division should've spotted it? Thirty-seven per cent! What about the security monitors?"
"Nothing. They didn't trip. According to the data squirt from Zanthus, that thirty-seven per cent is coming out of the furnace as just so much rubbish, riddled with impurities. They've written it off as a normal operational loss. And that is pure bollocks. The furnaces weren't performing that badly at start-up, and we're way down the learning curve now. A worst-case scenario should see a five per cent loss. I checked with the Boeing Marietta consortium which builds the furnaces, no one else is suffering that kind of reject rate. Most of 'em have losses below two per cent."
The full realisation struck her then. "We can't trust security?"
"God knows, Juliet. I'm praying that some smart-arse hotrod has found a method of cracking the monitor's access codes, however unlikely that is. The alternative is bad."
"What are you going to do?"
"Sit and think. They've been gnawing away at us for eight bloody months, a few more days won't kill us. But we're taking a quarter of a million Eurofranc loss per day, it's got to stop, and stop dead. I have to know the people I put on it are reliable."
They couldn't afford major losses, Julia knew. Philip Evans's post-Second Restoration expansion plans were stretching the company's resources to breaking point. Microgee products were the most profitable of all Event Horizon's gear, but the space station modules tied up vast sums of capital; even with the Sanger spaceplanes, reaching orbit was still phenomenally expensive. They needed the income from the memox crystals to keep up the payments to the company's financial backing consortium.
The fact that he'd admitted the problem to her and her alone had brought a wonderful sensation of contentment. They'd always been close, but this made the bond unbreakable. She was the only person he could really trust in the whole world. And that was just a little bit scary.
She'd promised faithfully to run an analysis of the security monitor programs through her nodes for him, to see if the Codes could be cracked, or maybe subverted. But she'd delayed it while she went horse-riding with Adrian and Kats, then again as the three of them went swimming, and now subverting the manor's security circuits.
Guilt added itself to the shame she was already feeling from spying on the lovers. She'd been appallingly selfish, allowing a juvenile infatuation to distract her. Betraying Grandpa's trust.
Access HighSteal.
Sight, sound, and sensation fell away, isolating her at the centre of a null void. Numbers filled her mind, nothing like a cube display, no coloured numerals; this was elemental maths, raw digits. The processor nodes obediently slotted them into a logic matrix, a three-dimensional lattice with data packages on top, filtering through a dizzy topography of interactive channels that correlated and cross-indexed. Hopefully the answer should pop out of the bottom.
She thought for a moment, defining the parameters of the matrix channels, allowing ideas to form, merge. Any ideas, however wild. Some fruiting, some withering. Irrational. Assume the monitors are unbreakable: how would I go about concealing the loss? An inverted problem, outside normal computer logic, its factors too random. Her processor nodes loaded the results into the channel structures.
The columns of numbers started to flow. She began to inject tracer programs, adding modifications as she went, probing for weak points.
Some deep level of her brain admitted that the metaphysical matrix frightened her, an eerie sense of trepidation at its inhuman nature. She feared herself, what she'd become. Was that why people kept their distance? Could they tell she was different somehow? An instinctive phobia.
She cursed the bioware.
Philip Evans's scowling face filled her bedside phone screen. "Juliet?" The scowl faded. "For God's sake, girl, it's past midnight."
He looked so terribly fragile, she thought, worse than ever. She kept her roguish smile firmly in place—school discipline, thank heavens. "So what are you doing up, then?"
"You bloody well know what I'm doing, girl."
"Yah, me too. Listen, I think I've managed to clear security over the monitor programs."
He leaned in towards the screen, eyes questing. "How?"
"Well, the top rankers anyway," she conceded. "We make eighteen different products up at Zanthus, and each of the microgee production modules squirts its data to the control centre in the dormitory. Now the control-centre 'ware processes the data before it enters the company data net so that the relevant divisions only get the data they need—maintenance requirements to procurement, consumables to logistics, and performance figures to finance. But the security monitoring is actually done up at Zanthus, with the raw data. And that's where the monitor programs have been circumvented, they haven't been altered at all."
"Circumvented how?"
"By destreaming the data squirts from the microgee modules, lumping them all together. The monitors are programmed to trip when production losses rise above fourteen per cent, anything below that is considered a maintenance problem. At the moment the total loss of our combined orbital production is thirteen point two per cent, so no alarm."
Julia watched her grandpa run a hand across his brow. "Juliet, you're an angel."
She said nothing, grinning stupidly into the screen, feeling just great.
"I mean it," he said.
Embarrassed in the best possible way, she shrugged. "Just a question of programming, all that expensive education you gave me. Anybody else could've done it. What will you do now?"
"Do you know who authorised the destreaming?"
"No, sorry. It began nine months ago, listed as part of one of our famous simplification/economy drives."
"Can you find out?"
"Tricky. However, I checked with personnel, and none of the Zanthus managers have left in the last year, so whoever the culprit is, they're still with us. Three options. I can try and worm my way into Zanthus's 'ware and see if they left any traces, like which terminal it was loaded from, whose access card was used, that kind of thing. Or I could go up to Zanthus and freeze their records."