"There's bits missing." Klerupiru looks terrible. She's sitting in the middle of a scattered drift of PADDs and isolinear chips, with six different holo-displays projecting pages of machine code into the air around her; her eyes are hollow, and she has spent so long tugging at her collar that her rank pips are hanging askew. She waves a hand at one of the displays. "Here, for instance."
"You need to get some sleep," I tell her.
She just grunts. "There's a whole other system woven through the computer core. Like, a shadow OS, underlying the main one. It's - it's amazingly complicated. Like -" She frowns. Then her eyelids droop, and she shakes her head.
"Sleep," I repeat. "I'll make it an order if I have to. Come on, you know you can't do good work in this state, surely?"
"Yeah, but...." She shakes her head again. "This system, it could organize itself, maybe, download modules and subroutines from subspace channels... but there had to be a source, a seed that it grew from, if you like, and this stuff is so low-level, it's practically at chip architecture level.... There had to be a, a physical source. Had to."
"What," I say, doubtfully, "you mean like a virus file, manually inserted?"
She shakes her head. "Architecture level. Has to be. A specialist chip with the seed on it... inserted into the services net at some point... then the shadow OS grew from there...."
"That... doesn't make our life any easier," I say. "Isolinear chips are designed to be hot-swappable. You'd have to trace, I don't know -"
"I do," says Klerupiru glumly. "Every chip, every single one that's ever been put in a reader socket anywhere on the research station's internal network. And it needn't have been there more than a second or two, either. And it's nearly impossible to track every chip, especially as the shadow OS will have been covering its tracks. It does that. It's very thorough."
"Get some rest," I tell her. She nods, and slowly gets to her feet.
"'nother thing," she mutters. "There's a, a key."
"A what?"
"Shadow OS takes orders. There's a key sequence it responds to, or would respond to. Know what it is, it's hard-coded at the machine code level. Quaternion array. Looks like encoded vector ratios."
"What?" I try to keep up with computer technology, but I'm not an expert, Klerupiru is.
"Quaternions are great for encoding three-dimensional structures," she says. "This thing, it's like a shape, a solid object, that you can view at any distance, at any angle, but if you see it, the system will respond."
"So? Great," I say. "Feed this shape in, and let's see how the shadow OS responds."
"That's the problem," Klerupiru says. "Feed it in where, and how? We've got the quaternion array, but it needs to come in on a specific data channel, and I don't know how the shadow OS maps its inputs onto its channels. Like having the key to a lock, but I don't know where the keyhole is." She waves a hand at her main desk console, and the holo-displays wink out. "Got to get some rest," she says, and shambles out of the lab.
I sit on the edge of her desk, and look at one of the PADDs. I'm trying to read it upside down, but I don't think I would do any better if it was right way up. I'm not the expert, here. I should get some rest myself.
My combadge chirps at me. I slap at it irritably. "Shohl."
"Sir." Cordul's voice. "I have a secure transmission from Republic space, with an authorization from Admiral Hengest."
"I'm in computer lab one. Put it through on the screen here," I say. Whatever it is, it can't be good news.
The screen flashes, and a face appears; a grey scowling gargoyle face, with brooding eyes in blackened sockets. "Commander, um, Heizis. What can I do for you?"
"Routine intelligence digest transfer indicates that you are looking at a case of computer infiltration, source unknown." The Reman is all business. Well, mostly business, with some surliness. "I have come across a similar issue. It is possible they are related, in which case we might be wise to pool our efforts."
"Anything's possible," I say. "But, well, I don't see any reason to be at cross purposes with you over this. What's your situation?"
"Someone has assembled the parts and plans for a sun-killer weapon. A trilithium warhead. We intercepted one before it could be delivered, but we believe there is another one out there somewhere. And the parts - the blueprints, the specialist materials orders - come from sources that cannot be traced. As if they arose out of the data cloud itself."
"Like the countdown transmissions," I say.
"Yes. I am acquainted with the countdowns. The Republic lost one senior officer, if you recall."
"Any idea how?"
"Our best guess is that someone sent a drone through the flotilla's security screen to interfere with Admiral Trosek's transport. Obviously, this should not be possible. And they would have had to know Trosek's schedules, too, down to the minute. Those should not have been accessible, either."
"But with some ghost in the computer systems, anything's possible." I sigh.
"Quite. And I, for one, do not believe in multiple ghosts. All our difficulties must have one author." Heizis shifts, uneasily, and her expression turns more sour than usual. "In this connection... I have a visitor, who has suggested a name."
"A visitor?"
"Your former colleague. Pexlini. Ex-Admiral Pexlini, I should imagine, by this point."
"Pexlini? She's with you?"
"She came to me for help. I suppose I should feel flattered. In any case, she is here at the Vault, and therefore well outside Starfleet's reach." I could take issue with that, but I hold my peace; there's no need to antagonize the Remans. "She is volubly protesting her innocence, as you might expect, and she believes her misfortunes all spring from one source. Kalevar Thrang."
I inhale, sharply, and my antennae stiffen. Kalevar Thrang. The man who tried to start a war between the Federation and the Klingon Empire... and who tried to fix it so that I would fire the opening shots. "Do you think that's likely?" I ask, carefully keeping my voice neutral.
"It is - possible. If Thrang is active again, he could be attempting to frame Pexlini as part of a wider plan to confuse and distract Starfleet Intelligence. As I say, it is possible. It would be neat and elegant." She looks as if she is about to spit. "I distrust neatness. However -"
Something is making her reluctant. "You've found another connection. Something else that's neat."
"References to a mask," Heizis says. "Passing mentions, no more - an anonymized voice on a secure channel says that it will use the mask to find information; a courier is instructed to use the mask to access funds. That is all, just those two words, the mask. But since we already know of one mask that is causing problems... I cannot help but wonder if this is related."
"I guess it might be. Though what the Mask of Dhalselapur is supposed to do -" I sigh. "All right. Let's set up some dedicated secure data channels for pooling this information. It can't hurt."
"Assuming anything can be regarded as secure," mutters Heizis.
---
It takes a while. Afterwards, I stand up, stretch, and decide to head for my quarters. I've been awake a long time, and sleep is calling me.
Then I change my mind. I still have my other project on hand - I can spare an hour, I think, to beam over to ESD and check the progress on the experimental ship.
The station is bustling as ever - ESD never sleeps. I'm weaving my way through the crowds towards the main turbolifts when a voice behind me says, "Ah, Tylha."
It's Paul Hengest. He's got a PADD in one hand, and he looks as tired as I feel. "I was wanting to catch up with you," he says. "Any serious progress?"
"My data warfare analyst's report should be in by morning. She had to get some sleep."
"I know how she feels," says Paul. He waves the PADD vaguely in my direction. "Still trying to trace people with countdowns running. Difficult, since so many people just junk anonymous messages like that... and so many people get threats. You should see the President's death threat inbox... or maybe you shouldn't, it's depressing."
"Does Okeg have a countdown running?"
"No, or at least not that we can find. So far, we only have one confirmed active, and it's a weird one. It's not directed at a person - it's being sent to the ecological management agency on Planet T."
"Planet what?"
Paul shrugs. "There was a fad, one time, for giving marginal human colony worlds a code letter instead of a proper name. It didn't last long... twenty-six cases, I think, obviously enough. But Planet T's automated systems, apparently, are getting a death threat. How that's going to work, I can't imagine. We'll find out in about five days, it looks like."
"Maybe we should alert the disaster relief people, just in case," I say. It's got to the point, actually, where I'd genuinely like to have an excuse to talk to Osrin or Koneph... but I'm not telling Paul that.
"They're aware. Though the Vel Tarsus fiasco is taking up a lot of their resources.... Oh, well. I'll read your officer's report as soon as it comes in, I think." Paul sighs. "I'm getting too old for all these late nights. I envy you Andorians, sometimes. Not being tied down to a regular sleep cycle must be very convenient."
"Well, we have to sleep sometime. Sure, we can stay awake a long time in a crisis, but all that metabolic activity's got to be paid for." I stifle a yawn. "And, if you'll excuse me, I think my bill is due."
Paul laughs. "So's mine. I'll see you in the morning -" Then the PADD in his hand gives off a soft bleep. He looks down at it, and his expression changes. To one of disbelief, then shock, then fear.
"Tylha," he says, and his voice is actually shaking, "I think it'd be good - I mean, you'd be doing me a favour - if we could make some serious progress on this business. Umm, soon. Within about the next two weeks, for preference."
He turns the PADD towards me. I don't realize what I'm looking for, at first, and then I spot it, the numbers in the corner of the screen, the numbers that, when I see them, read 13:23:59:49.
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