The Prisoner - Carlos J. Cortes [88]
“I hope they fired the geologists who did the preliminary ground studies,” Ritter grumbled. Then he drummed his long fingers on the table’s surface, his eyes focused somewhere on the opposite wall. “So, since all the other sugar cubes have processing plants, you’re implying that someone would order the disposal of the bodies?”
“Why not? You know the system as well as I do. The processing plants are simple decanting pools, where they mix the emulsions with flocculants to separate the parts.”
“And an untraceable graveyard for nonexistent people you don’t want others to know about.”
“Yes. In ten minutes, the computer would release the inmates from their harnesses and, as the tanks emptied, their bodies would be sucked into the system and reduced to slurry, their solids separated, packed, and shipped to the incinerator. Gone without a trace.”
“I hope you’re wrong.”
“So do I.” Genia bit her lower lip before squaring her shoulders. She had decided her next step hours before calling Ritter, but having reached the moment of truth, the queasiness in her stomach deepened. Eventually she would have to jump into the void.
Ritter shrugged. “About the answers you want for Director Marino, tightening security is easy. I’ve already drafted a document I’ll log into the server by 18:00. It will mean installing active and passive devices in the sewage line, rigging cameras and stunners on the pigs, and reworking security routines. I don’t mention anything about rounding up the fugitives, since it’s out of our hands. The DHS has taken full control; you said so in your memo. As for scapegoats, you have the facility’s head of security, his men, the people in my department, and me. Take your pick.”
“Don’t be facetious.”
“I’m not. It would make more sense to fire me than anybody else.”
“Why?”
“Simple. I can get a job—a better-paid job—in one of a dozen security outfits. And, since I know the score, I would keep my mouth shut. The others, in particular the Washington sugar-cube staff, may not be so knowledgeable and may think, ‘What the hell! I’ll blow the whistle.’”
“Would they?”
“I don’t know. People do the stupidest things.”
Again he ran a hand over his head before staring into her eyes. “Have you made up your mind?”
She feigned ignorance. “About what?”
“You’ve been debating for an hour whether to clue me in on whatever you’re planning to do.”
She decided to take the leap. “Have you considered security inspections without warning?”
Ritter froze, then, in slow motion, he placed both hands palms down on the table. “Go on.”
“It would mean a resident computer program that could be activated to test the security readiness of any station.”
“And … what would that program do?”
“Shut down the computer.”
“How long?”
“Until the exercise ended. The inmates wouldn’t be in any danger. Their life-support system is autonomous.”
“The idea has merit, but—”
“I know: Drains and displacement machinery still work.”
Ritter didn’t move, his eyes fastened on her lips as if daring her to voice her next thought.
“Unless the main computer ordered the backup system to block instructions to these subsystems.”
“As a mental exercise, your idea has merit, but it’s impractical. Hypnos supervises the computer network, and they would spot such an instruction in your security exercise program.”
“Not if the program doesn’t stay in the station’s computer.”
Ritter leaned forward, a devious spark flashing across his dark irises.
“That imaginary program—how heavy?”
“Five hundred kilobytes or smaller.”
“How long to download?”
“Under a second.”
Ritter blinked, once. “Any instruction to release the supports of the center inmates and void the tanks would come from a satellite transponder.”
Silence.
“If there was another transponder on the same satellite tuned to the same frequency, it would receive the same signal and download your program to override the instruction, block the deployment and flushing systems, and shut the computers down.