Page 92 of Filthy Little Fix
The last thing I see in this warehouse is Alexei, with a forced smile and a cynical wave.
The terminal is a sandbox.The camera blinks. I'm being watched, the screen likely recorded, and keystrokes detected. No internet access beyond a few public sites, with basic compilation tools and hexadecimal editors.
I check the files provided by Alexei. Stolen from the Volkovs. It's my protocol—a favor for someone in IT that Svetlana authorized. I was the one who set up this system, and only I could dismantle it. I made sure of that.
I look at the file compression—definitely Sal's work. Satisfactory, not great. Breadcrumbs everywhere.
This protocol was developed with my continued survival, based on being necessary to the Volkovs, in mind. A calculation with seemingly random, mutable data, updated every twenty-four hours. An automated and obscure process. Nothing could discover a decryption key if there was no entry point. Lucky for them they have me here. I'm the only one who knows what thoseseemingly randomdata points used in the key calculation are.
That's for last. I need to think about what to do to complete the unfinished business I have with the Volkovs: the rat.
I don't have my address or any information that could be useful to them beyond this. If they suspect Sal, it's unlikely they have confirmation—the data I managed to get before I was taken was intentionally encrypted, and they couldn't access it on their own. Just another guarantee to be necessary, but it bit me in the ass this time. If they knew, it would make things easier now. Never mind. I'll give them a confirmation even from here.
Being monitored, I can't write a malicious script in plain sight. They'd kill me before I could finish. I can't create a technical machination that would reach Dante if I'm not by his side now to translate it. I need something that can be masked, that the IT team monitoring activities on this computer will see as an idiot trying to crack encryption, and that will end up onthe Volkov leaders' desk instead of the incompetent technicians' desk.
I think about money. The only thing that bypasses doormats and reaches leaders. Profit. The casinos in Atlantic City. I reinforced the payment protocols. I know the alerts. If I make slot machines trigger impossible sequences, the alert will flag a bizarre glitch that needs to be investigated. A message with that. But how do I say the rat is Sal?
I open multiple terminal windows. I need them to see some service running. I run useless brute-force scripts that don't give me access to the decryption key. I analyze the network, looking for ports I know are closed.
I open a hexadecimal editor. I know this language by heart. Nothing will trigger alerts if I create code in machine language and not ours. But I need a plausible justification. The last thing I want is a bullet in the head before I finish this job.
I open the encrypted data in the hexadecimal editor, open that wall of useless characters that say nothing. I pretend to analyze them.
Now, I need to truly decrypt the files: the key I made is a bit ridiculous and absurd. The previous day's closing price of a small, almost unknown tech company stock on the NASDAQ—within the limited accessible sites on the network. Yesterday, it closed at $42.81. The first ingredient is the cents. Then the daily NASA SDO solar activity report. Public data. I check. Yesterday's report recorded 15 sunspots. The rest is in my memory.
Today's daily key calculation uses 81 and 15—together in a single number, 8115. This number is multiplied by the prime number equivalent to the result of a round base number, 2000, added to today's day and subtracted from the month. July 15th. Result 2008. My base number is 2000 because I memorized the thousandth prime numbers as a child to impress the only teacher who treated me like a person; the 2000th is 17389.Primes are irregular, but not so much in this range. Patterns ending in 1, 3, 7, and 9. I need the 2008th.
Near 17389... 17393. Yes. Prime. One. 17401, two. 17409... No. Divisible by three. 17411, 17413, no. 17417... yes. Three. 17419. Four. 17431, five. 17443... six. 17449. Seven. 17467... eight. There it is. Two hundred eighth. 17467. That's it.
Now, a simple multiplication. My public numbers, 8115, multiplied by 17467. That gives 141744705. I run it through a SHA-256 hash. It returns the key for the day.
This took me one minute. Work that would take them months.
I open a text editor. I create a configuration file, full of technical jargon to keep them bored. Algorithm=AES-256, Padding=PKCS7... And then, in the middle of it all, the line: Key=.... The key. I save the file. I run the decryptor, pointing it to my configuration. They see the key that opens today's door, but they have no idea where the door leads, nor how to open tomorrow's.
The files unravel. Completely decrypted.
I pretend to analyze them. I don't care what they actually are. I open a decrypted image file in the hexadecimal editor. I can justify this as fixing a file with a corrupted header. I start my real work.
There's no point in writing code that attacks the system now. This machine has limited connections, and any visible changes will raise red flags. I need dormant code that waits for an accessible port and attacks through it. The results I get will probably be opened on the Malakov network after I transfer them to the USB the brute gave me, so I write the hexadecimal script programmed for that.
Pretending to fix the corrupted file, I target three specific slot machines.Siberian Storm,Ace's Ant, andLucky Loot. S.A.L., three times, in that order, so they know it's not a mistake.
Once a system is detected, the script will awaken. I save it as part of the decrypted image file—it was a graphic or something. Now it's a time bomb.
I turn to the henchman. Typing all this with one hand was a pain and a waste of time. It's funny they think I could do anything against a brute with my physique.
"I'm done, handsome," I taunt. He grinds his teeth. He definitely has orders not to kill me.
I take the disk from the machine and hand it to him.
"You should stay quiet, princess," he grumbles.
The henchman grabs my arm tightly and pulls me up from the chair. He forces my right hand back, putting my wrists together again.
"Oh yeah? I thought you wanted to hear me moan..."
He squeezes my wrists together and gets close behind me. He says in my ear, "You're lucky the boss wants you alive, you faggot."
