Sara walks into the garage late Sunday afternoon looking fresh, clean and happy. She leans on the fender of Don's pickup and watches for a moment as I work to loosen the bolt that holds the generator mount. She sniffs at the odors of grease, dirt and sweat. Looks at my coveralls with distaste. "Just getting started?"

"No," I say with a grunt as the bolt finally breaks free.

"Almost finished. Gotta replace this generator mount. It's cracked."

"What have you done so far?"

"Replaced tappets, springs and two rocker arms on the head."

"The cylinder heads, you mean?"

"A V-8 or V-6 has two heads. This is an in-line six with one cylinder head. Replaced the plugs, points and condenser. Just re-assembled and replaced the carburetor. Pretty gummed up in there."

"Those look like brand-new shock absorbers."

"Yeah, had to replace a leaf spring on the right rear too. One of `em was busted clean through."

"Anything else?"

"Replaced the drive line U-joints and the brake shoes. Both front brake drums needed regrinding, so I did those. Re-packed the wheel bearings, of course."

"Of course."

Glance at her, blowing a strand of hair out of my face but it falls back where it was. "You always re-pack the bearings if you have the drums off."

"Right," she says, nodding. "You're doing all this work for free on your Sunday afternoon because Don did his job?"

"He didn't have to call airport security and then show up at the airport with his partner. He did it because he's a friend."

She nods again.

"He watches out for me."

"M-hmm, and where is your buddy Don now?"

Walk over to the bench carrying the old generator mount, which breaks into two pieces in my hand. Pick up the new one and walk back. "He's taking a nap on the sunroom hammock."

"Figures. And how do you plan to get all that grease and dirt off your hands?"

"I'll wash up."

"With what? That gritty, powdered hand soap?"

Bolt the mount back on the engine block, start the adjustment bolt, thread the fan belt over the pulley, pick up the pry bar and force the generator back so the belt is tight. Tighten the adjustment bolt enough to hold the tension in the fan belt and then feel the tension, judging it to be about right, so I tighten the bolt. "Yeah, so?"

"This is a lot of work to repay a favor that one could say is his job while he's napping. On top of that, you'll have dirt on your hands and under your nails for days, maybe weeks."

"You get real bitchy when you put your mind to it, don't you?"

She looks at me for several seconds as I close the hood and put tools away. "Sorry," says Sara, "I guess I do. I wanted to swap weekend stories, pitch a little project and talk some more about the audit report. What did you and Heather do?"

"Stayed at a little bed and breakfast place in Coloma Friday night. Slept in, then drove into Walnut Grove to pick up the camera and equipment. On the way back, we stopped to hike up to the Aloha Lakes. It was cold up in the high country but we managed to stay warm. Met an old couple who invited us to stay at their place last night. We took a dip at Grover's Hot Springs this morning before I dropped off Heather. How did it go with Jenny?"

"Didn't do anything healthy, I'm afraid," says Sara. "We were either having sex or dancing and drinking at this girly bar in Reno. Except for a late breakfast Saturday, all we did was drink wine and order pizza that night. We had it cold with OJ this morning."

"Cold pizza and orange juice? Jesus, Sara."

"I know. I feel drecky and malnourished."

Pop the lid on a can of Goop and begin rubbing it into my hands. "What about this project? Is it security related?"

"Not physical or information security. More like intelligence."

"So, talk."

"I pictured us snuggled in front of the fire while we talk." She walks over and sniffs at my hands. "Yuck, what is that stuff?"

"Goop," I tell her with a chuckle. "We can't snuggle by the fire because the kids turned the house into a disaster area. Tell me more about intelligence."

She sighs, folds her arms and leans against the workbench. Sara says, "I want your approval to fund a project to design and develop security subroutines. The project will require six software engineers, twenty programmers and a couple million dollars. I'll route funding and authority through the University of California system's general fund and then donate the money separately to that fund. Six teams work independently on separate components so no one knows the entire project. When they finish testing in about eight months, I'll make minor modifications, recompile and post the subroutines for download by software vendors."

"Not for free, I hope."

"Sure, that's what you do on the Internet, post things for free."

"Why would I go to the expense of developing something just to give it away?"

"Software vendors will adopt the subroutines and integrate them into their code. Over time, these subroutines will become the de facto standard for Internet security. Everyone will use them." Look at her and shake my head. "Two million bucks? Do I look like a humanitarian? Besides, they might not even use the subroutines. What if they develop their own?"

"Their subroutines will be vulnerable to hackers and crackers. Using software with our subroutines will be the only way to secure digital data communications."

Wipe the Goop off my hands with a towel and step to the garage sink to wash up with a nailbrush, liquid soap and water. "Geeks will hack the subroutines eventually anyway," I tell her. "They do that for fun."

"Yes but they won't be able to figure out how and why the subroutines work."

Glance at her. "Sure they will," I tell her. "It's binary math."

"No, they won't," insists Sara. "If the designers themselves attempt to replicate the subroutines, they won't work. If they try to adapt the subroutines, they won't work."

"Goddamn it, Sara, why won't they work?"

"Once the teams finish the subroutines, I'll modify them to assume the existence of undetectable code running in the system background. I call it picocode because random components reset among infinite, non-repeating variations every fifty picoseconds. The short name is picode."

"Pico, hmm. Nano is a billionth and pico is a trillionth, right?"

"Right."

"You introduced the picode into those networked systems last year." I rub on some lotion and then hold up my hands for her to see and smell.

She inspects them and holds my hands to her face, closing her eyes. After nodding her approval, she says, "Yes, I did. Picode blends into each machine's background code that everyone ignores like the system clocks, parity checks, cyclical redundancy checks and so on. Someday, engineers may figure out that picode exists and measure how often it changes but not how it changes and never why."

"What does . . . picode do?"

Sara hikes her ass up on the bench, sitting cross-legged. She leans back and turns up the jazz I have playing on the radio. "Notes the location and structure of data so that we can query it."

"How does it work?"

"It uses heuristics'techniques that use a knowledge base and self-education'to solve problems. Picode relies upon an expanding critical mass to form a neural network so it can communicate and share work."

"An expanding critical mass due to the growing amount of data?"

"And complexity. Picode will enable the subroutines to secure data by recording who stores files when and where. It allows no one else access unless the owner grants permission. Picode and the subroutines assure that all files remain secure to their owners forever."

"Want a drink?" Walk over to the fridge and open the door.

"Just water," says Sara. "Jenny and I drank too much wine."

"Picode is running around on computers connected to the Internet right now, collating data and its location?" Grab two plastic bottles of water and toss one to Sara. Sitting down, I look at her.

She snatches it out of the air, twists off the cap, and upends the bottle. Chugging, she drains it. Gasping, she says, "Yes, since last year when I loaded them on a host in Berkeley." Belching lightly, she says, "Excuse me," and sighs, which makes me smile.

The door opens and Don walks into the garage, blinking as he stares. "Oh hi, Sara," he says. "My god, you're beautiful." When she smiles, Don grins, turns to me and says, "I fell asleep in that hammock in the sunroom, Jill. Finished already?"

"All finished and cleaned up," says Sara. "You practically have a new truck here, my man." She repeats for him everything I told her that I did. "Jill was just finishing when I walked up," she says. Sara walks over and presses the garage door button.

"What do I owe you for parts?" asks Don.

Hug him and kiss him on the cheek. "My pleasure, pal. I appreciate your being there for me."

"Thank you," he says, hugging me in return.

"When you replace the tires, bring it back. I want to check a few things. Drive happy, Don."

He climbs in, turns the key and touches the starter. The engine kicks into life and runs smoothly. Don smiles, waves and backs out.

Follow Sara inside as the garage door closes. We stand in the kitchen and survey the devastation that a weekend with four children running loose can wreak on a house. Toys, clothes, meal remnants and furniture arranged into forts, tents and so on are everywhere. "How cute," says Sara, "Look at all their little projects." She laughs at my disbelieving stare.

Shaking my head resignedly, I say, "Soji and Lloyd took them home about an hour ago. I'm in the shower. Want to order something in or go out?"

"I crave nourishment," she says. "How about the Steak House downtown?'

"Deal. Give me a few minutes." As I shower and then dress, I think about that busy little picode. When I walk down the hall after showering and getting dressed, I see that Sara is in the office, sitting at Lloyd's terminal. Leaning against the doorframe, I watch her.

She shuts off the terminal. Turning to face me, Sara places her hands in her lap and asks, "Remember I told you that the subroutines will secure files?"

"Sure, so what? Why would I invest in something that will never provide a return?"

"So you have access to every secret on the network."

Stare at her. Slowly, precisely, I say, "You said the subroutines would assure that all files remain secure to their owners forever."

"They do."

The realization punches me in the face. "Oh, you'll leave a back door."

"The back door is impossible to detect within the foundation, and its access is exclusively for the use of picode owners."

"You're the owner."

"I'm sharing it with Ume and you for your sponsorship and protection," says Sara. "Ume will oversee security, you will fund development and I develop. Would you like a demonstration?" When I simply stare at her, she says, "Boot your terminal and press zero."

Sit down and logon. My menu comes up, so I press zero. Before I can move my finger to the Enter key, a message appears at the bottom of the screen.

jill price, people conduct net searches on you — names?

|

Stare at the blinking cursor. Finally, I overcome my initial shock and type.

How do you know I am Jill Price

username, password and response rate equals high confidence — detail?

who conducts searches on me

peter marriott, alice hawkins and linda peterson may be hostile — hide you from unauthorized queries?

yes where is linda 

ucla, detail?

doing what

freshman enrolled in business school, gpa 4.0 and perfect attendance — detail?

how is linda paying for her education

tan xiaoming (joe) pays for room, board, tuition, fees, books and martial arts training — detail on joe tan?

what is your confidence that i am jill price now

high — detail?

yes

response correlation and expression patterns — detail?

identify yourself

ignore

Stare at the screen, surprised at this reaction. Turning to Sara, I say, "It ignores me when I ask who it is."

"How do you react when people ask you personal questions?"

"Hmm." Look at the screen for a moment. "Most times, it begins responding before I finish typing my question."

"It's extremely elegant code," says Sara. "Ask it something specific."

Type

background on joe tan

3d-gen chinese connected thru father to org crime and indicted twice for conspiracy to commit murder — more?

"Come on, Jill," says Sara, "stop thinking about security for two seconds and ask something juicy."

Look at her for a moment, then at the keyboard. I type

what is the net worth of peter marriott of las

$7,211,387.93 as of september 1984

"Holy shit," I whisper. Suddenly, I realize I am out of patience with this. Besides, I'm hungry. Logout, shut down and stand up. "Let's go."

Neither of us says a word on the way to the restaurant. Once we arrive, Sara talks to the maitre d' and the waiter. She orders salads, small steaks with vegetables and no wine. The waiter attempts some additional banter and questions but stops when Sara dismisses him. He fetches our salads.

As we munch salad, Sara asks, "Do you approve the development project now that you know about the picode?"

Look into her eyes. "No. Someone with interests counter to mine could get access."

Sara smiles placidly and says, "That can never happen."

"How can you possibly say that? You created a back door, Sara."

"I'll tell you after you answer a few questions," says Sara. "To speed up this process, tell me each intuitive leap you make. Fair enough?"

"Go ahead."

"What will be your advanced degree and emphasis when you finish your master's thesis, Jill?"

"Speech communication with emphasis in organizational communication."

"How sure are you that I'm Sara Toone?"

Shrug. "Ninety-nine percent."

"Why not a hundred?"

"Nobody or nothing is perfect," I tell her. "Alright, I agree that communication is imperfect between humans and even more imperfect between humans and computer databases. I also agree that most of the time, we humans accept ninety percent as close enough for good communication."

We pause as the waiter takes our salad plates, delivers our entrees and fills our water glasses. Sara tells him no when he asks if we want anything else. He says, "Enjoy," and leaves. As he walks away, Sara asks, "How much of establishing communication is establishing routine?"

Nodding as I cut into my steak, I say, "I agree that routine comprises good communication. We become irritated if we must try too hard to communicate with limited success."

"So routine is comfortable," says Sara, "Will you also agree that computer hackers target mostly routine?"

Shrugging, I say, "Sure, the non-routine items, such as file transfers, catch attention and so arouses suspicion."

Sara smiles at me as a different waiter approaches and asks if everything is all right. Turning to him, she says, "Yes, thank you." He says, "Good," and leaves. She is still smiling when she turns to me.

Glancing at the departing waiter, I nod as I chew and then swallow. Looking into her eyes, I say, "Nice touch, switching the waiter. I realize he's different, which catches my attention."

"Thank you," says Sara. "What's my point?"

"It's human nature to seek the familiar."

"Exactly," she says, "so now tell me how picode works."

"Picode establishes a database of each user's habits of communicating with a computer, including username, password, response rate and patterns of expression. As picode develops certainty through interaction with a human, me for example, it provides responses within patterns that I expect, thereby improving our communication."

Patiently, Sara asks, "So, besides being almost immeasurably tiny, fast and elegant, how does picode hide?"

"Within the familiar, the expected," I tell her. "What did you call it—machine code?" Leaning forward, I whisper, "When did you tell them to switch the waiter?"

"When we arrived," she says. "More specifically, Jill, my point is that a sysadmin will never even notice the presence of picode because as picode interacts with her, it hides within her expectation of the familiar, the routine."

"And when someone focuses on the routine? How does it hide then?"

"Picode also leaves no trace of its presence as it moves from routines they're analyzing to routines they're using to perform the analysis."

"Does picode adapt to new input devices—handheld, audio and so on?"

"Picode adapts to humans," says Sara, "no matter how they interact with a computer."

"Go ahead with the project, Sara," I tell her, sitting back. Thinking for a moment as I chew, I swallow and ask, "Will the subroutines be tiny, fast and elegant too?"

Sara shakes her head, swallows and says, "Not tiny, but fast and elegant, because we want programmers to get comfortable with the subroutines. Almost anyone can produce fat, sloppy code that gobbles up machine cycles. Elegant code requires weeks of development and months of testing and tuning."

Nodding again, I say, "Same in publishing. The only difference between good and bad writing is another edit."

"That's why good editors make good programmers," she says.

"How long did it take you to develop picode?"

"That's different," says Sara, shaking her head. "I developed, ran and tested the algorithms up here long before I wrote them," she adds tapping her temple.

Which makes me wonder how Ume discovered Sara. "What if the contract software designers claim authorship of the subroutines?"

"All the better," she says. "We'll watch closely. As they try to sell rights to the subroutines, the University of California system lawyers step in and snap `em up because the designers and programmers developed the subroutines under the UC aegis."

Pushing my plate aside, I ask, "Are you ready to begin your new duties tomorrow, Sara?"

"Yes. I will begin searching for someone to succeed me immediately, even though it may take decades. First priority is to help Tony and SIA make a profit while establishing security procedures and training. Within a year, SIA will be profitable and everyone will be oozing good security practices."

The waiter takes our plates and asks if we'd like coffee. Sara shakes her head and says, "Just fresh water, lemon and ice, please." He leaves with the plates.

"Internal security audits?"

"I've developed a subroutine that I'll deploy throughout Pere and eventually Midori and Aliversal. It will monitor picode and update SIA. Ume and I will be able to run detailed SIA reports any time. If Ume agrees I'm ready, then I'll take over her position as CEO of Pere a week from Thursday."

"You're confident, Sara. What about physical security?"

"A function of intelligence and operations," she says in an off-hand way. "Throughout the world, Tony is recruiting experienced analysts with relatively clean records for their culture and setting them up as private security consultants within their region. As our quiet, unobtrusive analysts, they will establish a solid intelligence network within their homeland. Ume, Tony and I will be at the center of a worldwide network of intelligence analysts. They will also represent a significant source of revenue. Organizations from the local police to Interpol, CIA and NSA will rely on our SIA network, although they won't know it's ours and they won't know it as SIA. They'll consider SIA to be independent contractors retired from intelligence networks."

"Good. And operational security?"

"Tony will develop roving two- and three-person cells," says Sara. "One control and one or two field operatives make up a cell. Far fewer agents than analysts, but then, agents can travel anywhere in the world, where analysts pretty much stay put." The waiter returns with fresh water and leaves the check. Sara glances at it, pushes a hundred under it and sips at her water.

"It will take decades to establish enough cells to be effective," I tell her.

"Wrong. Politics, bureaucracy, discrimination and just plain stupidity have created a pool of capable and experienced operators who are anxious to get back in the game."

"Sounds like something Alice Hawkins would say."

Sara chuckles. "Alice is SIA's director of recruitment and training, and she's busy."

"What?"

The waiter takes the check and the money. He leaves quietly.

"Don't worry. She won't actually recruit or train anyone. She just directs the effort."

"She's a contract killer, for Christ's sake."

"Don't give me that crap, Jill. Most SIA agents have killed or conspired to kill. You probably know some of them. In fact, Tony says one of the first agents he recruited is a retired Air Force officer who lives and works in Japan—Ume's old stomping ground—and yours." When I stare at her without responding, Sara says, "Browning."

"Is he still there?"

"Oh yeah. He runs a string of cathouses near US military bases as well as a network of spies and cutthroats throughout the Pacific Rim." She watches me for a moment and says, "Want Tony to tell him who his real bosses are?"

"No." When Sara chuckles knowingly, I ask, "What?"

"Colonel Browning was your control from '72 to '74 in the Far East. You killed a string of men—all convicted rapists—without a single investigation, and all for a fee in your spare time. It's in one of the eyes-only databases. Browning and his partners owned Ume before he transferred ownership to you and you gave Ume her freedom."

Ask, "Why didn't picode tell me that you searched on me?"

The waiter leaves the change. Looking at Sara, he asks if there will be anything else. When Sara shakes her head, he thanks her and backs away.

"Picode never alerts you that Ume and I conduct net searches on you, Jill, unless you ask specifically," says Sara, finishing her tea. "Don't worry, though. Picode puts a flag on anything to do with you in those databases. Someone tries to find you, SIA will receive an alert through routine channels before the investigator sees a report."

"If I'm going to finance this project, then I don't want anyone but Ume, you and me to have access or knowledge of picode. That includes Tony."

"Agreed," says Sara, draining her water glass. "It'll be our little secret." She looks at me for a moment and asks, "In fact, why not make board membership a qualification for picode access?"

"Oh, now you want board membership too? What's next—a slice of Pere?"

Beaming confidently, Sara says, "Remember Mei suggested we buy a bank?" When I nod, she continues, "Mei told you that it would make Pere worth four or five billion in ten years. I've already made a few adjustments to the operational plan that will increase that to almost six-and-a-half billion." As I shake my head in disbelief, Sara says, "That pays for my lifetime salary, bonuses and slice. All I ask is one percent and board membership, Jill."

"Tell Ume that you asked me about board membership being a qualification for knowledge of picode and your membership, Sara. Tell her that I approve both," I tell her. "In fact, Ume is coming over the first of the month for dinner with our little family. After Soji and Lloyd excuse themselves, we'll convene an informal board meeting."

This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License