"The means of deterrence is not the means of waging war, but of preventing it from occurring."
— Raymond Aron, Penser la guerre, Clausewitz, 1976
May, D+1, the day after the election
Author's note. The concept of the security layer in VIVRE's information systems draws on Bruce Schneier's work on defense in depth. The flaw in the random number generator is a documented attack in the cryptography literature — pseudo-random generators used in embedded systems often exhibit exploitable statistical biases.
The air in the basement was heavy with damp cement and plaster dust.
Zara pushed open the metal door. The overhead light flickered, revealing three faces turned toward them. Gabriel froze on the threshold, one hand on the doorframe, fingers pressed into the flaking paint.
Vernet had won. The results had come in the previous evening: a clean blue wave, decisive, beyond dispute. Gabriel had learned the news in the basement, on the small screen Zara had rigged up to a makeshift antenna. No one had reacted when the numbers came in. Faces had gone still, and then everyone had gone back to work.
— That's him, said Zara.
A man in his forties straightened up. He wore thin-rimmed glasses and a grey sweatshirt with a hole at the elbow. His hands were stained with grease — black nails, damaged cuticles.
— Yannick, he said, extending his hand.
Gabriel shook it. The skin was calloused, the fingers thick.
— Fatima.
The woman who spoke was perched in a corner on a folding stool. She had a square face, short grey hair, and eyes that didn't blink. She wore the dark blue uniform of a VIVRE security agent — or what remained of it. The badge had been removed. A lighter patch on the fabric marked where it had been.
— Elias.
The boy was sitting on the floor, surrounded by cables and screens. He might have been fifteen. Maybe sixteen. Impossible to tell. He glanced up for a second, gave Gabriel a nod, then plunged back into his screens.
— He's always like that, said Yannick. — If you want his attention, you have to ask him a question about IP protocol.
Gabriel watched the boy. His fingers moved across the keyboard — fast, precise, like a pianist's.
— Is he good?
— The best I've ever seen, said Yannick. — And I trained network engineers for twenty years.
Zara closed the door behind Gabriel. The bolt snapped shut. The sound rang through the room, bouncing off the cinder-block walls.
— We don't have much time, she said.
She sat down at a wooden table and laid her hands flat on the surface. Gabriel noticed her knuckles were white.
— Tell them what you saw.
Gabriel spoke.
He spoke about the USB drive. About Solène. About the message. The names. The dates. The predictions.
He spoke about his mother.
He spoke about the tower, standing in the morning light, and about that luminous eye watching it — watching them.
When he finished, no one spoke for a long moment.
Yannick took off his glasses and wiped them on his sweatshirt.
— Christ, he said.
Fatima didn't utter a word. She watched Gabriel with her unblinking eyes.
Elias raised his head again.
— The cryptographic key, he said. It changes every twelve hours.
Gabriel observed him.
— You know about it?
— I've been monitoring the traffic for six months. The random number generator has a bias.
He tapped at his keyboard. A graph appeared on the screen: a curve that rose, fell, rose again, with irregular peaks.
— Look. The distribution isn't uniform. It favors even numbers between 3 a.m. and 3 p.m.
— Why? asked Gabriel.
Elias shrugged.
— Bad implementation. Maybe a modified open-source library. Maybe a hardware constraint. Maybe an intentional backdoor.
— A backdoor?
— Someone who left a door open for themselves.
Zara leaned forward.
— Can you predict the key?
— For a twelve-hour window, yes.
— Which one?
— Sunday. 3 a.m. to 3 p.m.
She looked at Yannick.
— Can we do it then?
He counted on his fingers.
— Security is reduced on Sundays. Fewer guards. Longer rotations.
— Why?
— Because VIVRE believes God rests on Sundays.
Fatima spoke for the first time since Gabriel's arrival.
— The biometric system, she said. I can bypass it.
Everyone turned toward her.
— I kept my credentials.
Zara narrowed her eyes.
— How long ago did you leave?
— Two years.
— And they never deactivated your login?
Fatima smiled. It was a smile that didn't reach her eyes.
— VIVRE never deactivates former employees. Too much paperwork. Too many procedures. Too much cost.
— And if someone checks?
— They check once a year. The last audit was three months ago.
Gabriel clenched his hands into fists.
— The behavioral layer, he said. — How do we get past it?
Yannick stood, walked to a corner of the room, and lifted a tarpaulin. Underneath was a steel device the size of a hard drive enclosure, with cables hanging from every side.
— I built this, he said. It mimics the behavioral profile of a VIVRE executive.
— What does that mean?
— It means the tower's sensors detect the way you walk, the way you breathe, the way your heart beats. They compare that against a database of authorized profiles.
He tapped the device.
— This one emits a signal that mimics the profile of a vice president.
— Which one?
— Jacques Moreau. Operations division.
— Is he dead?
Yannick hesitated.
— Not yet.
Gabriel understood.
— You want me to wear this thing?
— Yes.
— And if it doesn't work?
Yannick looked at Zara.
Zara looked at Gabriel.
— Then you'll be on your own, she said.
The hours passed.
Gabriel settled onto a camp bed in a corner of the basement. He watched the others work. Yannick soldered wires. Fatima studied a floor plan of the tower, her fingers tracing the blue lines as though reading Braille. Elias typed and typed and typed, eyes fixed on his screen.
Zara spoke on the phone, voice low, words rapid.
Gabriel listened.
He listened to the sounds of the basement.
The hum of the ventilation.
The drops of water falling somewhere, steady, like a metronome.
The breathing of the others.
He thought about his mother.
He remembered the last time he had seen her, standing in the doorway, hands folded over her stomach, fingers clutching the fabric of her dress.
He reflected on what he was going to do.
He weighed what would slip away from him.
He imagined what he might gain, perhaps.
He couldn't have said whether it was fear or something else.
Yannick came over and sat down beside him. He held out a cup of coffee.
— Here.
Gabriel took the cup. It was warm. He took a sip. The coffee was bitter, too strong, with a burnt taste.
— This is disgusting, said Gabriel.
— Yes, said Yannick. — That's the point. So you don't drink too much and you stay awake.
Neither of them spoke for a moment.
— Are you scared? asked Yannick.
Gabriel stared at the coffee.
— Yes.
— Good.
— Why?
Yannick shrugged.
— Because people who aren't scared make mistakes. People who are scared pay attention.
He took a sip of his coffee.
— And because fear is the sign that you know what you're risking.
Gabriel held his gaze.
— What about you?
— What about me?
— Are you scared?
Yannick looked at his hands. The grease-stained fingers. The scars on his knuckles.
— Every day.
— And you keep going anyway?
— Yes.
— Why?
Yannick drained his cup.
— Because I have a daughter. And because I don't want her growing up in a world where her future is written by an algorithm.
He got to his feet.
— And you, Gabriel?
Gabriel didn't answer.
Yannick went back to his work.
Fatima joined him an hour later.
She was holding a badge. A VIVRE badge, with a photo, a name, a barcode.
— Here.
Gabriel took the badge. The photo was his. The name was one he didn't recognize.
— Who is this?
— A maintenance employee. He works Sundays. He has access to every floor.
— And him?
— He's on holiday. He won't know.
Gabriel examined the photo. He looked younger in the image. Cleaner. More innocent.
— Will it work?
Fatima studied him with her unblinking eyes.
— The biometric system, yes. The behavioral system, maybe. The cryptographic system, we'll see.
— And if it doesn't work?
— Then you'll be on your own.
It was the same phrase Zara had used.
Gabriel gripped the badge in his hand.
Elias didn't come to find him.
He didn't move from his spot, sitting on the floor, surrounded by cables and screens, fingers on the keyboard, eyes on the code.
Gabriel walked over to him.
— Elias.
The boy raised his head.
— What?
— Are you sure about the key?
Elias stared at him as though he'd just asked whether the sky was blue.
— Yes.
— How can you be sure?
Elias sighed. He pivoted to his screen and tapped a few keys. A graph appeared: a series of points forming a perfectly regular curve.
— Look. The generator produces pseudo-random numbers. But there's a pattern. A statistical bias. A preference for certain values.
— And you can exploit that?
— Yes.
— Why hasn't VIVRE fixed the bug?
Elias shrugged.
— Maybe they didn't see it. Maybe they saw it and don't care. Maybe it's intentional.
— What do you mean?
Elias looked at him.
— Maybe someone left a door open. For themselves. So they could come back whenever they wanted.
A chill ran down his spine.
— Who?
Elias shrugged.
— I don't know. But if I can see it, others can see it too.
He turned back to face his screen.
— Now let me work. I need to calculate the exact key.
Gabriel stepped back.
He sat back down on the camp bed.
He stared at the badge in his hand.
He watched the others.
Yannick soldering.
Fatima studying the plans.
Elias typing.
Zara talking on the phone.
There were five of them.
Five against a tower.
Five against a system that could predict the future.
Five against an algorithm capable of predicting their actions before they even did them.
He thought about Solène.
He replayed what she had accomplished.
He weighed what she had sacrificed.
He remembered what she had asked him to do.
He had no idea if it was possible.
He doubted whether it was right.
But one thing was certain.
He was going to try.
Night fell.
Zara switched off the main light. A single bulb still glowed in a corner, casting long shadows across the walls.
Gabriel lay down on the camp bed. The mattress was thin, the canvas stretched over a rigid frame. The springs pressed into his back.
He listened to the sounds of the basement.
The ventilation.
The drops of water.
The breathing of the others.
Yannick snored softly, a steady sound, like a machine idling.
Fatima produced no sound at all. She lay on another camp bed, arms crossed over her chest, eyes open in the dark.
Elias slept on the floor, wrapped in a blanket, his computer beside him.
Zara, in a corner, back against the wall, eyes closed.
The images scrolled past him, once again.
Gabriel thought about his mother.
He thought about the house.
He remembered the warmth of the oven, the smell of bread.
He recalled the way she looked at him in the mornings, when he left.
Her hands came back to him.
He remembered the croissant he had eaten in that town, sitting on a bench, the sun on his face.
He saw again, in his mind, the young woman reading Orwell.
He remembered what she was reading.
He thought about what it meant.
He considered what he was going to do.
The fear was there, in his chest, like a weight.
But he was not uncertain.
He was certain of what he had to do.
He knew why he was acting this way.
He didn't know if it would work.
But he was resolved to try.
— Gabriel.
Zara's voice, low, barely a whisper.
— What?
— Are you scared?
A moment passed before he spoke.
— Yes.
She shifted in the darkness. He heard the rustle of her clothes against the wall.
— Good.
— Why?
— Because people who are scared pay attention.
Yannick's words came back to him.
— Zara.
— What?
— Are you scared?
Silence.
— Yes.
— Why do you keep going?
She didn't answer right away. He heard her shift, then the dull sound of her palm against the wall, as if she were feeling for support in the dark.
— Because someone has to.
— That's not an answer.
She laughed softly — a short, dry sound, without joy.
— No.
— Then?
Silence.
— Because I've seen what VIVRE inflicts on people.
— You've asserted that already.
— Yes.
— And?
She turned to face him. In the darkness, he could just make out the shape of her face, the line of her shoulder.
— Because I've seen what it does to a person to know their future is already written.
— You've mentioned that too.
— Yes.
— Then why do you keep saying it?
She kept silent for a moment.
— Because I don't know how to express it any other way.
Gabriel stared at the ceiling.
The shadows danced across the cement.
— Zara.
— What?
— Do you think we're going to succeed?
Silence.
— I don't know.
— But you keep going anyway?
— Yes.
— Why?
She stood up. He heard her footsteps on the concrete slab. She came closer to his camp bed.
— Because if we don't keep going, then they've won.
She crouched down beside him.
— And because I promised Solène I would.
Gabriel studied her.
— She asked you to do this?
— Yes.
— When?
— Before she disappeared.
— What did she say?
A silence. Then Zara spoke.
— She said: "Take care of him."
Something tightened in Gabriel's chest.
— She was talking about me?
— Yes.
— Why?
— Because you matter.
— Why?
Zara sighed.
— Because you're the only one who can get access.
Gabriel stared at her.
— Why me?
— Because you have nothing to lose.
His mother came back to him.
He thought about the house.
He counted everything he had already lost.
— That's not true, he said.
— What?
— I have things to lose.
— What things?
He thought about it.
— I don't know.
She placed her hand on his arm.
— Then find it. Because it's the only thing that will let you keep going.
She got up again.
— Tomorrow? he asked. Not Sunday?
— We don't have six days, said Zara. Malik is in their hands. Every day that passes, they get closer. We go tomorrow, even without Sunday's reduced security.
— Now sleep. Tomorrow we start.
She went back to her corner.
Gabriel lay stretched out, eyes open, staring at the ceiling.
The image of Solène imposed itself.
He thought about his mother.
He weighed what he had to lose.
He measured what he had to gain.
He didn't know whether it was fear or something else.
But he knew one thing.
Tomorrow, he was going to enter the tower.
Tomorrow, he was going to try.
And maybe that would be enough.
Maybe it wouldn't.
But he was going to try all the same.
The basement was silent.
The ventilation hummed.
The drops of water fell.
And Gabriel waited for morning.