Orbital Cloud Page 17

  “You know Shiraishi?” said Kurosaki, staring at Akari.

  “He’s my uncle. I knew already that he used to work for JAXA.”

  “What a coincidence. Who could have guessed I’d run into his niece in a situation like this? Did you by any chance pick up your computer trade from him?”

  “Yes. He was my mentor,” said Akari, suddenly looking happy, and Kurosaki nodded as though something that had been puzzling him now made sense.

  “I see. Well, that explains your planetarium. That’s just the kind of design I’d expect from a protégé of Shiraishi’s.”

  “If it compiles, it’s correct!” said Akari and Kurosaki at once and then laughed together.

  “What kind of person was he?” Kazumi asked, and Kurosaki narrowed his eyes wistfully.

  “He was an engineer who entered JAXA the same year as me. An astoundingly intelligent character. Numata-san seems to have inherited the same hacker’s mind. But he also loved grappling with urgent problems, and that side of him kind of reminds me of Sekiguchi …”

  “What are you saying? I hate problems!” said Sekiguchi, kicking his legs out onto the footrest in exaggerated denial of the claim.

  “Then get back to Ochanomizu and do some paperwork. Nothing doing, right?”

  “Not going to happen.”

  “See? That’s just what I mean.”

  The suite filled with laughter. When it died down, Kurosaki began to tell them what had happened to Akari’s Uncle Ageha. Shiraishi’s first assignment at JAXA, Kurosaki explained, was an information-satellite project managed by the cabinet. The enormous amount of observational data transmitted from their four groups of reconnaissance satellites was too great for the mere two hundred or so regular workers who staffed the Satellite Intelligence Center to analyze. Meanwhile, the team of bureaucrats in charge handed over responsibility for everything about the satellites, from their design to their operation, to domestic corporations and lacked even rudimentary knowledge about orbital objects. Soon it became clear that they needed someone with expertise in both IT and analysis of the steadily accumulating satellite data to work as a go-between for the engineers and bureaucrats. It was for this job that Shiraishi was specially selected.

  Torn between the demands of the manufacturers who insisted on sticking with the technical specifications in their original work orders, the unrealistic expectations of the analysis team, and the ignorance of the bureaucrats, Shiraishi was constantly instigating squabbles. It was in this context that the minister of space policy, who’d been shown pictures of a spy satellite taken by an amateur astronomer, ordered JAXA to make orbit confidential.

  “He was panicked that North Korea might find our spy sats.”

  “Was he an idiot?” asked Sekiguchi.

  “That’s exactly what Shiraishi called him, right to his face.”

  Military satellite or not, it wasn’t possible to keep objects above a certain size secret in orbit. Kazumi was shocked to hear that such ignorant politicians and bureaucrats were pouring hundreds of billions of yen annually into operating the spy satellites.

  “It’s okay to laugh, Kimura-kun. I happened to be present at one of their meetings, and all the government engineers in attendance were trying not to laugh too.”

  Once Shiraishi was removed from his post, he was banished to a window-gazing position in the “Reserves” and became involved with maintaining JAXA’s IT infrastructure. Apparently, he did a lot of exceptional work there given the circumstances, including facilitating the adoption of smartphones.

  “So that’s why he was suddenly so absorbed in security work,” sighed Akari. “I had no idea.”

  “Today, JAXA spends a third of its budget on those spy satellites. I wonder if those costs will go up yet … Anyways, Japan’s space development isn’t exactly all rosy. Projects in this field take a long time to get off the ground. With most of them, it’s ten years before they even reach the experimental stage, but the Ministry of Science and Education rotates civil servants through different departments every five years, so none of them have the chance to really understand what they’re doing.”

  “I’m sad to say that I’m one of them,” said Sekiguchi. “However much I learn about astronautics, I’m set to be transferred in four years. Then I’ll just move from ministry to ministry for the next twenty years or so, though I might be able to come back someday if no young workers come in to replace our aging workforce.”

  “You’re doing a great job here,” said Kurosaki. “Anyways, to get back to my story, one day, without saying anything to anyone, Shiraishi quit and went to China. I guess the fact that the inductive-tether project he supported hit a snag may have had something to do with it …”

  Kurosaki tried to insert his fingers into his already loosened necktie and then gazed at his fingers gripping empty space. “I’m exhausted. Must be getting old …” He gave a wry smile. “The truth is, it wasn’t just Shiraishi. China got a number of other engineers as well. Thanks to the Tiangong-2 space station, the space industry is booming over there. Japanese engineers are probably highly attractive to China because most of them have become jacks-of-all-trades from working on small teams.”

  “Don’t any of them go off to America?” Kazumi asked.

  “I hate to admit this, but us government engineers aren’t seen as valuable over there … or maybe that’s just our perception. We probably see it that way because private enterprises like Project Wyvern are just full of specialists from NASA and Lockheed. What they’re ultimately looking for is people with the design skill to come up with outrageous plans like orbital hotels. If you can pull off a Dr. Jahanshah and develop a known technology like an inductive tether into something like those space tethers, I bet that would get you in the door too …”

  Kazumi looked at the scale hanging from the relief on the wall. Kurosaki was probably right, he thought, that something like the space tether would pass muster in America.

  “I don’t know who’s scouting them out, but since the beginning of the year, twenty of us have already gone over to China. And they’ve all left knowing they’ll be highly disposable. That’s how little of a future they see in Japan …”

  “Well, it’s not all that bad.” Sekiguchi swirled the cola around in his glass, tinkling the ice cubes together. “The staff who’ve gone over are probably enjoying it.”

  “… Let’s hope so, for their sake. And I hope that’s true for Shiraishi too, wherever he is and whatever he’s doing. You know I check Chinese academic journals now and then to— But excuse me. I’m going to have a smoke.”

  Kurosaki stood up, raising two fingers as though holding an invisible cigarette.

  Mon, 14 Dec 2020, 01:12 -0800 (2020-12-14T09:12 GMT)

  Pier 37 Warehouse, Seattle

  “So the young guy who threw you for a loop is a rookie named Sekiguchi. Come on, Chance! A pencil-pushing bureaucrat?” Shiraishi pointed to the TV screen.

  “Makoto Sekiguchi, hmm? Entered this year? I’ll have our team look into it.”

  “Forget about him. He doesn’t matter. What’s important is that we know where Kurosaki is! So send in Mr. Park!”

  Shiraishi hit the keys a few times, and a large intersection with half a dozen intersecting roads appeared on the screen. Several arrows pointed to a hotel in the vicinity of Iidabashi Station. Once Chance saw the building, she shook her head.

  “Isn’t that the Nippon Grand Hotel? If so, our hands are tied. That’s a Chinese safe house.”

  As Chance explained to Shiraishi, half the staff were either soldiers or spooks. Sending agents in there would be sure to stir up serious trouble. The Clouds and the Great Leap that would follow had been kept secret from China. There was no way they could compromise that secrecy for such a minor operation.

  “The best we can do is have people watch the perimeter,” said Chance. “Also, China isn’t our only worr
y. With America beginning negotiations to partially relax space treaties and guidelines concerning debris—”

  Suddenly Shiraishi grabbed Chance’s shoulders and spun her around. “You didn’t think to tell me? Since when? Who’s your source? Give me the details!” Shiraishi’s grip on Chance’s shoulders tightened as he glared at her with an unwavering gaze.

  “It was a cable sent to WikiLeaks. An anonymous tip. It all began immediately after the Supreme Leader’s speech. America wants to initiate discussions to relax a section of the regulations, that’s all.”

  Shiraishi stared up at the ceiling, apparently thinking. “The part of COPUOS they’d be relaxing is guideline 4: “Avoid intentional destruction and other harmful activities.”

  Looking at Chance, Shiraishi curled his lips in a smirk.

  “This is fantastic!” he said. “It looks like the CIA has fallen for the Rod from God. Just to be sure, send someone into the Smithsonian National Air and Space Museum. The ASAT weapon ASM-135 and fire control system should be on display. If not, have them ask when they took them off display and if the display item is a model or the original. If the agent poses as some kind of space geek, the staff will be glad to answer all their questions.”

  As Shiraishi briefly explained to Chance, the ASM-135 had been developed and tested in the eighties. It was one of the best weapons available for disposing of orbital weapons like the Rod from God. But destruction of orbital objects violated space-debris reduction guidelines. Shiraishi’s guess was that America was trying to get around the rules by changing them in advance.

  “If we give them one more push, they’re bound to panic and fire off something, whether it’s the ASM-135 or one of its predecessors. Oh, the embarrassment!”

  “What kind of ‘push’ do you mean, exactly?” Chance looked at him quizzically.

  “I mean we’ll bring the Rod from God within range of the Wyvern Orbital Hotel.”

  “… I don’t think I understand. The Rod from God is just X-Man’s wild fantasy, right?”

  “Nope. The plans used as the basis for the illustration may never have actually been realized, but it was conceived as a serious possibility. Its range as a weapon could be calculated.”

  Chance shrugged. “Your plan is hopeless. Do you seriously think the American military and the CIA believe in the Rod from God? Even amateurs like Kazumi see right through it.”

  “They may have their doubts, but I bet they haven’t totally ruled it out. That’s why I’m saying we give them one more push. The Rod from God illustration is modeled after an American military orbital weapon that hurls a tungsten projectile at Mach 22 into the Earth’s surface. Let’s redirect their sights on to this wild goose. Then they’ll be desperately thinking up a way to stop it.”

  “You really expect everything to go so smoothly? First, we have to silence Kazumi. And I’m sure NASA experts will talk sense into the CIA.”

  “No one’s going to listen to a bunch of rocket geeks.”

  “How are you so sure?”

  “If politicians paid any attention to engineers, I’d still be building rockets in Japan. Science, technology, reason—people simply aren’t wise enough to entrust their lives to such cold ideals. Tell the general and the Supreme Leader: pretend to be scared. Those fools are going to take my ruse—hook, line, and sinker!”

  Chance shrugged and let out a sigh. “Understood,” she said. “But how about you sleep for a bit?”

  Shiraishi turned toward the television displaying the map of Iidabashi. “No sleeping just yet. The night is getting on in Japan. Right! So how about we wait until our targets stop moving? Then we can get it on too, Chancey babe.”

  “Sounds good! It’s six hours until the date changes in Tokyo … I’ll go pick up some coffee.”

  Mon, 14 Dec 2020, 19:20 +0900 (2020-12-14T10:20 GMT)

  The Nippon Grand Hotel, Iidabashi, Tokyo

  Kazumi stared at the large slips of paper stuck all over the whiteboard he’d had brought into the suite. They charted the structure of the email they were planning to send to Colonel Claude Lintz, head of Orbital Surveillance at NORAD. Written on each slip were sections they intended to include, such as “Greeting,” “Request for Protection,” “North Korea,” and “Space Tethers,” and they had been arranged into a particular order by Sekiguchi.

  “I’m going to write up the request to have Kazumi-san protected personally,” he said. “Kazumi-san. Can you draft an analysis of the objects around SAFIR 3 in a register suitable for engineers and also draft a summary of the space tether?”

  “Yes,” said Kazumi with a nod. “I can handle that.” All he had to do was reorganize the presentation he’d given today. And he wasn’t expecting it to take very long, either, because most of the documents he was relying on were in English.

  Sekiguchi nodded to acknowledge Kazumi’s reply, peeled off two notes from the whiteboard, and turned to Akari. “About the contamination of the translation engine … Can you take care of that?”

  “I’ll write it up if you don’t mind correcting it for me later,” she replied.

  “Please,” said Sekiguchi, putting his hand to his chin and staring at the list of items lined up on the board. During their break, Sekiguchi seemed to have decided to call Kazumi and Akari by their given names. The first time he addressed them in this more familiar way, Kurosaki gave him a sour look, but Sekiguchi brushed off his disapproval with a vague excuse, saying, “From here on out, we’re all going to be writing emails in English, so we’d better get used to it.”

  Akari raised her hand. “In the information we send them,” she said, “should we mention the advertisement and the shadow-ware?”

  “Can you remind me about that again?” asked Sekiguchi with a puzzled look.

  “I was planning to explain it to you at Fool’s Launchpad.” When Akari tapped at the keyboard on her left arm and pulled the Geeple Rod from God article up on the whiteboard, the cat in a banner advertisement leaped out. “This cat food ad can be found on numerous websites related to the Rod from God, and I’ve figured out what conditions make it appear.”

  Akari pulled up another display on the whiteboard. On a page with a white background was English text—regular words that didn’t serve as advertisement keywords. Written in the page’s title and caption was the name “Jamshed Jahanshah.” And in the upper-right advertisement area the familiar cat banner was displayed.

  “ ‘Rod from God,’ ‘space tethers,’ ‘SAFIR 3,’ and then ‘Jamshed Jahanshah.’ On every page with any one of these strings of text, the advertisement appears.”

  Kazumi and Sekiguchi stopped what they were doing and stared intently at Akari.

  “So, Akari-san,” said Sekiguchi, “you’re saying this advertiser is …”

  “Exactly. Whoever’s placing ads for Kitten Master knows about Jamshed Jahanshah and the space tethers.”

  Kurosaki finally seemed to clue in and opened his eyes wide. “You mean they know Jahanshah’s name? So who on earth … Well, I guess we’re pretty sure it’s North Korea, but why?”

  “To lure whoever reacts to these keywords out into the open.” Akari dragged the cursor over to the advertisement and opened a menu item called Display Element Details. “I discovered a program built into the advertisement. Do you understand what this means? A fragment of an executable file is included in the image data.”

  Web Inspector, which Kazumi often used himself, popped up. When Akari dumped out the raw image data and scrolled down to an area near the bottom, there, mixed in with the image’s color information, the code for a script could be deciphered.

  “Of course, this wouldn’t pass the screening if the program were operational. But only half the code is included in this image. The rest has been built into a separate banner ad.” Akari pointed to a less flashy advertisement. “When these two advertisements are displayed together on a single site, a shadow aw
akens.”

  “A … shadow?” said Sekiguchi. “What does the program do?”

  “What I’ve been able to determine so far is that it transmits the IP address, browser type, display size, and so on of any computer that views it to a server in America.”

  “Hmm,” Sekiguchi said with concern. “This sounds like some sophisticated stuff. But I’ve never heard of shadow-ware. What does it mean?”

  “Tracking,” Akari replied, and Sekiguchi looked at her perplexed. Kazumi felt the same way. From what he knew, a better word for something that functioned in this way was “tracer.”

  “Oh, so you don’t know,” said Kurosaki, looking toward Kazumi, and then turned to Akari. “Did Shiraishi teach you that, about this shadow-ware?”

  “Huh?” Akari’s face tensed up.

  “It’s an old expression. You hear it sometimes in Cold War spy films and such. Shiraishi and I used to talk about movies like that all the time. I hit the mark, didn’t I?”

  Akari began to shake her head, but then, seeming to reconsider, she nodded. “… Yes, Uncle Ageha came up with the idea.”

  With apparent resignation, Akari began to explain. During a period when Shiraishi was absorbed in the task of finding security holes, he came up with a method for activating a program by linking two advertisements together. Shiraishi and Akari created a program to verify that it would work and then reported the system weakness to a company that propagated advertisements, but they were dismissed because the company deemed the cost of fixing it unrealistic. The truth was, there was no small number of security holes left unfilled due to the apparent lack of economic and political feasibility to do so. Even from what Kazumi had heard, there had been a case in which a smartphone and PC manufacturer bought out by a Chinese corporation had unknowingly installed Trojan horse viruses in their devices.

  “But until I saw this advertisement,” Akari continued, “I didn’t think there was anyone actually using the method.”

  “Well, yeah, having two advertisements appear side by side costs a huge amount of money, doesn’t it?” said Sekiguchi.