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From: "Alison Whitehead \(E-mail\)" <alison.whitehead@tiscali.co.uk>
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Subject: {ASSM} "The Pen Test" by Alison Whitehead [MF slow]
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Date: Thu, 30 Oct 2003 04:10:03 -0500
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<1st attachment, "SS01 The Pen Test V3.txt" begin>

The Pen Test    

by Alison Whitehead    (c) 2003

-------------------------------

Penetration testing isn't what you think. 

The pen testing that I do ensures that computer systems 
don't get hacked. 

It's a formal process carried out by respectable men and 
a few women using network diagrams and tables of 
computer vulnerabilities. The pen test team produces 
thick reports and holds boring meetings with the clients 
who in turn have to do a lot of painful rework before 
the systems can go live. 

Despite the myths, it isn't done by penitent virus 
writers working alone in darkened rooms late at night 
typing arcane commands on their laptop computers.

Except that I was doing just that.

I was alone because I'd offered to stay behind and 
finish off. The rest of the team had better things to do 
and Marc was away, so for the first time in months I had 
no reason to hurry home. He'd had to rush off to Algiers 
to sort out some family business with his sister. It had 
been a confused scramble after the telephone call and 
helping him pack had taken priority over explanations. I 
was worried about him being back in Algeria so I was 
anxious to hear from him.

It was late because the client had screwed up. They had 
worked through our first tree-unfriendly report on the 
shortcomings of their system. They'd fixed the problems 
and we had re-tested. Alas, there had been a server re-
build and they'd forgotten to apply the fixes. After an 
acrimonious five o'clock meeting, client staff had been 
forced to work late to repair the omissions and I'd 
agreed to stay on and recheck the repairs - at a price. 
To compound the bad temper we had a row about internal 
security. A very secret report about a new drug had 
found its way to a major competitor. I knew how much 
these pharmaceuticals were worth in worldwide business 
but I resented the suggestion that my team had anything 
to do with the theft. I was annoyed enough to ask the 
client if one of his spies had informed him of the 
arrival of the report. I had the satisfaction of seeing 
that shot strike home.

Still irritated, I was waiting for them to repair their 
omissions. I had nothing to do but daydream about Marc 
and stare at my engagement ring that was still a novelty 
after four weeks.

Marc was my miracle. We'd met in an adult education 
class, both doing the same local history course. We'd 
been paired for the fieldwork and there had been a 
couple of weekends working together to do the assignment 
- walking the streets of the town classifying buildings; 
working in the library to see what other people thought. 

Although we were both coy about revealing our ages, I 
knew that his was little more than half mine. I was 
surprised when our liking for each other blossomed and 
the assignment progressed to a concert together, then a 
meal and a film. The men I worked with were in their 
late twenties like Marc but my experience and my 
reluctance to tolerate fools kept a barrier between them 
and me. 

With Marc it was different. We were comfortable together 
and he was no fool. He cooked a meal at his place and a 
few days later I made dinner for us at mine. 

That night we touched for the first time and until then 
I hadn't realised that I could still be melted. Marc 
offered to massage my feet when I complained that they 
were painful after our walk. He worked gently from my 
toes until his fingers had caressed the whole of my 
body. It was well after midnight before our consummation 
astonished us both. 

"Maria. Are you angry with me?" He always pronounced my 
name with a long 'i'. His slight French accent and the 
awkward twist of his scarred lips gave it an endearing 
inflection. 

I had turned away from him to let my skin cool and to 
gather my scattered wits. I couldn't do either while I 
was pressed against his hard body. I had not expected 
this. Menopause had left me dried out and unresponsive. 
Marc's fingers had triumphed over that and I certainly 
wasn't angry.

"I'm surprised." I reached out to touch his face and he 
flinched away, hiding the scars from me. "That hasn't 
happened to me for a long time."

"Why not? You're an attractive woman. You work with lots 
of people. There must have been many opportunities."

"Opportunities, yes. I've tried some but they didn't 
work. None of them had the effect on me that you just 
did and I don't want someone around the house simply to 
keep me company."

"Do you want to tell? Why you don't want a man around 
the house. You were married, weren't you?"

I hesitated. That was my private Hell and I wanted it to 
stay dead and buried. But Marc's private Hell was with 
him whenever he looked in the mirror or when people 
stared at his face.

"I was glad when the drink killed him. It took him ten 
years. Ten years out of my life."

"Why did you stay?"

"I suppose I loved him once. He stayed with me when 
things were bad. He pitied me so I stayed with him out 
of gratitude. I had an ectopic pregnancy. You know what 
that is?" 

I felt him nod. I'd moved back against him for comfort.

"After that I couldn't have children. He wanted a 
family, but he stayed with me. Things were never the 
same."

I turned on the bedside light although it made him 
nervous. I looked at his smooth brown skin and his 
strong limbs. 

"You think I'm attractive?" I challenged him. I knelt 
above him and my breasts sagged. 

He turned towards me and smiled, letting the light fall 
on both sides of his face. "You'd feel better about 
yourself if you lost a few pounds and took more 
exercise. But it's the whole of you that attracts me. I 
love to be with you - do things with you. Tonight was 
more than I hoped for. I wasn't expecting it. I haven't 
been with a woman for six years - since it happened."

I reached out and touched his face with my fingers. He 
froze and I could feel his whole body trembling. He 
relaxed slowly - so very slowly - as I ran my fingers 
across the melted scars that had been half his face. I 
lay on him and let my lips follow my fingers from 
twisted lips across the corrugated flesh of his cheek to 
the eye that saw nothing but still streamed tears. 

"Only you," his voice was thick and uneven. "You've 
never cringed from my face."

"It takes a little getting used to," I held him against 
me, his face against my breasts, his tears wetting my 
body. "But it's part of you."

"I've never been able to make love to a woman. They 
always turned away or pitied me. I couldn't. Even if I 
paid them it was no good. Only with you."

"Tell me how it happened."

"No!"

"It doesn't matter. Only if it helps."

Desire was rising in me again as I stroked his smooth 
body. I'd almost forgotten what it was like to hold 
someone. I waited for him.

It was several minutes before he sighed and said, "It 
was my father. He was not a very civilised man. But, if 
I disapproved he was still my father. He had a motor 
boat. He took the tourists fishing from Tiemcen. And at 
night, sometimes, he crossed to Spain, carrying things 
that the customs shouldn't see."

"You went with him. Smuggling? Smuggling what?" All my 
instincts were violated.

His body shook against mine and I realised that he was 
laughing.

"I thought it was best you know. But it was a long time 
ago. Six years."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to judge you."

"How can you not? Being as you are and doing what you 
do. You are a kind of policeman. I did not approve of my 
father either, but I was his son. When he asked me to 
help that night I didn't refuse. I don't know what we 
took - hashish perhaps - but the customs were waiting 
for us outside the harbour. They came alongside and I 
think my father fired a flare. He was not a peaceful 
man. Both boats burned very quickly. We were carrying a 
lot of petrol. I was the only one who got to the shore. 
Often since then I've wished I hadn't."

"Your father was killed?"

"Yes."

 I was breathing quickly. His casual recital of this 
horrific story excited me. I let my hand slide over his 
body to rouse him rather than to comfort.

"Marc, I want you again."

As he rolled on top of me, I found that he wanted me 
just as badly.

--------------------------------------------------------

He moved in with me. Little by little he spent more time 
in my house until at last it seemed foolish for him to 
keep his flat. He moved into my life in the same gentle 
way and I became used to him being there. At the end of 
the day's work I was anxious to be home. Evenings were 
havens of contentment. We ate and worked and talked and 
sometimes loved.

"Why are you so interested in English History?" I had 
just read one of the essays he had written for his 
diploma. My fierce red pen had little to do. 

"It might be for the same reason that you do. I've lost 
my roots. I can never go back to Algeria safely - or to 
France. And why would I want to? My mother and my 
brother blame me for surviving my father. I have no 
other family. Only you. So I'm making new roots here in 
England where I feel safe. Local history helps me to get 
those roots down."

"And me? I was born here."

"Do you have roots here?"

"You're right. I don't. They were lost in Austria. The 
only relatives I have are my husband's nieces and 
nephews."

I looked at his essay again. The references were 
professionally formatted.

"You write English very well. As well as I do. Where did 
you learn?"

"At university. Oran. I read biochemistry. All the 
research is in English. I had to learn it well."

Marc saw my surprise and laughed. "I haven't tried to 
get work in biochemistry. You must know how suspicious 
the pharmaceutical companies are. An Algerian with a 
face like mine and a father like mine is not wanted. 
Besides, I don't need to work. My father had plenty of 
money hidden away and I knew where it was. That's 
another reason I don't go home. I'm not sure who else 
thought that money belonged to them. Do you mind me 
being idle?"

I gestured with his essay. "Hardly idle. No, I may even 
join you. I might retire and we could enjoy ourselves."

His crooked smile made me catch my breath. He came to 
stand behind me, digging his strong fingers into the 
tense muscles of my neck. It was his invitation to me. 
If I wanted no more, he would massage me until I was in 
a trance of relaxation, then carry me to bed and let me 
sleep. If I did want more, his massage would extend down 
my body and rouse me to levels of ecstasy that I'd never 
known before. When he carried me to bed we didn't sleep 
until exhaustion closed my eyes.

--------------------------------------------------------

Our evenings were often busy. Marc had classes and I 
frequently worked late so we could have at least one day 
free at the weekend. We made meals when we were hungry. 

So I was surprised to come home one evening to find the 
table set for an intimate dinner. I looked nervously at 
glass and linen that still held memories. The flowers 
were overpowering. Marc shooed me upstairs to bath and 
change while he returned to the kitchen. 

I came down uncertainly, embarrassed by the contrived 
romantic setting. I thought our relationship was solid 
enough for us not to need contrivance. Marc sensed my 
embarrassment and grinned - I had learned to read his 
face. "It's supposed to be foolish and sentimental," he 
said. "You can laugh if you like. I've got something to 
ask you and I wanted to hint."

This foolishness was irresistible and I entered into his 
fantasy. Our teasing and flirting were so effective that 
we didn't get beyond the main course. He came behind me 
to refill my glass, and then my dress was unzipped and 
his strong hands were kneading my bare shoulders. We 
made love on the floor between the sideboard and the 
table without removing a single piece of clothing. It 
was over in seconds.

"Maria, have I hurt you?" My scream in his ear must have 
been painful for him.

"Marc, I came! Take me upstairs."

He picked me up and I scattered his buttons and clothes 
as he carried me to bed. He bent hooks and tore zippers 
when I begged for him. After each climax, I goaded him 
for more. For the first time in my life I took control 
and Marc was my willing servant. When I was too sore to 
take him any more he used his tongue to finish me, and 
in return I took him into my mouth. Dawn was near when I 
made him rape my last virginity.

We had loved to exhaustion before, but this was total 
satiation. I lay on him, licking blood from his chest 
where I had torn my fingernails in passion. 

"Can you reach my trousers?"

"You don't need them."

He reached over me and dug them from the heap of clothes 
beside the bed. There was a box in the pocket and he 
opened it. He touched my bruised lips with his and said, 
"The evening wasn't meant to go like that. I meant to 
ask you to marry me before we went to bed."

"I know. You've had your answer."

He slid the ring onto my finger and we lay down to sleep 
at last.

As I drifted off with his arms round me, I remembered 
that I would have to tell my masters of my impending 
marriage. Spouses had to be vetted too. God knows what 
the bland, pink-shaven men in pin-stripe suits would 
make of Marc. Maybe retirement was closer than I 
thought. 

--------------------------------------------------------

My new ring fascinated me and I took it to Karl. We'd 
met on the local history course and become friends.

"Maria, it's beautiful. Like you," he said.

I smiled as he screwed a glass into his eye. He twisted 
it and peered and fussed. He stood up and gestured that 
I follow him. As we went up the narrow stairs behind his 
shop he said, "I have a microscope upstairs. We can see 
it properly."

Karl was a route back to my childhood and my parents who 
had come to England in 1938 as refugees. His Austrian 
accent created echoes of my mother. I felt he might be a 
little like the father who had been killed in the war 
before I ever knew him.

The room upstairs smelt dusty and stale. It was 
cluttered from floor to ceiling with the gatherings of a 
lifetime's dealing in antiques. Glass and china, 
silverware and postcards, books and old musical 
instruments. It seemed impossible that the space could 
hold so many things. He cleared chairs and drew the old 
microscope to the front of the table.

"Ah! I thought so. Look!"

I took his place at the eyepiece and saw the gold band 
decorated with an intricate chase of dogs and deer. A 
paler thread of gold elaborated the pattern.

"See?" he said. "The pale thread of gold is a piece of 
wire. There are thousands of tiny punch marks where it 
was hammered to flatten it and weld it to the darker 
gold. And it is old - before the days of lenses." He was 
searching through the bookcases. "All done by hand and 
the naked eye. Wonderful! Ah!" He took down a book and 
blew dust over me.

"Here!" He triumphed after flicking the pages for a 
while. There was a sepia photograph of a ring very like 
the one I had. He translated the French caption. "Early 
sixteenth century. Part of the dowry of Margaret of 
Angoul^me. You see how alike they are? And perhaps more 
than four hundred and fifty years old."

"But the stones, you see, are not original. Sad." He 
pointed to the photograph. "These stones were simple - 
almost polished pebbles. Yours are more precious, old, 
but newer than the ring."

He pointed to the big square-cut diamond that formed the 
focus of the ring. "This I think I know. Many were made 
in India for nabobs - the men who ruled for the East 
India Company. They brought them back to England after 
the Mutiny drove them out."

He shook his head and screwed the eyeglass back in. "But 
these other stones I do not know. Like rubies, but 
almost brown. A colour I have never seen."

He stared at one of the stones for a long time. "Odd," 
he said at last. "I cannot see properly but the tawny 
stones have something between them and the ring.  What 
it is I cannot see. There is a wire coil, perhaps. Maybe 
it is some trick to make the light shine so deeply in 
the stones."

He smiled as he gave the ring back to me. "Must I give 
you my best wishes?"

I put it back on my finger. "Yes. Marc and I are getting 
married. Will you come to the wedding?"

His smile faded a little, then returned. He bent to kiss 
me. "Ah, Marc. Yes. Of course I will come. When is it to 
be?"

"Quite soon. I'll send you an invitation."

"Where did he get the ring?"

"It was in his family. I don't think he knows where it 
came from."

Karl looked doubtful. "So precious a ring. Someone ought 
to know."

--------------------------------------------------------

The phone rang and startled me from my daydream. It 
wasn't Marc. Despite his promise, he hadn't phoned since 
he left for Algiers. I'd worried about him all afternoon 
and even called Air Inter to leave a message for him. 
They couldn't find him on their passenger list. I put it 
down to incompetence. Even the flight number he'd given 
me was wrong. I went on worrying.

"Hi, Maria, its Daljit We've done all the changes on the 
list. Are you ready to check them out?"

"I am. I'll try not to keep you late."

"Since when have you worried about keeping me late? Are 
you all alone up there? Want some company? I notice you 
haven't been staying so late these last few weeks. You 
got company at home?"

"Mind your own business."

"Ah ha! I thought as much. You've been like a teenager. 
He must be doing you some good."

"Don't be so bloody rude!"

Daljit laughed a deep laugh. "Hey! Have you been getting 
a hard time about this report that someone passed on to 
the opposition? Things have been pretty nasty here. 
People are asking very pointed questions."

"The matter did come up."

"Word says you were pretty snotty about it. Keep cool, 
Maria. Ring me soon."

There were only a couple of things left to check. I 
opened the test scripts and turned to the remaining 
items. I was no hacker here - I had an authorised 
account - so I logged on using a PIN and the six-digit 
number off the gadget I wore next to my identity badge. 
The number changed every minute and a server deep down 
in the system paralleled the changes. This was paranoia, 
but our client had other systems on this network that 
designed molecules for pharmaceuticals that they sold 
all over the world. It was not a place for the uninvited 
to browse. The uproar about the stolen report was 
confirmation of that.

The script said that I had to create a user account and 
then demonstrate that it would be locked out after two 
incorrect passwords. This was to stop a hacker trying 
endlessly until he guessed lucky.

I logged on as an administrator and created an account. 
Then the lights went out. Movement kept them on in the 
enormous office. Because I was alone, I ended up in a 
tiny pool of light surrounded by an ocean of darkness. 
That made me nervous so I got up and walked around to 
turn them back on. 

I needed a pee. As I sat on the loo I felt a pain in my 
finger and realised that it was swollen enough to make 
my engagement ring tight. I licked it and tried to get 
it off but it wouldn't slide over my knuckle. My aging 
finger was swollen at this end of a long day. With a 
generous application of soap I got it off. I rinsed it 
and carried it back to my desk. The separate modem I was 
using for the test was slightly warm so I put my ring on 
it to dry. 

Back to the pen test. 

I opened the window for the server and entered the 
userid for the account I'd just created. I dragged my 
fingers over the keys for a junk password and pressed 
'enter'. A Windows desktop opened for me. 

I stared at it, puzzled. 

I checked. 

I was logged on to the server. 

I logged out and tried again without a password at all. 
It still let me in. 

It was late and I was getting tired. I could do without 
this. 

I thought of just ticking that box and going home but 
conscience pricked - I was paid enough to make sure it 
did. I made a note in the log, assuming that Daljit had 
made a hash of the password policies even though they 
looked all right when I checked them. 

What to do? I'd call Daljit in a moment but first I'd 
try the whole thing again, just in case I had done 
something daft. 

I needed to log in as administrator to re-create the 
account. 

Out of curiosity, I didn't type the password. 

It let me in.

Ten minutes later I was logged onto to one of the 
classified machines that held the whole of the client's 
research information. A quick glance through the index 
told me that some of this was material that even I 
wasn't cleared to see. There were details of the 
development of new drugs, results of clinical trials, 
field trials. This held the client's most precious 
assets and this was the machine the stolen report must 
have come from. 

There were three firewalls between my laptop and this 
machine, none of which should have let me through. And 
if I was here then any other Joe on the Internet could 
be. It was time to ring all the bells and get the system 
shut down. 

The lights went out and I got up for my routine walk to 
turn them on again. I picked up my engagement ring and 
put it back on. My finger was no longer swollen and I 
needed all the comfort I could get. 

As I paced, I decided that the system must have been 
hacked even as I was working. The hacker might still be 
there. There might be enough evidence to trace the 
connection so the police could find him. This could be 
how the report was stolen.

I logged on to the front end to see what I could see - 
or rather I would have logged on if I hadn't mis-typed 
the password in my haste. The system rejected my login 
as if everything were normal. As I re-typed it I 
wondered why this part of the system was still bothering 
about passwords when the rest of it seemed to be 
allowing free-for-all. 

It didn't take long to establish that the entire system 
was back to normal. 

I was sweating now, faintly panicky and feeling very 
alone. I'd promised to re-test the system and it 
wouldn't do to let the client down, especially as I 
would have great difficulty explaining what had stopped 
me finishing.

I redid the pen test and ticked the box. The account 
locked out exactly as it should. But I couldn't leave it 
at that because I'd already recorded my observation that 
the test had failed first time.

I prowled the office once more, switching even more 
lights back on. It gave me some tiny satisfaction to 
know that I was adding to the client's electricity bill.

What had changed? I cudgelled my weary brain. What had 
changed? 

None of this made any sense. A hacker wouldn't have been 
kind enough to let the whole world into the system. He'd 
have been struggling to get himself in. 

No, it had to be something related to me - and the only 
thing I'd done was walk around the office and soap the 
ring off my finger.

My brain curdled. 

I licked my engagement ring off and put it back on the 
modem. 

Logon. 

Ring back on my finger. 

Unauthorised access.

I stared at the glowing stones and my brain whirled 
round the possibilities. Could it really be this ring 
that had let me read the formulae and reports on the 
most secret server? 

No! The ring was just a ring - beautiful and made 
centuries before there were computers. If it deceived 
then it was by breaking the promise that Marc had made 
when he put it on my finger.

The phone rang but it still wasn't Marc.

"Maria, how much longer are you going to be?"

I hesitated between unpalatable choices. 

"Maria?"

I made up my mind. "I've just finished, Daljit. You can 
go home now. Everything was OK. We can do the paperwork 
in the morning."

"Bless you. Have a good evening."

I took a deep breath then crumpled the sheet of paper 
that recorded the password problems and threw it in the 
bin. On a fresh sheet I wrote, 'No observations. All 
tests completed successfully.' I signed and added date 
and time. Everything was all right now. The password 
nonsense had never happened. 

Daljit on the other hand was going to have some 
explaining to do. I'd used his account when I logged on 
to the secret server. They would never be able to pin 
the theft on him but he was going to have a hard time 
explaining his account details in the logs.

I opened my briefcase and took out the letter I'd 
written but never sent. The one that told the security 
director about my engagement to Marc. It joined the 
other sheet in the bin. I bent and retrieved both. 
Perhaps the shredder would be safer.

There was no reason for me to stay but I was weary and 
lonely and there was nowhere I wanted to be. 

I looked at my finger again and turned the ring so it 
faced me. The light twisted like slow fire in the tawny 
stones. It might be just a ring but with the stolen 
report and the strange behaviour of my modem it added up 
to betrayal. And from Marc's behaviour it began to look 
as though he was the betrayer. Did I believe his story 
about meeting his sister in Algiers? Where was he? My 
doubts multiplied. I was sure he'd told me he only had a 
brother. And in Tiemcen not Algiers. 

Could the ring have worked for him as it did for me? I 
never wore jewellery in bed so he could have used it on 
those nights when he'd worked late on my laptop doing 
his essays? Could he have stolen the report and who knew 
what other things besides? 

Pain hovered, held back by bewilderment. I'd been used 
in some baffling way to penetrate the client's system. I 
didn't care much about the theft. Whether one company or 
another made money from these pharmaceuticals didn't 
worry me. 

But Marc? Had none of what he'd told me been true? 
Surely his need for me - his love - surely that couldn't 
be deceit. His naked pain at disfigurement and the 
comfort he took from my acceptance of it, that could not 
be counterfeit, could it? I had held his body as he 
wept.

At last pain overcame my bewilderment and I was swamped 
by a tide of pity and loss and loneliness. I wept until 
another thought disturbed me. I sat up and stared at the 
ring. Given time I was sure I could work out how it did 
its tricks, but I might not have much time. I remembered 
Marc's comments about his father's money and I wondered 
who might feel they had a better claim to the ring than 
me. 

Pity and loss and loneliness were replaced by fear. I 
looked around the empty office. Suddenly I felt very 
cold and very much alone. I shuddered and the lights 
went out again.

--------------------------------------------------------

This story was workshopped at:

http://www.desdmona.com/fishtank.asp

Thanks to all who contributed.
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