System Seven

Chapter 1

The one hook started it, at a brokerage firm in Italy - a deleted file on a USB stick left inserted in a computer overnight.

Keywords in the document triggered AI-driven bots to begin a full sweep. Email addresses plucked from the document led to mail server scans which yielded additional documents and emails and caused further scanning of servers around the globe. The AI leveraged the Underground’s vast repository of hacks and vulnerabilities to break into the servers.

The AI’s analysis revealed evidence of clandestine meetings, code-based communications, and monetary transactions using indirect methods. The artificial intelligence behind the analysis was specifically designed to identify elements of secrecy – and it had struck a rich vein.

When the AI’s report first came in, Crosstalk knew it was special. The scope was international and the roster of companies and private individuals was long and varied. What was odd was the lack of definition as to who or what was at the heart of the secrecy. Typically the AI tagged its reports as extortion, blackmail, insider trading, espionage, or other activities done in secret. For something this big to be tagged with “unknown” was unusually vague.

Without knowing exactly what the players were involved in, Crosstalk had to begin steering things himself and that’s when the trail became more exotic, with the keywords and content hinting at something truly special.

And so it began, almost two months of picking and prying at servers around the planet. At the end, the reward was an encrypted file that took twelve days to break open using falsified run time on the British government’s ARCHER2 supercomputer. That had been three days ago.

Three days that felt like a week.

Crosstalk left his computer and walked to the window with his pistol in hand. Hacking was an art, not to mention an addiction, but it wasn’t supposed to be like this. This was fucked up.

He parted the blinds and peered outside his flat. Night’s stillness gripped the London suburb of Kingston, the streets empty. Down the way a lamp over the cemetery’s gate flickered. For long moments it felt as if the dead were using it to signal.

“It will go out,” he muttered. “The world will know.”

A sound from the hall registered above the whir of the computer’s fans. He turned to look.

The doorway held potential, like a shimmering vibe, as if it might suddenly fill with intruders. He slid the semi-automatic’s safety to the off position.

They’ll know but will they believe?

He waited but heard nothing more. Turning back, he saw his reflection in the window and the glint of fear in his eyes. Of course he was fearful. The last of disbelief was gone.

He returned to the screen and set the pistol down. The upload to Alcazar continued. He started an encrypted email to explain the file. Composing became an obstacle. How to convey the unbelievable without sounding insane? Short and to the point, with a link to the file. The content would speak for itself.

He barely finished the email when another sound came, louder. He snatched up the pistol and faced the hallway. The fans of the computer grew deafening against the silence. Again it seemed someone might appear in the doorway – an irrational premonition, yet fully formed.

The progress bar crawled to completion, the upload done. Storing the file in Alcazar might insure its safety.

For the encrypted email, sending it via Magistrate meant conscripted servers would relay the mail to its destination, anonymizing the path. But who to?

There was really only one person who would take it seriously and know what to do with it. He selected his contact and clicked the send button, knowing it could be a death sentence. For a moment regret lingered – until a much stronger feeling took hold.

As if the air pressure had changed, he sensed another presence, maybe several. Pain bloomed in his skull like a headache but modulated, unnatural. Anticipation arched into fear as it spread. It hurt to see, breathe, to hear. Confusion eroded focus just before the truth dawned terribly, rising to life from the stolen file.

“Ah fuck.” They could do this.

He almost missed the tone signaling the email had gone out. He stabbed the power switch and plunged the room into silence. Blood pulsed against his eardrums in time to the pain. The weight of the pistol was a comfort but now only as a sure means of escape from the hell of his body.

Had he only known, he wouldn’t have done it. His motives had been naïve. Uncover the truth. Everyone deserves to know the truth.

Straining from the pain, he said, “No one deserves this.”

# # #

Austin Bakken stood at a fifth floor window in InterGen’s Folsom offices. The California sun glowed in a sky hazed from a week of Sierra wildfires. Seen through tinted windows, it looked like an alien star. For a few heartbeats, he imagined he was standing in a starship in low orbit, taking in the view. In the distance, the Sacramento skyline sprouted from the tree-covered valley floor like fence posts.

A hot Friday and most of the office had already vacated. Instead of leaving, he had someone else’s missed deadline to deal with. The server farm upgrade project was in shambles and required saving. Never mind he had migrated from servers to network security – the treadmill just needed a runner on it and he was that guy.

He breathed deep and let it out. Kaiya would be getting ready to leave work for class. Last night’s talk was still fresh in his mind. Absolutely yes she was important, a huge part of his world. His busy, often self-absorbed world. Between work and chasing his dream, Kaiya Time had taken a hit.

He sent her a text. 105 in the shade. Swim after class?

Making it big with his home AI system was the dream, but she was, too. Hell, it was as much for her as it was for him. They needed more time together and he wanted to give it to her. It was just embarrassing to have to be reminded. He shouldn’t have to be reminded.

With a last glance at the alien star, he returned to his cubicle and got back on the treadmill.

#

Trading the chilled office for a hot parking garage felt almost lusty. Wood smoke from the wildfires brought to mind camping. Austin had finished updating the project timeline, including schedules. Murray would approve but the Boston server teams wouldn’t, of course. Tons of overtime and two lost weekends. It was the only way the project would make the launch date. InterGen’s new IQ Access service had to go live on time and within budget.

His phone buzzed with a text from Kaiya.

Swim no. They drained the pool for repairs. Surprise - yes :) Working late?

A primer gray Honda pulled onto the level and expertly missed him before it parked. Matt Phio climbed out.

“Yo Bakken, what’s up?”

He had to smile at Matt’s always-good mood. “Gettin’ the hell out of Dodge.”

“Hey,” Matt thumbed towards his car, “Remember how the AC took a shit? Get this: my apartment AC crapped out last night!”

“Cursed by the AC gods, dude. Plenty cold inside. See ya.”

He replied to Kaiya. Leaving now. What surprise?

#

Half an hour later he turned onto his cul de sac and saw her car in the driveway. In the garage, a male voice sounded from a Muzak speaker nailed to a rafter. It announced Kaiya’s presence, a voicemail, and six personal emails.

“Thank you, Sam. How long has she been here?”

“FORTY-THREE MINUTES.”

A bump of pride, still. His creation wove technology into ordinary life dramatically: the old house seemed intelligent, aware. He headed for the kitchen and found his girlfriend at the range stirring a pot and swaying to the music.

“Hey baby, nice surprise!” He kissed her in greeting. “What happened?”

“Nelson let us all go early and class was cancelled.”

“No shit? Why?”

“Nelson just said ‘happy Friday, go enjoy it’. And power’s out at the college.”

“Wish I had a boss like that.” He dropped his keys and wallet on the island. “What ya makin’?”

“Thai chicken and noodles. Aunt Sophie’s recipe. You’ll like it.” She tapped the raw wood base of the countertop. “Um, weren’t you going to work on the tile?”

He almost laughed. “I was gonna do a lot of things this week. Been nuts at work. The alternator problem didn’t help.”

“Hey, I tried to warn you. BMW, big money waste.” She looked at him, gauging his mood. “I believe I even looked up the year and model. It had problems.”

“All cars can have problems.” He pulled a beer from the fridge. “Luckily it was just the alternator.”

“I noticed you made progress with Sam.”

“Yeah?”

“I didn’t have to use my key, he recognized my voice the first time. And I’ve been talking to myself to try and activate him. Not one mistake. I’m impressed.”

“Thanks. The voice recognition is really coming together. The code’s been tough to tweak but Ben is all over it.”

“Well he’s doing something right. Maybe it’s time to start attracting those investors.”

“I might be ready, yeah. Need an updated demo video for sure. I’ve got some ideas.”

“Cool.” She stirred, waiting for him to take his first drink. “So, I talked with my mom earlier. She wants us to visit for Christmas.”

He rolled his eyes. “Us? Riiiight. Gee, I wonder if she knows that would mean a huge flight across the Pacific?”

“Oh, I’m pretty sure she does.”

“Just her way of separating us for the holidays. Or making me suffer the flight. She’ll never forgive me.”

According to Yuni Wilson, her daughter wasn’t being exposed to the ‘higher class of male specimens’ she deserved. Her mom didn’t hate him but she sure resented him. “If you truly loved her, you would release her to someone more of her station. Her future is in question with you, no matter your intentions.” After that he’d given up trying to win her approval.

“Not my fault you chose me. And I didn’t make her sell the house and move back to Japan.”

“Um, she didn’t sell the house.”

“What?”

“She told me today.” She went to drain the pot. “Well, she let it slip anyway.”

“That lying old–” Her frown stopped him short. “What? That’s a new low, don’t you think?”

“I told her what I thought of her lying. Of course she didn’t exactly apologize but I think we won’t have a problem getting there next month. I’m guessing you’d prefer Catalina over camping with all the smoke?”

Shit. Next month? He’d forgotten to request vacation time. There it was again, the core of their recent problems. He filed a huge mental note to put in for the time off. “As long she doesn’t show up, sure.”

Kaiya toweled her hands and wrapped her arms around his neck. “Don’t worry, she won’t. And Christmas? I’m not going. I just thought you’d enjoy her latest jab. She can wait until my visit in March. If she misses us that much, she’s more than able to fly out here.”

Around a kiss he quipped, “Yeah, on her broom.”

#

During dinner thoughts of work swarmed. Austin managed to ditch most of them and enjoy conversation instead. Afterward, they took in a movie which she passed out halfway through. It had been that kind of week for them both. Herding her upstairs to bed, he’d mostly forgotten the day’s issues and hoped he still would. Work sometimes kept him up.

At the top of the stairs a microphone poked from the ceiling.

“Bedtime, Sam.” In response, the AI sent instructions to sensors and cameras around the property, slipping into night security mode.

“SYSTEM ARMED WITH ZERO EXCEPTIONS. GOOD NIGHT AUSTIN AND KAIYA.”

#

The digital clock read 1:32am. Chalk one up for work. Giving up, Austin slid out of bed, pulled on some shorts, and headed towards the shop.

Built over the garage, the shop was another unfinished project of the previous owner. Only the incomplete work and the recession had made the foreclosure affordable and only then with his father’s help. The sensors, microphones, and cameras were all up and running and most of the walls had sheetrock hung. His free time went into working on the feature set of the AI or with Kaiya so finishing the house wasn’t happening.

The lights flickered on in the garage. He tapped a code on the shop’s door keypad to unlock it and climbed the stairs beyond.

“Sam, music, volume low.”

A spotlight lit a desk, a computer screen came alive, and jazz fusion filled the room. He padded over to the mini-fridge and retrieved a beer. He glanced down: the workouts had to resume before his belly ballooned like his dad’s. The resemblance was already forming. Fear the genes.

The jazz was too much for the hour. “Sam, soft synth music.”

The music shifted to synthesizers and strings.

At a window he stared at the faint stars hovering over the hills. In the half-tired, half-wired haze of early morning, he imagined stepping out as a giant and foot-planting the Sierras to launch into the heavens to explore. Star-lit nebulas and crowded solar systems swung past in a seconds-long vision that ended with the familiar feeling of being cheated.

Growing up, everyone thought that by the year 2028 mankind would be in space, working and mining the planets at least, if not flitting from star to star in true exploration. Instead, they hadn’t even come close. Rovers chewing soil on desolate Mars was as far as they’d come. Corrupt and spineless politicians had allowed the government’s coffers to be drained by military industry. Corporations effectively owned the country and war was still the only black hole they were interested in. Space programs of substance never regained funding. The private space industry was a joke, reserved for quick-hop international flights and orbiter tourism for the wealthy.

He swigged his beer and thoughts landed on a terrestrial vacation instead. Truth told, camping sounded better, wood smoke or not. A campsite, firelight, good beer and good grub, followed by mad love under the stars. Catalina Island was great but required flying, no matter how short the flight. Driving would steal a half a day.

He opened a cabinet where a brass Buddha incense holder from Berkeley wafted memories thicker than smoke. He set it on the window ledge and fitted a sandalwood stick into the happy teacher’s belly button. Tiny sparks danced as the first strands of gray lifted into the room.

At once memories stirred. Gatherings with friends to test psychic abilities. The trip to Area 51. Experiments with dream journals. Ouija boards, channeling, meditation, and nights spent staring up at the stars, sending out vibes to attract aliens – and the shooting stars that seemed like veiled responses from them. Among the crazy efforts were powerful times that still lingered with a life of their own. The lucid dreams and out of body experiences remained the pinnacle experiences. It seemed a lifetime ago and in a way it was. A part of him was still amazed at the edgy and wondrous experiments and always would be.

He pushed aside the mesh of memories and settled in front of Grunge, the shop computer. If writing code didn’t wear him out, nothing would.

#

Half an hour later, movement caught his eye. A sleepy Kaiya appeared from the dim of the stairwell with his cell phone in hand.

“Um, Mr. Bakken? You forgot something. It’s Matt.”

Seeing her, he wanted to ignore the call. She’d come up wearing only her black silk sleeping shorts. He turned in his chair and welcomed her in an embrace.

“Sexy,” he whispered around her lips.

“Mm-hmm. Take your call,” she whispered back.

Matt apologized before reporting an anomaly at one of the edge routers that protected InterGen’s network. “Utilization went nuts but I’m not seeing why. I think I’m missing something. Can you take a quick look?”

He withdrew from Kaiya and tapped the VPN to reach the router in question. After a scan of the logs, a detail jumped out: a standby network card on the router had been activated and reconfigured.

“Damn.”

She knelt next to him, asking with her eyes.

“Shit’s in the fan, I think. Maybe even a hack. Sorry, babe.”

“S’okay. Go get ‘em.” She stood and strolled over to the window he’d looked out earlier. The woman he loved, inside a room full of technology, peering out at nature beyond – he took a mental snapshot.

A flow of data coursed out the hijacked router. The network systems monitors all showed green and no alarms had gone off – so there was still a chance an InterGen tech had set up something unauthorized. A captured sample of the data stream revealed the type of files being transferred.

“Christ. Someone’s moving around music? Who would be so stupid?”

# # #

A miniature neon beer sign over Johan’s desk cast its glow in the smoke from his pipe. Across the studio apartment’s floor lay laptops, network cabling, and a pair of routers blinking in the dark. Laptop speakers tried to do justice to a discordant Eurobeat mp3 but came up woefully short. Corduroy curtains blocked out the morning light.

The Dutch hacker watched the cargo stream from InterGen to his client’s server in Thailand. For five hundred euro and as a test of InterGen’s security it was worth babysitting the transfer.

He ashed his pipe into an old coffee mug. InterGen had been on his bucket list for over two years. He had nearly given up trying but the thousand different ways for profit once inside kept him at it. In the end he lucked out with a combination of fresh tools that exploited an extraordinary vulnerability in the Crest series of Rocom routers, one that could only be another NSA backdoor.

He peeled a thumbnail-sized strip of the claylike hash from the trim of the monitor and fired up another bowl. After a deep pull, the transfer paused onscreen. He held his breath and willed it to continue. It did.

“I am a god,” he quipped as he exhaled. He started to check email when the transfer paused again, then once more.

He set the pipe down and pulled up a console window to investigate.

# # #

“It’s a hacker,” Austin said.

Back at InterGen Matt asked, “How? What’d you find?”

“A root account on one of the old Promulgate servers is active. He’s pushing shit out now.”

“Where’s it going?”

Austin grunted. “Another hacked box unless he works for the Canadian Tourism Board. They might be able to see where the packets are going.”

“You’re going after him?”

“Damn straight I am.”

A call to the Canadian NOC went to voicemail. He marked it urgent but could only wait.

“Crap, I can’t believe this.”

The thought of someone breaking into the network was as annoying as it was surprising. Rocom routers were the most secure shit on the planet; the Crest series cost a fortune. The only thing that kept him from driving to InterGen was Kaiya’s soft hands rubbing his back and the nudging of her breasts while she listened to him describe the hack.

“See here... this is where he defined a new network. And here,” he tapped at a string of text, “the shitball rooted the old Promulgate server and hijacked it. He’s got about fifty gigs of porn and music stashed and is sending some out now.”

She shook her head. “Owned by a hacker, babe. Not good.”

It sucked to hear but was true. “Yeah. I don’t see any new sessions so he hasn’t gone exploring yet. I’ll have to shut him out if he does. Crap, I wish Canada would call back.”

# # #

Across the planet from InterGen, Johan minimized the window, satisfied his gig on the Promulgate server was safe. The interruptions originated from somewhere inside the network but had since smoothed out. Relieved, he celebrated with a couple more tokes of hash. Soon he’d enlist help in cracking open database servers, a profitable gig as long as they stayed hidden.

His other side venture was setting up the extortion of a famous British playwright suffering from a case of pedophilia. With forged system access to a private server hosting child pornography, Johan had extracted membership information. Of course the playwright hadn’t registered under his real name but had paid with a credit card, a transaction recorded and stored by the server operator without consent. Johan had run the entire credit card database against the Underground’s collection of databases to cull a match.

In this case, the blackmail would likely be routine. He’d already infected the playwright’s computer with a custom tracker rootkit that logged and transmitted a daily report showing how long each page was looked at, how many times – a play by play of the sick obsession. With those reports he would extract one hundred thousand euro for not presenting the facts to the playwright’s wife of nine years... or to the papers. For an additional fee he offered the bonus plan: destruction of the server’s records incriminating him. Most took the option, which meant an added ten thousand euro for a minute’s work. That he would later release copies of the records anyway was something he kept strictly to himself.

He drew deeply from his pipe. Karma can be a bitch.

Outside, car horns erupted just as an email arrived from Crosstalk. He arched his brows and blew a thin plume of smoke, noting the synchronicity.

Two years ago a set of jpegs from Crosstalk netted them half a million euro. The images of a Dutch parliament member engaged in illicit sex with a youth had been taken with his knowledge though obviously a trust had been betrayed. The extortion went flawlessly with the help of an intermediary in Arnhem. There had been very little contact from him since. A couple of false starts on jobs that didn’t pan out. Crosstalk always worked the big ones.

He again pulled deep from the pipe. The email was encrypted as it had arrived from the Underground’s Magistrate system. Using Crosstalk’s private key, he opened it to reveal an Alcazar link and a single paragraph.

THEY ARE TRACKING ME RIGHT NOW THEY HAVE ME I AM DEAD TONIGHT. THEY ARE ON THE GROUND AND IN PEOPLES MINDS DON’T LET THEM FIND WHO YOU ARE!! GET THIS AND RUN NOW ZERO RIGHT NOW GO LOW FAST BUT FIND A WAY TO LET IT OUT. LET THEM HAVE IT!! MAKE IT COUNT!!!! I WAS DARREN BLYTHE ENGLAND, HCS. REMEMBER STATEN-GENERAAL.

High was suddenly almost too high. He read the paragraph once more in disbelief. That Crosstalk used his real name was almost as surprising as the message itself. Go low. To run, to disappear. Not a warning given lightly. The link would kick off a download from Alcazar, the Underground’s secure storage network.

“Seriously?”

Almost ten minutes left on the mp3 dump to the Thai client. He clicked the link to start the Alcazar download. Forty chunks. It could take twice as long as the Thai download.

Run now Zero right now go low fast.

“Fuck.”

# # #

Up in the shop the music faded and Sam interrupted.

“INCOMING CALL FROM LISA DELANGER OF THE CANADIAN TOURISM COMMISSION.”

“Here she is.” Austin pressed a button on his headset to connect and winked at Kaiya curled up on the recliner. She had slipped into one of his paint-splattered t-shirts.

The Canadian admin required minimal prompting before producing the next hop: a backbone router for a large telco in New Jersey. With thanks and a promise to let her know how the chase ended, he signed off and dialed the network operations center contact listed for the telecom. A bored voice answered the phone in Jersey.

“Austin Bakken here from InterGen California. Your gw08 router is being used right now by a hacker to stream his data. If you could do me a huge favor and just check where those packets are headed to? I’m trying to track him and–”

“Ah shit...” The voice was suddenly more awake.

“— I’m hoping you can help. The packets are inbound from–” he rattled off the IP address of the Canadian hop, “–and can’t be missed, there’s a ton of ‘em.”

Keyboard clatter mixed with a string of cuss words. “Okay, got them.”

“Them?”

“Two destinations. Hang on. One’s Thailand. The other... Germany. The load’s going to Thailand and your hacker’s in Europe. Or using Europe anyway. I’m going to have to shut this down–”

He asked him to wait. “I need another ten or twenty minutes to track.”

He got ten minutes so he sent Matt chasing the Thailand server. The real trace was through the router in Germany to the hacker. A lookup showed a website and email hosted off the address, the domain registered to a brewery. He phoned internationally to the technical contact, someone named Andreas Bietl. An assistant informed he wasn’t available.

When would he return? It was lunchtime, maybe an hour. Could he type a few commands at the router in question? No, he wasn’t authorized to but would take a message.

A sudden dead end in the grab for the hacker.

# # #

One of Johan’s cells rang.

“Ja?”

“Nosy admin called from InterGen in America trying to track you. I brushed him off but Andreas may have to deal with him. What are you up to now?”

The InterGen job blown? If nothing else was truly wrong, that certainly was.

“Just a dump of music and porn. I have other things to concern me right now, but please thank Andreas, and thank you.”

“Be careful where you are poking around, Drehen! We can only allow your streams if you conceal yourself well.”

“Ja, ja, the transfer is over in moments. I will route the interface to avoid your path. My apologies. Guten tag.”

The last of his clothes went into a suitcase stacked on the luggage dolly. Still a couple of minutes left on the Thailand gig and only twelve of the forty file chunks had come down from Alcazar.

He looked around the studio. Surfaces wiped. Nothing of identity except stray, undocumented DNA. He dismissed the thought that he might be overreacting to an odd email. Survival protocol demanded action. Threat, response. Control ahead of change. He’d be back, but then again... he looked around once more. If not, he’d miss the studio, his home for the past four months.

The mp3 transfer was nearly complete. He walked to the French doors and parted the heavy curtains. Streets reflected the gray skies that drizzled the city. Another in a series of summer storms was due over Rotterdam before nightfall. He rubbed the stubble of his cheeks. Crosstalk’s email crowded his buzz. Possible information, possible bullshit. Even if it were nothing, it was good for drill though he would want an explanation.

A delivery truck laid on its horn. Three teenage girls laughed off the near collision and danced onto the sidewalk. Music from the Italian cafe below sounded faintly. Italia. The beauty, the food, the traditions, and the people. The sense of family. He hadn’t returned since the deVere incident. Instead, he enjoyed lunch and dinner at Cafe Trevi where Marie and Cathrine waited on him with their beautiful accents.

A feeling pressed uncomfortably on his buzz – the feeling it was time to go. Literally, right then. Go. He checked the laptop and found trace warnings from Alcazar. He scrolled through the messages.

“Shit.” Someone had bypassed all safeguards and tracked him.

He canceled the Alcazar download with only fifteen file chunks received and began unplugging gear.

“What the fuck, Crosstalk? What did you grab?”

# # #

A security guard waved Austin’s white BMW through the gates at InterGen just before the Saturday sun rose above the Sierras. He’d arrived early to get a head start on addressing the Crest vulnerability. Rocom had already formed a response team and were ready to work with him.

A sluggish Matt and two other techs looked up from their consoles as he entered the network operations center. The large NORADs showed systems and traffic looking first-rate.

“All quiet, boss.”

“Good. How did the trace to Thailand go?”

“Through that factory in Bangkok to a hosting company that doesn’t honor requests without legal wrapping.”

“Figures. You scanned the other routers?”

He nodded and stood to stretch. “No broken glass, no trace. The alarms are set based on what we know.”

“Good news. Beat it Matt, and thanks for the hard work.”

“Twenty minutes ‘til I can turn back into a pumpkin.”

“Go. These guys will keep an eye on things.”

Matt came over and said in a low voice, “I’m really sorry for not catching the hack.”

“Don’t sweat it. Like my dad always says, ‘A mistake shouldn’t embarrass anyone, but failing to benefit by it should.’ I doubt you’d miss it again.”

“Nope, I sure wouldn’t.”

The hiss of the soda opening coincided with the phone ringing. Austin took a gulp before he answered. It was Andreas Bietl of the brewery in Germany, speaking in thickly accented English.

“I am returning your call. How may I help you?”

He explained the intrusion at InterGen and the trace back to their brewery. “I was hoping you might have logs for that router and would allow me to analyze them, or perhaps you have a technical person I could talk with.”

There was a pause. “Log files? Hackers? I know nothing of these things. My consultant keeps our network secure. It is unfortunate that your security was breached but I cannot help with what you ask. We have no logs.”

From not knowing what a log file was to knowing he didn’t have any. This would go nowhere. He couldn’t help responding tightly. “If your consultant finds anything pertaining to this matter, please do have him contact me. I will send my information.”

“Of course.”

“Thank you.” He ended the call with a thump on the desk. Kaiya’s words echoed. Owned by a hacker, babe. Not good.

No, not good at all.

Just in case, he fired off his contact information to the German bullshitter before getting on the phone with Rocom to help isolate the Crest vulnerability.