Note: This story was dynamically reformatted for online reading convenience.
 
 The Pen Test by Alison Whitehead (c) 2003
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   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 Angoulême.  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.