February 1981 Club Micro-Amat, Rue de la Roquette
The winter of 1981 was harsh. The windows of the apartment on rue de la Roquette were covered with fog, and the only electric radiator struggled to fight the cold that seeped in through the rotten windows. But no one felt the cold. The human heat, that of the machines and the dense smoke of the Gitanes cigarettes created a stifling microclimate.
Lazare was in his usual place, in the background, curled up in his ZX81 that he had brought in a plastic bag to protect it from the rain. He was working on a data compression routine, trying to fit a word dictionary into the 16 KB of his new memory extension (which he had to re-solder three times because it moved).
Suddenly, a scream pierced the hubbub of the keyboards.
"What the hell is this shit?" Is it haunted or what?
It was Doctor Poussin. A cardiologist from the 16th arrondissement, the kind of person who comes to the club in a three-piece suit under his white coat, just to show off with his brand new Apple II Europlus, equipped with two floppy disk drives. A twenty-thousand-franc machine to play Adventure.
Michel, the bearded engineer, got up from his chair with a sigh. "What's going on with you, Doc?" Did you spill your coffee on the keyboard? "No! Look! I boot on my game floppy, and it displays me... a poem!
Lazarus raised his head. A poem? He recorded his work on cassette (three minutes of high-pitched squeaks), unplugged his Sinclair and approached. A small circle had formed around the Apple II. On the green phosphor screen, the text was flashing, taunting the assembly:
Plaintext
ELK CLONER: THE PROGRAM WITH A PERSONALITY
IT WILL GET ON ALL YOUR DISKS
IT WILL INFILTRATE YOUR CHIPS
YES IT'S CLONER!
IT WILL STICK TO YOU LIKE GLUE
IT WILL MODIFY RAM TOO
SEND IN THE CLONER!
The members of the club burst out laughing. "It's a joke," says a science student. It's an Easter Egg. You must have copied a pirated game that contained this. "It's funny," admitted Michel. "It will seep into your fleas." Nice. Restart, Doc.
The doctor turned it off and on again. He inserted another floppy disk. An accounting diskette devoid of any game. The home screen appeared normally. Then, after a few seconds, the poem returned. Michel's laughter died away. "Wait... Did you change your floppy disk? "Yes! It's my accounting disk! I've never put it in a player with games!
A confused silence fell on the group. For them, it was impossible. A program did not jump from one floppy disk to another like a flea from one dog to another. The software was inert. It was dead matter.
Lazarus, on the other hand, did not laugh. He felt an icy shiver run down his spine, much colder than the air of the street. He looked at the green screen. He didn't see a stupid poem written by a California teenager (he knew it was a 15-year-old kid, Rich Skrenta, who had done that). He saw WannaCry. He saw Stuxnet destroying Iranian centrifuges. He saw hospitals blocked, electricity networks cut off, banks erased. He saw biology entering silicon.
"Push yourself," he said.
His voice was so sharp that Doctor Poussin reflexively moved away. Lazarus sat down in front of the Apple II. "Boy, don't touch my accounting..." began the doctor. "Your account is already ruined if you don't let me look," Lazare interrupted. Michel, pass me the disassembler.
For the next two hours, the Micro-Amat club ceased to exist for Lazarus. He entered the machine code of the 6502. He tracked the anomaly sector by sector. He found the beast lodged in the boot area. It was elegant, terrifyingly simple. The virus loaded into memory as soon as it was booted, hid in a corner of the RAM, and intercepted each disk read command. As soon as a new floppy disk was inserted to read its contents, the virus took advantage of the opportunity to copy itself before the user even typed a command.
"It's a disease," whispered Michel, who followed the lines of hexadecimal code over Lazarus' shoulder. It can be replicated. "It's worse than that," Lazarus replied, not taking his eyes off the screen. It's silent. It waits for the fiftieth boot to be displayed. In the meantime, you've infected all your friends.
He turned to the group. The faces had gone from amusement to concern. "Don't trade any more floppy disks tonight." Doc, your floppy disks are contaminated. I can clean the boot sector, but if you forget just one, it starts again.
"You can... can you write something to prevent that?" asked Michel. Lazarus watched the cursor flash. The classic approach would be to look for the signature of the virus (the poem) and erase it. This is what the first commercial antiviruses would do in a few years. It was a dead end. There would soon be millions of viruses. We couldn't know them all.
"No," said Lazarus. I'm not going to write a cleaner. I'm going to write a sentinel.
The night from Saturday to Sunday Club Micro-Amat (He had the keys)
Lazarus had not returned to the orphanage. He had told Sister Marie-Agnès that he was sleeping at a friend's house in high school to revise a physics test. Technically, Michel was a friend, and semiconductor physics was on his life's agenda.
He was alone. He had dismantled the cover of the Apple II. He coded SENTINEL v0.1.
He wasn't looking for the Elk Cloner virus. He didn't care. He wrote a Terminate and Stay Resident program (TSR) that sat very high in memory and hijacked disk write interruptions. The principle was universal: If a program tries to write to the boot sector (track 0, sector 0) without the user's explicit permission, BLOCK and RING.
It was behavioral detection. This was the principle of immunology: we don't try to find out who the intruder is, we try to find out what he does that is dangerous.
Around 4 a.m., he tested. He launched SENTINEL. Then he inserted Doctor Poussin's infected floppy disk and tried to start it. The Apple II emitted a shrill beep . The screen flashed red (well, flashing gray on monochrome). A message appeared: ALERT: ILLEGAL WRITE ATTEMPT ON SECTOR 0. ACTIVE BLOCKING.
Lazarus leaned back in his chair, exhausted. He had a headache, this old friend the migraine that came back as soon as he pushed too hard. He massaged her temples. He had just created the first heuristic resident antivirus in history. He knew that Symantec and McAfee would not do better for five or six years.
He took out a blank floppy disk. He copied his source program there. He wrote on the label in black marker: SENTINEL - PROPERTY OF L. BONAPARTE. He put the floppy disk in his pocket, against his heart. It was his first patent. His first weapon.
March 1981 Louvre Central Post Office
Lazare had typed the article on the typewriter of the orphanage secretariat, taking advantage of the secretary's absence on Wednesday lunchtime. The title was sober, almost academic: "Anatomy of a Self-Replicating Threat: Towards a Software Pathology".
He didn't send it to Soft & Micro. Darlan would have found it "too technical" and "not fun enough". He targeted Micro-Systèmes. It was the magazine that engineers from Bull, Thomson and INRIA read. In the article, he described the mechanism of infection of the boot sector and proposed the theory of "behavioral surveillance" as the only viable long-term solution. He did not give the source code of SENTINEL. He gave the concept. He signed: Lazare Bonaparte, Independent Researcher.
He slipped the kraft envelope into the yellow slit. He knew what was going to happen. The academics were going to read that. Some would sneer ("A pathology of the software? What arrogance"). Others, the most brilliant, were going to understand that they had just read the future.
Three weeks later, the answer arrived at the orphanage. A letter on Micro-Systèmes' letterhead, accompanied by a cheque for 1,500 francs. It was a colossal sum for a four-page article. The editor-in-chief had added a handwritten note: "Mr. Bonaparte, your paper has caused a great stir in the reading committee. It's brilliant and scary. A certain Professor L. from INRIA contacted us to get your contact details. We have not given them away without your consent. Give us a call. »
Lazarus read the note in the courtyard of the orphanage, under the old chestnut tree. He smiles. He would not call back. Not right away. Let the mystery thicken. To let people imagine that he was an emeritus professor who wrote under a pseudonym, and not a 17-year-old kid who wore sneakers with holes.
June 1981 Dormitory Room
The euphoria had subsided. What remained was the material reality. Lazare had 1,500 francs from the magazine + 400 francs of remaining savings. Almost 2,000 francs. It was a lot. And it was ridiculous.
On his bed, his ZX81 was open, its insides exposed. He had soldered a DIY memory extension, added a mechanical recovery keyboard that he had wired wire by wire. The machine looked like Frankenstein's monster. And it was saturated. As soon as it tried to load somewhat complex databases or simulate neural networks (even simplistic ones on 3 layers), the Z80 collapsed. The memory was full. The processor was heating up.
He needed an IBM PC. The machine had just been released in the United States the year before and was arriving in Europe. Intel 8088 16-bit processor. 64 KB of expandable RAM. Expansion slots for storing business cards. The price: about 25,000 francs with the screen and the readers.
Lazare looked at his 2,000 francs. He was 10% of the way through. At this rate, by writing one article per month, it would take him a year to afford the machine. In IT, a year is an eternity.
He took his spiral notebook, the one he hid under his mattress. He opened it to the last pages. It wasn't code. They were numbers. Since January, he had been recording the rate of the dollar against the franc and the price of an ounce of gold every week. He was comparing with his memory. January Prediction: Dollar rises to 4.80 F. Reality: 4.82 F. March Prediction: US key rates rise to 19%. Reality: 19.5%. June prediction: Mitterrand elected, stock market panic, the Franc falls. Reality: The franc has fallen.
He had it all. He knew macroeconomic trends by heart. He knew that the dollar was going to soar under Reagan to reach absurd heights in 1985 (almost 10 francs!). If he could buy dollars now, with leverage, he would be rich in two years.
But to speculate, a securities account was needed. You had to be of age. It needed start-up capital that banks would never lend to an orphan. He had the treasure map, but he didn't have a shovel.
He threw the notebook against the wall in a gesture of pure rage, rare in him. The noise startled Thomas, who was reading a comic book. "Yes," said Lazarus, rising to pick up the notebook. It's going very well. I just can't wait to turn eighteen.
He smoothed the crumpled page. Patience. Patience was a weapon. First, get out of here. First, academic excellence. The Baccalaureate was approaching. It was an administrative formality, a stamp to be obtained in order to have the right to play in the big leagues.
"Are you studying for the Baccalaureate?" asked Thomas. Lazarus looked at his financial equations. "No. I am revising for the post-war period.
June 1982 Examination Centre, Lycée Rodin, Paris 13th
The heat in the classroom was stifling. A heavy, stormy heat, typical of a Parisian June that doesn't know if it wants to be summer or autumn. The windows were wide open, letting in the distant noise of the traffic of the Boulevard Arago.
Lazarus was seated in seat B-14. In front of him, the exam sheet for the Baccalaureate in Mathematics, series C. The queen test. Four hours. Coefficient 5. The justice of the peace for an entire generation.
He read the statement. Exercise 1: Complex numbers and geometric transformations. Exercise 2: Arithmetic. Problem: Study of a logarithmic function and integral calculus.
He put down his pen. He looked around him. The other candidates were swimming. Some chewed on their pens frantically. Others stared at the ceiling, glazed eyes, looking for a forgotten formula. He could feel their stress. It was an acidic, primal smell. For them, it was the most important moment of their lives. Their future was played out on these complete works.
For Lazare, it was an administrative formality. A CAPTCHA. "Prove you're not a robot."
He began to write. He did not use a draft. It was a waste of time. His mind projected the solution onto the blank page, he just had to go over it again with the blue ink. His hand ran over the paper, tracing the mathematical symbols with surgical precision. No erasures. No hesitation. He demonstrated the properties of complex numbers. He folded the arithmetic into six lines. He derived the function, found his limits, drew his table of variation mentally, and wrote the conclusion.
After forty-five minutes, he put down his pen. He read it again. It was perfect. It was even too perfect. He hesitated to add an error, just to sound human. No. Not today. Let's get it over with.
He rose. The sound of his chair scraping the floor startled three rows of students. He walked to the overseers' office. A lady in her fifties was knitting, watching the room over her glasses. She saw him arrive with his copy. She whispered, "Are you going to the bathroom?" "No. I'm done.
Her eyes widened. She looked at the clock on the wall. 08:50. The event had started at 08:00. "Young man, you cannot make a blank copy. This is the Baccalaureate. At least try to—" "It's not white, madame."
He placed the copy on the empty pile. She saw the dense, regular writing, the pages filled. She looked at him as if he had just planted a bomb. "Are you sure?" Don't want to proofread? You have three and a quarter hours left. "Keep them for those who need them."
He signed the signature sheet. He went out. In the schoolyard, the air was a little cooler. He was alone. The silence of the empty courtyard was soothing. He sat down on a bench, closed his eyes, and listened to the noise of the city. He had just killed the teenager. He was only waiting for the death certificate.
July 1982 Office of the Mother Superior
The results were in the same morning. Displayed on the school gates. Lazarus had not gone to see. It was Thomas who had come running back, short of breath, shouting in the corridor: "Honors! Congratulations! You're a monster, Lazarus! »
Now he was sitting opposite Sister Marie-Agnes. There was a suitcase lying near the door. A real leather suitcase, not a sports bag. He had bought it at the Vanves flea market.
The Mother Superior held a thick kraft envelope. His hands trembled slightly. "Louis the Great," she said softly. The boarding school. You are leaving us for good. "It is time, Mother." "You know, when you were dropped off here in '64... You were so small. So angry. I have often wondered what would become of you. I thought... (she chuckled sadly) I thought you'd end up as a gang leader or a general. "One does not prevent the other."
She smiled, but her eyes were bright. She handed him the envelope. "Here is your nest egg." This is the money that the state sets aside for wards. Plus your magazine checks that I kept. There are three thousand two hundred francs. That's a lot of money for an eighteen-year-old boy. Make good use of it.
Lazarus took the envelope. He felt the weight of the paper. It wasn't just money. It was his freedom. "I am not going to spend it, Mother." I'm going to invest it. "I have no doubt of it.
He rose. There was a moment of hesitation. In a normal family, there would have been an embrace, tears. Here, there was this respectful distance, this modesty of institutions. Lazarus took a step towards her. He laid his hand on that of the old nun. Her skin was cold, parchment. "Thank you," he said. You gave me a roof over my head and left me alone when I needed it. It was the best gift.
She squeezed her hand briefly, then pulled it away as if she had burned herself. "Go, run." Before I got sentimental. And... write to us. Not to ask for money. Just to say that you are alive. "I'll do better than that." One day, I will come back. And I will have the roof of the north wing redone. She has been on the run since 1978.
She burst out laughing, a frank laugh that chased away the emotion. "That's it, Bonaparte. Go and conquer your empire. And don't forget to put on a scarf in winter.
He took his suitcase. He didn't turn around in the hallway. He didn't want to keep the image of the orphanage. He wanted to keep the image of the door open.
September 1982 Lycée Louis-le-Grand, Paris 5th Boarding School of Preparatory Classes
The room looked like a monk's cell, and it was perfect. A narrow bed, a dark wood desk, a metal wardrobe, a sink. Four square meters of personal space. Absolute luxury after fifteen years in a collective dormitory.
Lazarus placed his books on the shelf. Landau & Lifshitz for physics. Ramis & Deschamps for maths. The Mole Bibles. He opened the window. He had a view of the rooftops of Paris and the nearby Pantheon. Great men. The grateful homeland.
There was a knock at the door. A boy stuck his head out. Blonde, Lacoste polo shirt, tasselled loafers. The uniform of the bourgeoisie of western Paris. "Hello. I'm Hubert. Hubert de La Rochefoucauld. I'm in the next room. Shall we have a drink at the Saint-Hilaire with the others? Just to see who the competitors are.
Lazarus looked at him. He scanned the profile. A rich family, a private preparatory school before arriving here, self-confidence inherited from five centuries of nobility. Hubert would be an excellent engineer, a decent manager, but he would never change the world. He had too much to lose. "No thanks," said Lazare. I have to settle down. "You're wild. Don't worry, we're all in the same boat. Maths Sup is hell, it seems. We have to stick together. "I have not come for hell, Hubert. I came for l'X.
Hubert gave a nervous chuckle. — Ambitious. I like that. See you tomorrow, in class. Get ready, the math teacher, Mr. Vernier, is a sadist.
The next day, 8:00 a.m. Amphitheatre. Mr. Vernier was a small, dry man who walked up and down the platform like a predator in a cage. He didn't say hello. He took a piece of chalk and wrote on the board:
Let E be a finite-dimensional vector space n...
He posed a complex linear algebra problem, involving nilpotent endomorphisms. "You have ten minutes," he barked. It's a level test. Those who can't find the solution should consider a career in shoe sales.
Dead silence fell in the room. We could hear the brains overheating. Hubert, two rows ahead, wrote frantically, crossed out, began again. Lazarus looked at the painting. He saw the structure of the matrix. He saw the flaw. It was a classic of the 70s. The solution was in three lines if we went through the minimal polynomial.
He crossed his arms. He wrote nothing. He looked at Vernier. Vernier looked at the room with a cruel smile on his lips. His eyes rested on Lazarus, the only motionless student. "Here. Has the back of the class already given up? Sir...? — Bonaparte. "Monsieur Bonaparte." Have you given up? "No, sir." I have resolved. "Ah? Without writing? Are you a soothsayer? "No. It's trivial. The polynomial is X to the power of n. The endomorphism is zero at the order n. The nucleus is of strict increasing size.
Vernier froze. He narrowed his eyes. That was the right answer. The elegant answer. "Come and write it." "Not worth it. You know that's right.
A murmur ran through the lecture hall. No one spoke like that in Vernier. The teacher held Lazare's gaze for five long seconds. He was looking for arrogance. He found only polite fatigue. — ... Very well. Do not be insolent, Bonaparte. Being right does not exempt you from modesty.
He turned around and erased the painting. Hubert turned to Lazarus with his mouth open. Lazarus opened his notebook. He did not grade the course. He designed the architecture of a 32-bit shift register. School was going to be a long wait.
24 October 1982 Institut National de la Propriété Industrielle (INPI), Paris 8th
It was his eighteenth birthday. He had not celebrated it with anyone. He had given himself a gift much more precious than a cake.
He was at counter 4. The employee, a bored-looking woman, stamped forms with metronomic regularity. "Complete file?" she asked, without looking up. — Complete. Technical form, claims, abstract, deposit cheque.
He slipped the cardboard folder under the glass. On the first page, the title: PATENT OF INVENTION. TITLE: SYSTEM AND METHOD FOR HEURISTIC DETECTION OF CODE ALTERATIONS EXECUTABLE IN RAM. DEPONENT: Lazare BONAPARTE.
The employee checked the check. Eight hundred francs. A large part of its remaining capital. "Is it IT?" she sighed. We have more and more of them. It's complicated to classify. It's going in class G06F..." "File it wherever you want," said Lazarus. As long as the date is stamped.
She gave the stamp blow. CLAC. 24 OCT 1982.
She handed him the receipt. "That's it. You will receive the preliminary research report in six to nine months. Next.
Lazarus took the pink paper. He folded it neatly and put it in his wallet. He left the building on Leningrad Street. It was still raining. Paris was still grey. But for Lazarus, the city had changed its texture. He was no longer a ward. He was no longer a miner. He was the exclusive owner of a technology that, in ten years, would be installed on every computer on the planet. He had laid the first mine in the economic battlefield. He just had to wait for the world to step on it.
He pulled up the collar of his coat. He was hungry. He would like to treat himself to a steak and fries in the Latin Quarter. This evening the Architect dined alone, but he dined as a victor.