Andy Weir
RANDOMIZE
Edwin Rutledge looked out his windows to the sprawling Las Vegas Strip beyond. His office atop the Babylon Hotel and Casino was the definition of opulence. Italian leather couches surrounded a tasteful glass coffee table. Guests had no idea they were sitting in seats worth more than a typical car. But in a city of extreme displays, silent quality appealed to Rutledge more than a neon sign saying I’M IMPORTANT.
Still, some demonstration of status was needed. Mahogany bookshelves and curio cabinets stood on fine Persian rugs. His antique walnut desk backed up against a stunning view of the cityscape.
“Sir,” came his secretary’s voice through the intercom. “The IT person is here.”
He adjusted his diamond cuff links and pressed the intercom button. “Send them in.”
The double doors opened, and an uncomfortable-looking man shuffled in. He looked more like a customer of the casino than an employee. Ill-fitting jeans, a T-shirt with a Star Wars reference on it (or maybe Star Trek—Rutledge could never tell the difference), tennis shoes, and absolutely no effort put into controlling his wild hair.
Rutledge gestured to the leather chair facing his desk. “Have a seat.”
The man nodded awkwardly and sat down. He looked for all the world like a child who had been called to the principal’s office.
“So, Mr. Chen—”
“Nick,” he interrupted.
“Sorry?”
“Call me Nick.”
“Ah,” said Rutledge. “Mr. Chen, please tell me why my keno lounge is off-line.”
“Okay, so what happened is—”
“The keno lounge makes the Babylon two hundred thousand dollars a day,” Rutledge interrupted.
“Yeah, but—”
“And you turned it off. So you, personally, have cost us two hundred thousand dollars today.”
Chen scowled. “No, I saved you millions.”
Rutledge raised an eyebrow.
“Have you heard of quantum computing?”
“I see it on the news from time to time.”
“The past few years have had major advances. Noise reduction is solved, coherence protection is damn near perfect, and long-term state management can keep a qbit safe for months. But today is special. Today, QuanaTech’s new Model 707 hits the market. It’s a total game changer. It’s a 1,024-qbit system, with a 512-qbit long-term memory capability. And we’re talking logical qbits, not just physical—”
“I’m going to stop you right there,” said Rutledge. “None of that has any meaning to me, and it has no bearing on keno.”
Chen balled his fists. “Yes, it does. And I’ve been trying to warn people about it for months. But your stupid upper managers just keep ignoring me. So I used my override passwords to shut everything down.”
“Turn it all back on.”
“Look, I’m trying to protect you. If you want the keno system back on, no problem. I’ll log in from your computer right here and bring you to the main control page. I’ll even tell you what button to click. But you’ll be the one to click it. Not me. I won’t be responsible.”
Rutledge held up a hand. “All right, Mr. Chen. Obviously this is something you’re passionate about. Calm yourself and explain.”
Chen took a frustrated breath and let it out again. “Okay, yeah.”
“Quantum computing is a totally different animal than normal computing,” he began. “It takes advantage of weird quantum physics properties like superposition and entanglement to solve math problems. It’s usually way slower than normal computers at math, but for some problems, it’s exponentially faster.”
Rutledge nodded. Best to let the man say his piece, even if it seemed irrelevant.
“What do you know about random-number generators?” Chen asked.
“Nothing.”
“Seriously?”
“My job is to own and run this casino. I’m not arrogant enough to think I can understand every detail of its operation. I hire experts like you to handle specific areas. I expect you to know it.”
“Okay, fair enough. Here’s the thing: There’s no such thing as an actual random-number generator. Computers create pseudorandom numbers.”
“What’s the difference?”
“Pseudorandom numbers are made with a complicated math formula. You plug one number in—called the seed, or the starting point, for the mathematical formula—and you get a sequence of seemingly random numbers out. The formula has exponentiation and remainders and all sorts of other stuff to make it non-reverse-engineerable.”
Rutledge wiped a small blemish off his class ring. “Okay, that makes sense. If you give the generator the same seed, will it give the same sequence of numbers again?”
Chen pointed at him. “Yes, exactly! And that’s the problem.”
“This system has been in place for decades with no issues.”
“The problem is quantum computers. Remember how I said the formula can’t be reversed by knowing the outputs? Well, that’s not quite true. It’s not reversible with traditional CPUs—it would take all of Earth’s computers centuries to check every seed value. But quantum computers use a different approach. They sort of”—he waved his hands around—“try all possible values at once, then collapse to the solution. It’s complicated. Long story short: they’re very good at finding solutions to problems like this.”
“Hmm, I see,” said Rutledge. “If someone were to do this, would they be able to predict the numbers the keno machine creates?”
“Yes,” Chen said. “With the QuanaTech 707 available to consumers now, I had to shut down the keno lounge. Scammers are probably working on random-seed crackers as we speak. It’s only a matter of time.”
Rutledge stood and walked over to the wet bar behind his desk. “This is an interesting problem. One entirely new to the gambling industry. Can I mix you a drink?”
“Uh, no thanks.”
“Mm.” He never trusted nondrinkers. They either didn’t know how to enjoy life or they were self-righteous. Either way meant they were difficult to work with. He added ice, rum, lime juice, and simple syrup to a shaker. “Do you have a solution?”
“Yes, sir. But it’s expensive.”
He poured the drink into a cocktail glass and took a sip. Nothing like a good daiquiri. A real daiquiri—mixed over ice and served neat, not blended into slush like a 7-Eleven Slurpee. “What’s your plan?”
A twinkle in Chen’s eyes. “We fight quantum with quantum. I need one of those QuanaTechs. I can write software on it to generate random numbers. Genuinely random numbers. Quantum physics is the random-number generator of the universe. They would be completely impervious to pattern reversal because there is no pattern.”
“How much does one of these computers cost?”
Chen drew back a bit. “Three hundred thousand dollars, plus a few expenses to get it set up and running. I know it’s a lot, but—”
“Is that all?” Rutledge said. “Sure. Let’s do it.”
“Wow!” Chen said. “I mean… I didn’t expect you to say yes so fast.”
Rutledge shrugged. “I’d be an idiot to ignore my own IT department.”
“Oh man, this is going to be so cool.” Chen grinned. “I mean—I don’t want to sound unprofessional, but wow! I get to play with my own quantum computer. That’s, like, a dream come true!”
“I’m glad you’re happy. How long until the keno lounge is back online?”
Chen looked up in thought. “I spoke to the people at QuanaTech; they send a person out to help set it up. If we ordered today, and asked for it to be expedited, the computer could be here and basically set up in two days. A random-number generator in quantum logic is incredibly simple to make—I could finish that in an hour. Hardwiring it to the keno system… I think three days total ought to do it.”