Chrysalis

8

At a few minutes before ten the next morning, Logan sat in his office — suite, actually — not far from Claire Asperton’s own private hidey-hole. The sun had not yet risen above the eastern ridgeline, and the landscape beyond the window was veiled in mysterious shadow. Directly below him was one of the four massive skyways, running from the central spire out to the Torus. As he watched, a helicopter came in for a landing on a helipad atop the massive western spoke.

His gaze drifted up the flank of the Torus itself, toward where the works of man ended and nature reasserted itself in dense forest. It amazed him: this vast, ring-shaped technological hive, running completely around the perimeter of the valley. Leaving the Complex unnecessarily was frowned upon, but — from what he’d seen already, walking the concourses and parapets — employees were delighted to be here. Not only was the cuisine varied and excellent, but every form of entertainment one could wish for — from symphonies to rock concerts, vast digital libraries to celebrity lectures, squash courts to climbing walls to bowling alleys — were easily accessible day and night.

He turned back to his desk, where he’d spent the previous day and much of the night familiarizing himself with Chrysalis and Russell Spearman. He’d learned a great deal about both — but nothing that shed light on either Spearman’s death or the mysterious note.

But now, all that had changed. Yesterday, there had been a single folder on his computer desktop; this morning there were two.

Logan had gone to bed feeling relieved there had been no second catastrophe. But he’d been awakened at 4 a.m. by Claire Asperton. Her tight voice still rang in his ears: Jeremy, a rural police department just reported the crash of a private jet. The pilot and sole occupant on the manifest was Pierson Bridger, CEO of AmTex — and a board member of Chrysalis.

He’d been flying from Philly to Hartford when his flight path became erratic. He’d transmitted a final, garbled message, then gone silent. His plane had crashed in a remote section of the Pootatuck State Forest: rescue teams had not found the site until after midnight, and another hour had passed before the body was identified.

An autopsy had been fast-tracked, Asperton told Logan, but was still ongoing. Meanwhile, she’d routed all data she had on Bridger to Logan’s temporary office. There had been no further communication from the mysterious messenger, but it seemed all too likely Bridger was this second “drop” — especially when Asperton informed Logan that Bridger, like Spearman, was a member of the Chrysalis board.

He turned from the folders to the computer screen. Spearman. Bridger. His investigation could begin in earnest now, starting with a search for any commonality between the two men.

The computer came awake immediately, the display showing a menu busy with options. Speaking the name of an option allowed his Venture unit to control the menu system. More than that, his Venture seemed to have grown more perceptive, guessing his commands and affording him access to a remarkably comprehensive data library, covering not only Chrysalis and its history but just about any other fact or document imaginable.

In retrospect, he was secretly relieved he’d had the previous afternoon and evening to familiarize himself with the place and its operations, uninterrupted. Because boot camp was clearly over… and he was on the front lines.

“Pythia, please display personnel folders for J. Russell Spearman and Pierson Bridger.” Almost instantaneously, the two encrypted folder icons opened. My fourth-grade librarian, old Miss Pew, would have traded her maidenhood for magic like this, he thought. One of the folders — Spearman’s — he’d already examined. But now, with the death of Bridger, it had taken on a new meaning entirely.

Two deaths, unrelated save for their connection to Chrysalis. Was the threat in that cryptic note credible? What could be the motivation? With so little to go on, it posed a riddle as difficult to solve as the Riemann hypothesis; the “lonely runner” conjecture; Linear A.

Logan lined the folders up on the desktop and, for the next hour, buried himself in them.

It was an arduous slog. Pathology and toxicology tests weren’t in yet on Bridger, although they were due soon. Spearman had certain well-known psychological issues — a narcissistic mood disorder, obsession that manifested in constant insistence on perfection — but if anything, these had been integral to his success, and would not account for falling through a glass table. Logan had already requested Asperton to — beyond the standard metabolic and toxicological panels — run as many special assays as the condition of the bodies allowed: “full-30” heavy metal tests, volatile scan panels. Asperton objected this would take at least ten days, well past the scheduled Voyager rollout; Logan had been polite, but persistent.

Bridger, aged fifty-four, had IBD, but kept it under control with diet and exercise. The condition itself was mild and posed little danger of developing into something like Crohn’s disease. No history of serious injuries except a torn knee a decade before. His psych evals were clean — unusually so for a high-performing executive.

Logan pushed the files to one side of his screen. Both men had apparently been in good overall health, given their ages and genetics.

Time for somebody — or something — else to do the work. “Pythia,” he said to his Venture device, “please reconfigure all personal biographical records on Russell Spearman and Pierson Bridger so I can review them side by side for similarities.”

He sat back in his chair while a great deal of data — some on the screen, some already converted to Omega-ready 3D — streamed past his gaze. Other than the fact that Spearman seemed a thoroughly unpleasant person, with more than his share of divorces and wrecked competitors, there was nothing that stood out. Nor with Bridger.

He forced himself to sit up. “Pythia,” he said, “please run a query to determine when both subjects were together — same times, same locations.”

Another set of data ballooned on the screen. A gala at the Waldorf, seven years ago, to welcome Spearman to the board. A ribbon-cutting ceremony for the Torus, four years ago. A symposium on the role of private industry in government defense…

“Scroll forward,” Logan said. “Display last calendar year only.”

He rubbed his eyes, then watched as another list scrolled past. Harvard reunion for alumni of extraordinary achievement; award recipients at the Institute for…

“Pythia,” Logan said suddenly. “Freeze.”

But this command was superfluous. Pythia had reached the end of the list. The final entry was a board meeting — and a tour of the advanced products division — within the very Complex he now sat in.

Two weeks ago.

He stared at the screen a moment. Then he told his Venture unit to ring Asperton’s private line.

“Jeremy,” came the lawyer’s voice a moment later.

“Did you know that both Spearman and Bridger — not to mention the other members of the board — were here recently?”

“Of course. There’s a meeting every six months—”

“Hold on. Spearman and Bridger were together just two weeks ago.”

“So were the other ten members of the board.”

“I know. That’s what I’m worried about.”

Asperton gave a brief exhalation. “Jeremy, we brought you in because you could bring a unique perspective to this situation—”

“And that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

“Fair enough. But I’ve just come from a briefing with the heads of security and infrastructure, and it’s their opinion that we’re being played. There was nothing in that note to imply Spearman’s death was in any way related to Chrysalis.”

“The note was sent to you… wasn’t it?”

“Yes. It mentioned a death and made a vague reference to some second calamity. But it’s so vague that we can’t jump to conclusions.”

Logan could imagine just what the overly defensive security wonks had told Claire Asperton: what would most fully absolve Chrysalis.

“You know,” Asperton went on, “it’s possible somebody read about Spearman, then went down to the hangar and sabotaged Bridger’s plane. Or maybe the two deaths weren’t even related: Bridger wasn’t especially liked, I understand. Or maybe it was a simple case of engine failure. Why assume it’s murder?”

“I wasn’t the one to bring up murder,” Logan said. “But what makes you sure it wasn’t?”

“While Bridger was in the middle of flying back here? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Wait a minute. Bridger was on his way to the Torus when his plane went down?”

“He was coming back for some special service.”

“Special service? You sound like a garage mechanic.”

A laugh. “He’s got a bad knee. Our medical department gave him a prototype implant that helps with the side effects. Call it a perk of being on the board.”

Logan thought quickly. “So Bridger had an implant — a prototype implant — designed by Chrysalis?”

“Yes: designed by BioCertain, to be precise — one of our subsidiaries.”

“And he was coming back here for what, exactly? A replacement?”

“God, no. We don’t do procedures on-site. You’d have to ask Frank Purchase.”

“Who?”

“Frank Purchase. He heads the implants research division.” Finally, her voice was beginning to show concern. “What are you driving at?”

“I’m looking for any connections whatsoever. If Bridger was coming back because of some implant he had, I’m assuming he talked to this Frank Purchase about it, two weeks ago, to make the necessary arrangements.”

“I suppose so.” A brief silence. “Yes, that’s correct: Bridger did spend fifteen minutes in BioCertain.”

Logan felt a sudden chill. “Did any other board members go off on their own that day? Special consultations or appointments?”

Another brief silence. “No.”

“Not even Spearman?”

“I’m looking at their schedules now, including inbound and outbound flights. Nobody.”

“In that case, I think you need to take me over to BioCertain. And right away, please.”