Chrysalis

9

“The entire morning was taken up with group business,” Claire Asperton told Logan as they descended the elevator. “Nothing out of the ordinary — balance sheets, growth predictions, and so forth. Then they had lunch before heading out for an update on Omega Two.”

The doors opened onto a large, high-ceilinged sky lobby — what seemed a common architectural feature — and Asperton led the way along what Logan soon realized was one of the massive spokes that led out, in ordinal directions, from the central spire to the Torus itself. They were on the highest level of the skyway, judging by the semicircle of glass overhead, affording spectacular views. As usual, they were surrounded by workers walking alone or in small groups, badges of various colors displayed on their casual attire or lab coats. Several seemed surprised to see Asperton among the hoi polloi, and a few others evidently recognized Logan, and they were given a deferentially wide berth.

“I’m no industrial designer,” Logan said, “but I’m guessing the Tower is where all the corporate and administrative offices are housed — along with residential and leisure facilities — and the Torus is where the actual work takes place.”

“That’s basically accurate. The Torus is divided into eight discrete sections — arcs — each devoted to the R&D division of a Chrysalis subsidiary. They’re labeled A through G.”

“A through G. Seems pretty banal.”

“Nobody could think of anything better. Can you?”

Logan thought a moment. “The eight flavors of schizophrenia. The eight different cancers currently detectable by a DNA test.”

“I’m not sure that would go down well.” She paused, apparently listening to the small device cradled over her ear. “The prelims on Bridger’s autopsy are in.”

“And?”

“Nothing unusual. No traces of suspicious drugs in his system, and nothing to indicate a stroke, SDS, or any other cardiac death.” She paused to listen again. “The body was in poor condition, and we fast-tracked that autopsy just to learn the cause of death was nonspecific.”

Other than crashing into the ground at three hundred miles an hour. “How about mechanical failure?”

“It’s possible. They’re looking into it. But the plane was state-of-the-art and scrupulously maintained, and just passed an annual inspection last week. The preflight check was exhaustive, I understand — it seems Bridger was a stickler about that.”

Logan knew the answer to his next question, but asked it anyway. “Any psychiatric issues?”

“You’ve seen the files. Nothing relevant. Neither of them presented with any depression or suicidal ideation — especially not Spearman, with that ego of his.”

They had now reached the point where the northern skyway intersected the curve of the Torus. Asperton led them down an escalator, threaded her way briefly through a crowded sky lobby, larger than the ones Logan had seen in the spire, then guided them onto a people mover that protruded slightly from the inner flank of the Torus — probably to improve its views, Logan realized. It was surrounded by a cradle of tinted glass, and now he recalled seeing it from his suite: running laterally along the Torus like the mud vein of an endless, circular shrimp.

“We’re headed for B,” Asperton said. “That’s where the labs, think tanks, and segmented area of BioCertain is located.”

“The pharmacological division?”

Asperton shook her head. “You’re thinking of Carewell Pharmaceuticals. BioCertain develops medical hardware: everything from surgical lasers to lithium CFx pacemakers to small-footprint hyperbaric chambers.”

She guided Logan off the people mover and onto the main concourse, which curved on gently ahead of them. To the left were windows facing the spire; to the right was the bulk of the Torus, where the labs and offices were housed and all the proprietary work performed. Its walls were punctuated here and there by windows — some clear, some smoked — and doors equipped with security scanners. There was a plaza nearby, with couches and tables and a bustling food court. Logan guessed this was a natural division between Arc B — their destination — and whatever mysteries were contained in A, which they’d just hurried past.

“The rest of the board went somewhere else before visiting the Omega division?” he asked.

Asperton nodded. “Agrinox. Some very interesting things are happening there, like an organic manure hybrid that repels pests. We’re taking it to market in just over a month, by the way.”

“Hell, I’d knock people over in my hurry to see that, too.”

Asperton shot him a disapproving look. “Several of our board members represent companies with interests in crop production, livestock, or similar agribusiness.”

She stopped at a large door, pressed her hand against a palm analyzer, and it opened onto a wide, sterile-looking hallway, with a female receptionist-cum — security guard seated to one side. Ahead, Logan could hear the chatter of conversation and the hum of light machinery.

The receptionist stood when she saw Asperton enter; they exchanged a few words, and then the woman spoke into her Omega device — which, like all the rest here, looked different from Logan’s. Within sixty seconds, a tall, thin man of about forty emerged from a door near the end of the hallway and strode purposefully toward them. He had reddish hair and, as he drew nearer, Logan saw that his eyes were of a piercing blue shade.

“Ms. Asperton,” he said, shaking the lawyer’s hand. “I’ve been expecting you.”

“Dr. Purchase — Frank — thanks for taking the time on such short notice.” She turned to Logan. “Frank, this is Jeremy Logan. He’s doing some data analysis for us on the corporate level — streamlining resources… you know the kind of thing.”

Dr. Purchase did, apparently, know the kind of thing: Logan was a moneyman, out to cut jobs and expenses. Purchase’s attitude, already friendly, now became faintly deferential. Luckily, it seemed he hadn’t heard of Logan; in retrospect, Logan realized, it might have been better if they’d given him a new name to go along with this phony position at Chrysalis.

Purchase opened a nearby door that gave onto a small conference room, and they all took seats around the lone table. “We won’t take up much of your time,” Asperton said. “We understand Piers Bridger is on his way back — to see you, I believe.”

“Yes, that’s correct. We’ve blocked out an hour in one of the labs for four p.m. this afternoon.”

Logan had to admit this was masterful: it put Purchase, a big deal in BioCertain, in the spotlight. He’d be too concerned wondering if he’d made some faux pas to ask questions of his own. Asperton spent a moment fussing with her tablet and smoothing down her skirt. Logan realized that, if Purchase knew Bridger was already dead, he’d obviously be talking about it right now… instead of the visit scheduled for late afternoon. Apparently, it was too early for the news to have spread — or perhaps, Chrysalis had controlled access to it in here, within the Complex. Either way, the head of Implants Research was in for a nasty surprise.

“And this was the outgrowth of a conversation you had with him after the recent board meeting?”

Purchase nodded. “He and the rest of the board were on a tight schedule. I showed him mock-ups of our latest devices.”

Logan nodded. “And that’s all?”

“No.” Purchase ran a hand through his red hair. “He seemed fascinated by medical technology — perhaps because of his own implant. I also showed him the line.”

“The line?”

“Yes, the production line. Not directly, of course — it’s deep in a class-one-hundred clean room — but I took him to an observation gallery with a video feed.”

“BioCertain is one of two areas in the Torus that not only does the technical development, but also the manufacturing of certain products,” Asperton explained. “Like MMDs.”

Logan gave her a questioning look.

“Mobile medical devices — drug infusion products for people with compromised immune systems. Neurostimulation systems for chronic pain. Therapeutic and diagnostic, external or subdermal, worn twenty-four/seven.”

“We’re constantly improving our medication delivery systems for common conditions like high blood pressure,” Purchase said. “Very useful for dementia patients as well, who can’t be relied on to take their meds. Bridger’s own knee condition makes a good example.”

“Tell me more about that, if you wouldn’t mind,” said Logan.

“Certainly. He suffered from crepitus.”

Logan had heard of many exotic ailments, but not this one. The file had mentioned only IBS and a torn knee. “Excuse me?”

“It’s a condition of the knee joint where movement causes significant pain and frequent swelling. In Bridger’s case, it started ten years ago, when he fell chasing his dog down a muddy embankment. He’s done PT to strengthen the muscles surrounding the joint, but with post-traumatic osteoarthritis like his that can only go so far. He tried wearing a knee brace, but disliked it — interfered with his flying, he said. Ambutrexine, one of Carewell’s newer meds — fresh out of trials — ultimately did the trick.”

“Can you tell me a little more about this med?” Logan asked.

Purchase hemmed and hawed. “I can tell you they used methotrexate as a foundation, given how the other common base drug used for the condition has a higher incidence of adverse side effects.”

Logan opened his mouth to ask a question, decided against it.

“Bridger said it practically turned his life around. And when we developed a delivery system a year ago, he was all over it. So to speak.” Purchase flashed a small, embarrassed smile.

“What type of delivery system?” Logan asked. This was the second time the man had used the term.

“Subcutaneous implant. One type of MMD. About the size of a small automotive fuse, slipped in behind the lateral collateral ligament. It has a miniaturized receiver that lets him administer dosages, as needed.” His smile had now turned into one of satisfaction. “The implant allowed the medication to work much more rapidly and consistently, of course. And the Ambutrexine was so effective that, when I saw him two weeks ago, he said he was down to just a handful of doses per week — and eager for the Mark III to get its FDA approval.”

“What is the Mark III?”

“Our newest version, half the size of the Mark II. It can actually sit between the patella and meniscus. The user doesn’t even know it’s there. Amazing, really: infusion chamber excepted, it’s smaller than the movement of a Swiss watch.”

Current model, Logan thought. Purchase had gone into full salesman mode. “So does this Mark III come equipped with a Continental tire?” he asked.

Purchase laughed gamely, then both he and Asperton stood up. “Any more questions, Jeremy?” Asperton asked.

“No.” Logan turned to the BioCertain exec. “Thanks so much for your time.”

“Of course.” Purchase hesitated. “Was there some problem? Did Mr. Bridger have any particular feedback?”

“No, nothing like that. This is just routine, as I told you earlier.” Asperton thanked him, and Logan followed her out of the office.

As they returned to the reception area, they passed a young woman just entering BioCertain. She smiled at them, and — as she turned to greet the receptionist — Logan noticed a small mole, perfectly centered beneath her chin.

It was, he thought, a rare beauty mark indeed.