Chrysalis

12

At quarter past nine, Logan was in his modest office suite on the eighth floor of the spire — deep in files both digital and tactile — when a knock sounded on his door and Claire Asperton entered. She was carrying her digital tablet in one hand and bore the expression of someone tasked with cleaning the Augean Stables. She’d taken some personal time the night before, and Logan had needed the precious hours to expand his background research to include Marceline Williams — and the vexing question of whether her horrific death was in any way related to the board’s visit to Chrysalis two weeks earlier.

He turned away from his monitor, and the folders — now totaling three — displayed on it.

Asperton tapped briefly on her tablet. “We now have comprehensive autopsy results on all three, and initial toxicology reports on Bridger and Steadman. All three suffered acute physical trauma, especially extreme in Bridger’s case. But Marceline Williams wasn’t in much better shape. Bottom line: in all cases, lethal assault is not indicated, but it can’t totally be ruled out — not yet.”

As she was speaking, Logan’s Omega unit chimed. “Pythia,” he said, “open the door, please.”

The door sprang ajar and a man Logan hadn’t met stepped in. He was blond, short, and appeared no older than thirty. He nodded at Asperton, then stood looking at Logan, who quickly offered him a chair.

“Hello, Orris,” Asperton said. “I knew you’d track me down. This, as you know, is Jeremy Logan. Jeremy, Orris Peyton, head of Operational Logistics here at the Complex.”

The man nodded curtly at Logan, then sat in the proffered chair. He was young to be the top cop. Silently, Logan took in the tension in the room. In the last few days, their situation had gone from a tragic accident, to tragic coincidence, to full-blown crisis. Asperton looked stricken, while Peyton’s face was an unreadable mask. The air felt full of dynamite: it seemed to Logan the slightest spark would set it off.

“Marceline was the youngest of the three,” Asperton said, consulting her tablet, “but she had the longest medical record.”

Logan nodded. While enrolled at Wharton Business School, Marceline Williams had an emergency appendectomy. At thirty, she’d undergone a hysterectomy, underlying cause chronic endometriosis. Finally, at thirty-nine she’d had a lumpectomy, a preventive measure due to the breast cancer that ran in her family. But that had been a decade ago, and there were no complications. Her psychiatric profile showed occasional migraines and mild aviophobia — fear of flying — but nothing severe.

“Would you mind running the special blood assays on her that I requested for Spearman and Bridger?” Logan asked.

Asperton looked pained. “Jeremy, we’re not going to get the results you already requested until next week. What’s the point of doing such exotic blood tests when we don’t know what we’re looking for — and, more to the point, when we’ve so little time?”

“Is there any harm?”

“Spearman’s executors weren’t too keen on us reopening the casket for additional fingernail and toenail samples.”

“Well, assuming the autopsy file on Williams isn’t closed yet, she shouldn’t present the same problem.” Logan paused. “Come on. I’ll buy you an ice cream sundae at that malt stand one level down.”

Asperton grimaced, made a notation on her tablet.

Logan changed the subject. “I realize Marceline’s assistant was in a state of shock yesterday, but has she provided any further details about what happened, exactly?”

“Wendy Rothman. Yes. There was nothing obviously amiss beyond Marceline being late. They walked to the curb. And then Marceline crumpled forward — underneath a sightseeing bus.”

Logan nodded. He’d heard — indirectly, echoing from her Omega — the sound of something loud and awful, just before the connection was lost.

“It was the height of the evening rush hour,” Peyton said, speaking for the first time. “Thing is, the limo driver didn’t see any groaning or staggering — he swears she was pushed.”

“By whom?”

“He doesn’t know. Someone in the crowd.”

“When I was on the phone with Marceline…” Asperton began, then stopped a moment. “She told me… she said that something was odd.”

“Odd?” Peyton echoed. “In what way?”

Asperton shrugged, glanced at him. “You’ve reached out to the rest of the board, right?”

“We’re getting protective details on all of them as quickly and quietly as possible. It’s a hell of a job — they’re spread across the world. We’re telling them about the deaths, without specifics, with warnings to keep it under the radar.”

Logan could guess what the others were thinking. Two down. Are you starting to understand? Marceline Williams made three. She’d been the publisher of Halcyon Group. When it became a Chrysalis subsidiary during the entertainment expansion, its comics division was the first to be coded for Omega readability… and Williams had joined the board. Had that acquisition been — in retrospect — her death warrant?

“As far as I can tell, the three who’ve been targeted had little in common,” Logan said. “They weren’t outspoken on the same issues; they weren’t reviled for any particular positions, political or otherwise.”

“What’s your point?” Peyton asked. He spoke in staccato tones, practically biting off his words. It was clear he viewed these developments as something like an insult, being overlord of corporate security — and, perhaps, Logan’s presence as a personal offense.

“My point is, we currently have two potential lines of investigation: finding commonalities, eliminating motives. These three weren’t singled out on principle. And while some internet troll could have falsely claimed one, or even two, deaths for himself, three can’t be a bluff. These people were killed because they share seats on the Chrysalis board.”

“I don’t see how that eliminates any motives,” Peyton said after a moment. “But it does highlight a commonality. They shared production-version Voyagers.”

“That’s true,” Asperton said. “During the VR demo, they were all issued the new devices.”

“Did they keep them?” Logan asked.

Asperton tapped on her tablet. “It looks like eight left the Center with the upgraded Omega IIs.”

“Not that it makes much difference,” Peyton said. “Their devices won’t go live with the new content until Monday morning, like everyone else’s.”

“That reminds me.” Asperton pulled out an envelope. “Here’s the digging you requested. Three members of the board have BioCertain-manufactured MMEs.”

Logan took the envelope, removed the sheet within, and scanned it. Miles Johnson, as Asperton mentioned, had the latest pacemaker. Bridger had been given the infusion device for his knee problem, and another whose name Logan didn’t recognize had an insulin regulator.

Peyton reached over and Logan handed him the sheet. Peyton scanned it quickly. “What did you request this for?”

“I just told you. Commonalities.”

“What kind of commonality is this? Three different medical devices, addressing three different conditions?”

“Bridger had a BioCertain implant.”

“But Spearman didn’t,” Peyton said, tossing the sheet onto Logan’s desk. “Neither did Williams. And they’re just as dead.”

“It’s an interesting hypothesis,” Asperton said quietly. “But there are just too many people out there wearing BioCertain devices — including yours truly — without fatalities.”

“Besides,” Peyton said, “only three board members have implants, most for several years. On the other hand, eight members left here with Voyager VR units two weeks ago.”

“Including Spearman,” Asperton added quietly.

Logan couldn’t argue. “Then let’s back up a little. In the unlikely event these three were murdered, how could those acts be accomplished?”

“Given the condition of the bodies, it’s hard to be sure with Bridger or Marceline. But the MEs have ruled neither death a homicide. As for Spearman, his fatal lacerations were self-inflicted and unintentional. And remember, both Spearman and Williams were surrounded by witnesses.” The lawyer consulted her tablet. “There’s something here I didn’t know about Spearman, though. He’d been diagnosed with cyclothymia five years ago.”

“Cyclothymia?” Peyton repeated. “Just what the hell is that — fear of bicycles?”

“It’s a mood disorder,” Logan told him. This little nugget had, in fact, been in Spearman’s file: he was surprised Asperton hadn’t noticed. “Quite rare. Similar to bipolar syndrome in some ways, but not as severe: it doesn’t even merit a spot on Cluster B.”

“Mood?” Peyton echoed. “As in cranky, irritable, eccentric?”

“Possibly,” Logan replied.

“Christ, everybody in the entertainment industry has that disorder.”

“And it wouldn’t account for the display Spearman put on directly before his death,” Asperton said. “According to those present, his actions were closer to psychosis. But again, his blood work came back clean. His dopamine levels were a little high, but his serotonin — which you’d think would be the complicating factor — was within acceptable limits. And there were no illicit drugs in his system — PCP, meth — that would account for his, ah, seizure.”

Peyton shifted impatiently in his chair. “Controversial politics, cyclothymia, exotic blood tests — all this speculation in the name of ‘commonalities’ — when we’ve already got a commonality under our thumb.”

Logan turned from Peyton to Asperton. “What’s he talking about?”

But Asperton was staring at Peyton. “Are you sure this is the right time?” she asked.

“Three dead, Claire. How much longer are we going to wait?”

Asperton let her gaze drop. Then she nodded. “Very well. But no witnesses. And… well, don’t break anything.”

Almost before the lawyer was finished speaking, Peyton was on his feet. Sensing a development, Logan rose as well. Peyton glanced at him; started to say something; then fell silent.

“Where are we going?” Logan asked. When Peyton didn’t answer, he turned to Asperton. “And aren’t you coming?”

The woman had turned her gaze toward the window. “Call me when the show’s over.”

As Logan followed the operations manager out the door, Asperton remained motionless, staring out the window, brooding and silent.