Chrysalis

15

The lights came up another notch and Logan’s eyes adjusted sufficiently to see they were standing in some kind of screening room, with crimson walls and rows of large, overstuffed chairs, arranged toward a wall of glass looking over another space that remained black and lightless.

Wrigley was at least two inches taller than Logan had expected. He towered over them, arms crossed and an exasperated look on his face. A strange apparatus dangled from around his neck; a closer look showed Logan it was a pair of enhanced bi-ocular night-vision goggles.

“Claire,” Wrigley said. “This is bullshit. I thought you were kidding when you left that message. Don’t you know we go live in seventy hours? I haven’t slept in two days, and I doubt I’ll sleep over the next three. We’ve got bandwidth issues with the long-wavelength transcoding, there are problems with the supercapacitor batteries from Taiwan — and those are just the things I’ve learned about since I got your message.”

Wrigley spoke in a high yet resonant voice, with just a trace of a Southern accent. Logan noticed that — in addition to his unmistakable appearance — Wrigley was the only person he’d seen on campus without a badge, save Asperton. In fact, Wrigley showed absolutely no deference to Asperton the way everyone else did. Logan had read enough to well believe he combined qualities of Henry Ford and Steve Jobs. Did he occupy a particularly high rank here at Chrysalis, in the wake of the acquisition? Or was he just playing the role of enfant terrible?

Wrigley turned toward Logan, as if seeing him for the first time. “Who is this?” he asked as if Logan wasn’t standing directly before him. Recognition flickered faintly in his eyes.

“This is Jeremy Logan,” Asperton said. “We’ve brought him in to help with, ah, the problem I mentioned: ours, and yours.”

“Logan,” Wrigley murmured. Then he turned back to Asperton. “Is he cleared?”

“To infinity and back. The sooner we get started, the sooner you can get back to putting out your fires.”

Wrigley considered this for a second. Then, without another word, he flopped into one of the seats in the front row. Logan and the Chrysalis lawyer followed suit.

“Okay, Claire. Let’s hear it. What is this mysterious problem I have to drop everything for?”

“Nobody knows this yet,” Asperton said. “But three of our board members died under unusual circumstances in the last three days.”

Wrigley’s eyes widened. “Three board members?”

“Russell, Marceline, and Pierson Bridger.”

Wrigley sat forward — something of a feat in the comfy, theater-style chair. “Jesus Christ. How?”

“Cause of death was different in each case. Russell suffered some kind of attack, maybe neurological. Bridger died when the plane he was flying crashed abruptly about ninety miles west of here. And Marceline fell in front of a London bus.”

“And when did—”

“Russell died first. In a meeting in New York City, Monday morning. Wednesday night, Bridger crashed. And then, last night… Marceline.”

Wrigley’s lips worked briefly, mouthing Marceline’s name. Slowly, he settled back. Logan sensed waves of shock — dismay — confusion — and then, deep anxiety. Suddenly, the man looked at Asperton again. “Why are you looping me in? Look, you’ve got people to handle—”

“And they’re ‘handling’ it,” the lawyer replied. “Dr. Logan, here, has been brought on board independently. Right now, we’re looking into everything the three did when they were last together: the board meeting, two weeks ago.”

“Why is that important? And what, exactly, does it have to do with our launch?”

“Maybe nothing,” Logan interjected. “But Claire has received threatening communications about the deaths, with the strong implication they are neither coincidence nor accident.”

“You mean, they were killed? Why?”

“Precisely what we’re trying to figure out. Claire has brought me up to speed on just how important your imminent launch is to Chrysalis. It’s our feeling that, this close to the Voyager debut, no scenario should be ruled out.”

“As in, some competitor trying to sabotage the rollout?” Wrigley raised his voice. “That’s corporate warfare 101. Look, I’m really sorry about what’s happened, but I can’t get involved. I’m managing a dozen critical-path task lines, most of them interdependent. I can’t afford to slow, let alone pause, a single one if we’re going to make—”

“Obviously not,” Asperton interrupted. “That schedule is set in stone. And that’s why I’d like you to take a few minutes to personally go over what the board did during their visit here. You’re the one who can do it most comprehensively and quickly. Besides, I understand you took lead on that visit yourself.”

“I had to,” Wrigley said. “Things were still a little brittle and I didn’t want to risk letting anyone else give the demo.”

“The demo?” Logan echoed, pricking up his ears.

“Well, first I sat them all down at a conference table and waved around some mock-ups. But I mean, they’re the people who dictate our future — the ones who keep the funding flowing? Christ, a brief lecture wasn’t going to cut it. So I gave them a demo.”

Logan had anticipated the mock-ups — but not this. “You mean, of phase two. The Omega Voyager.”

“Of phase two advanced,” Wrigley corrected. “I wanted to show them where we’re really going with this technology: not just next week, but next year.” His eyes flared, as if merely speaking of his pet creation filled him with excitement. “To say they loved it was an understatement. As they were leaving, I told myself the time I’d spent fighting with Agrinox and Carewell for funding was finally over.”

“So you gave them a taste of phase three,” Logan said.

Wrigley barked a laugh. “If I’d had a time machine, I would have! But that’s still two years away — one, if we’re lucky. No; I simply showed them what Voyager is already capable of doing, once the necessary hardware and data backbone is in place. We can run it now, here, on campus. And after Monday’s rollout, it’s what we plan to include in the next major release, just before Christmas.”

For some unknown reason, a fragment of the nightmare Logan had experienced Tuesday night — lying in bed, in his suite in the Chrysalis spire — came back to him. Something rotten at the heart of this shimmering marvel.

“Show me,” he said.

Wrigley turned to him. “Sorry?”

“I’d like the same demo the board got.”

Wrigley smiled at Logan as one might an irrational child. “That’s ridiculous. I’d have to pull half a dozen resources from critical jobs, waste time that we simply don’t have—”

“If that’s what Jeremy wants,” Asperton said, her voice even, “then that’s what you’ll have to arrange for him. And now, Matthew — not later. Now.”

For a moment, Wrigley just stared at the lawyer. He blinked several times, the effect magnified by his owlish glasses. His lower lip trembled. For a brief moment, Logan feared he might leap to his feet, break something irreplaceable, and then storm off into the woody fastness of the Berkshires. But instead — with a brief, withering curse — he tossed the night-vision goggles onto a nearby chair and gave the Omega device behind his right ear a short, savage tap.

“Rosalind?” he spoke into the air. “In sixty seconds, I’ll be on my way from Theater One to the production lab. Find me.”

Then he flounced back as far as his seat would allow, folded his arms over his chest again, and stared at the blank wall of glass in stubborn silence.