Chrysalis

18

“Pythia,” Logan said as he stepped back out onto the promenade, “please direct me to the executive suite on tower level forty-eight.”

“You’re not speaking to Pythia,” came a different female voice, low and even more realistic. “I’m Grace.”

In the rush of events, Logan had almost forgotten his familiar Venture 7A had been replaced with one of the new devices going live on Monday. It came without glasses: but then it dawned on him — somehow for the first time — that although everyone in the Complex had Omegas, none of them wore glasses. “Sorry, Grace.”

With the help of his new Voyager, he managed to find his way back up to the executive suite. Once again, he was shown into the large and elegant boardroom. Except this time, it wasn’t empty. Half a dozen people were seated around the table — senior executives, perhaps. Peyton, head of Logistics, was there, as was Asperton. One figure stood out from the others: at the far end of the table, still as a porcelain statue, sat the thin, spectral figure of John Christie IV, his sad brown eyes fastened on Logan, the scar along his jawline red against the sallow skin.

Claire stood up, nodding at Logan and waiting for him to take a seat. Then she closed the door and sat down once again. A different kind of heaviness hung over her now, and Logan tried to interpret what it might mean.

“This is Jeremy Logan,” she told the assembled group. “You all know who he is, and why we’ve brought him on board. Jeremy, I hope you’ll forgive me if we skip the introductions for now. Suffice to say everybody here knows the problem that summoned you to Chrysalis — and what’s happened since.”

She pressed a button on the table, and a section of the opposite wall slid smoothly away, revealing a large, recessed monitor.

“I received a message on my Omega device about twenty minutes ago,” she said. “It was encrypted, but just like before, I tried unscrambling it with my private key and — unfortunately — that worked.” Asperton spread her hands on the polished table. She looked exhausted. “Whoever sent the message has high-level employee access to the passphrase. It could even be someone at this table.”

She pressed another button. The monitor winked into life. A text message appeared on the screen, the now-familiar white letters against a field of unrelieved black.