Chrysalis

21

They made their way down through the central spire, then out to the Torus, and finally into the subterranean spaces beneath it. Logan no longer felt surprise at the functional, unadorned corridors Peyton led him through at a rapid clip.

Peyton opened a door, and they entered what was obviously a detention area. They walked past a few administrative offices before arriving at a door with a large window set into it, looking into a darkened room. Peyton unlocked the door with a palm geometry reader, ushered Logan in, then followed, snapping on the lights as he shut the door behind them.

The room wasn’t empty. It contained a series of seats along the nearest wall and, in the center, a functional-looking table. On the far side of the table sat Mossby. He blinked a few times as his eyes adjusted to the sudden light.

Saying nothing, Peyton took a seat against the wall. Logan walked toward the table. Mossby eyed him as he drew closer. One of his wrists was chained to the metal chair, which in turn was bolted to the floor. On the near side of the table was another chair, similar save for the accessories. Logan pulled it back slightly and sat down.

Mossby looked furtively at Peyton before letting his gaze settle again on Logan. He had long hair, parted in the middle, with limpid brown eyes. The helixes of his ears were flat — a feature found in less than 5 percent of males. It was remarkable just how familiar the man’s face looked, thanks to those strange video clips made from unknown technology.

Logan remained silent a moment, allowing himself to take in, as fully as possible, the man across from him. Then he spoke. “I guess you’ve had better days.”

“I could say the same for you. Like the one when you discovered the twenty lost poems of Sappho.”

Other people at the Complex had, of course, recognized Logan. He was used to this. But Mossby’s observation told him two things. First, the man was unusually well educated: Logan had found those priceless scraps of verse among the cartonnage in an Egyptian funerary mask; details had been confined to scholarly periodicals. Second, Mossby in particular knowing who he was made his assignment that much more difficult.

“Twenty-two,” Logan replied. “And I didn’t find them all, I’m afraid.” He noticed that Mossby — beyond a disheveled look — had no obvious bruises or marks of rough handling.

“Too bad. But why all this muscle? And what’s a ghost hunter doing down here in the Chrysalis dungeons?”

“Fair questions. But first, tell me why you were doing all those naughty things.”

“Naughty things?” Mossby repeated. He had a reedy, nasal voice, pitched high; higher, Logan sensed, than normal. He was a decent bluffer, but nevertheless he was extremely frightened.

“Let’s not play games, Karel. They caught you red-handed. Someone of your sophistication, too — I’m surprised you were so careless.”

“What would you know about it?” came the reply, with a scoff.

“I watched them nab you. Trying to break into something — that seems to be your favorite activity. What were you hoping to do — stub an IP to gain access to some RPC requests?”

Mossby looked at him in a different way.

“I’m not yet sure exactly how deeply you’re involved in this.” Logan drew out the last word; let it hang in the air a moment. “But unless you tell us everything, and quickly, we’ll have to assume you were all in — and that means pinning some homicides on you, for starters.”

Mossby’s face essentially shut down. “I want a lawyer,” he said.

“Sorry,” came Peyton’s voice from over Logan’s shoulder. “All the lawyers here are on our payroll.”

The door opened; Logan saw Claire Asperton come in and quietly take a seat.

“I’m not saying another word,” Mossby murmured nervously, “until I’ve got a lawyer.”

“You might be silent for a long time. Look, I’ll make it easy. I’ll give you some words, and you free-associate their significance. Like a game. That way, it’s completely deniable.”

Mossby collected himself and went still.

“Spearman,” Logan said.

Mossby’s left eye spasmed — once, twice.

“Bridger.”

This time, no reaction. Logan could hear the man’s breathing.

“Marceline Williams.”

No reaction.

Now Logan played a hunch. He paused, then asked in a low voice: “The Helix?”

Immediately, a different look came over Mossby’s face. Surprise, and a trace of fear: the same emotions Logan noted in Peyton, right after he’d accidentally spoken those same words.

There was a scrambling from behind, and Logan felt himself being lifted by the collar of his suit and escorted from the room. For a small person, Peyton was remarkably strong.

“I ought to wring your neck,” Peyton hissed when they were out in the hallway.

“Bad idea,” Logan said, freeing himself — none too gently — with a Kote-Hineri twist. “No kryptonite — remember?”

Asperton followed them out, quickly closing the door and then — seeing Logan had no trouble defending himself — keeping silent.

“Get him out of here,” Peyton said, rubbing his wrist.

“You really shouldn’t antagonize Peyton like that,” Claire Asperton said as they ascended the institutional spaces toward the Torus. “He’s an asset, you know.”

“He’s not acting like one.” Asperton, nearer the door than Peyton, hadn’t heard Logan’s final two words to Mossby. Logan wondered what would happen if he uttered them again now. What was this thing that seemed even more secret than Omega?

Instead, he asked: “Will you be able to assemble the money?”

“Yes,” Asperton said. She did not look happy.

“Okay. If I don’t need to worry about that, and if Mossby won’t say anything, then I should take a closer look at the obvious… the only… thing the dead board members have in common with these thousand hostages.”

“VR,” the lawyer said. “The Voyager rollout.”

Logan nodded, thinking. “I know we’ve been avoiding this, Claire, but we need to tell Wrigley. I can talk to him, if you’d like.”

“No,” Asperton said. “I’ll take care of it.” And at the thought, a wince crossed her already unhappy features.