Chrysalis

31

Orris Peyton, head of Operational Logistics, sat in a low-ceilinged room with his chief security specialist — an ex-Mossad asset named Dafna — beside him. The room had no table, but what it lacked in furniture it made up for in electronics. Controls and displays — enough to land a lunar orbiter — bracketed both sides of a large window set into the far wall.

Peyton prided himself on knowing every last nook and cranny in the twelve million square feet of the Complex. He liked to boast that he’d personally checked every hotel room and staff dormitory for security breaches. But he wasn’t especially familiar with this particular space. It was deep inside Carewell; as deep as that division got, in fact: about thirty feet ahead of them lay the outer skin of the Torus, and beyond that there was only the dressed rock of Hurricane Mountain. But two of the three subjects on his interview schedule had particularly requested this location, and it seemed prudent to oblige.

The man they were currently interviewing — Simon Cawdor, fabrication lead — was one of the two. He was sweating a little beneath his white lab coat.

“So let me understand,” Peyton said. He’d placed Cawdor several seats away, to make it obvious he was being scrutinized. “You’re stating for the record that it’s physically impossible for somebody to sabotage the Voyager units during assembly. To, say, put some kind of skin-acting poison on the surface or in some other way render it harmful.”

“Yes.” Cawdor tugged on the knot of his tie. “The line is fully automated, from the initial extrusion to the final laser that creates a hermetic seal. Everything is performed in a clean room, partly for sanitation and quality control, and partly to make sure the scenario you’re suggesting couldn’t happen.” As he spoke, he pointed toward the window set between the electronics.

Peyton held Cawdor’s glance a moment while Dafna took notes, then looked toward the window. Beyond, he could see the “Line” — a series of thick rubber belts, threading their way through large machines on which digital inventory numbers constantly incremented. Here and there, robots could be seen hovering over the belts, attaching miniaturized pieces or making spot welds with tiny showers of sparks. There were no people in sight, of course: in fact, there was no floor to speak of, just equipment caches that were refilled automatically and the robots themselves. As the entire process moved like a silicon-and-steel battalion beyond the soundproofed glass, Peyton could see Voyagers — in essence — being born: entering from the left as unassembled components and heading out of sight to the right as complete units.

He felt he should ask more questions, just to please that bastard Jeremy Logan, but he couldn’t think of any. “What about a nerve agent, or radioactive polonium? It takes just the smallest drop.”

At this, Cawdor appeared to suppress a smile. “The devices — even just the initial components — are under constant surveillance. Same is true for the final tests once fabrication is complete: thermal cycling, solvent resistance, seal terminal strength. And there are fluoroscopes that scan everything before and afterward.”

The smile irritated Peyton. And he knew all about the surveillance. “Thanks,” he said, with a dismissive gesture. “Please send in the next.”

Cawdor left, and moments later another man in a white coat approached nervously. He was heavyset and young, younger than Peyton — but then, most of the staff at the Complex were under forty. Peyton conferred with his Sentinel unit just long enough to assure himself this was Scott Prawn, who led one of the Proprietary Fulfillment teams handling the final steps — inspection, boxing, loading — before the Voyager units left the Complex.

“Have a seat,” Peyton said, indicating the spot, six chairs away, so recently occupied by Cawdor. He heard a brief tap behind him as Dafna prepared to log a new entry. “As I mentioned to you when we first spoke, we’re selecting staff members for random procedural reviews. We conduct such reviews now and then to ensure safety, security, and optimization. As you know, Chrysalis hates redundancy.”

Peyton was confident he’d already done two things: put Prawn on guard by mentioning safety procedures, and made him fear for his job with the dreaded word “redundancy.” Sure enough, the chubby technician’s eyes widened slightly, and he glanced around, as if looking for a cattle prod.

Peyton went through the formalities and initial questions, Dafna prompting him once or twice. Soon, Prawn was sweating as much as Cawdor, if not more. “I know the assembly process is lights-out, completely automated,” Peyton said. “What about Fulfillment?”

“It’s automated, too. Not all that different from Fabrication, down there.” Prawn pointed through the observation window at the robots assembling the Voyagers.

“I note your staff is rather small,” Peyton said. “What — two, three dozen people?”

“Well, ah, only a small percentage of fabrication takes place on-site, here in the Torus. Just sensitive things like high-end medical implants and now those Omega units. Robots do most of the work, under careful supervision. Human interaction only occurs during the loading phase.”

“And I assume security is heightened accordingly at that step?”

“Yes. Three people must be on hand as observers during loading and sealing. The chain of integrity is maintained at all times.”

Peyton nodded. He understood the basic process well enough: once the units were ready for shipping, they exited through a series of secure airlocks to a loading bay, cut into the side of the mountain, where unmarked trucks took them through a tunnel that hugged the outer side of the Torus and then down a back road leading out into the real world.

A voice murmured in his Sentinel unit: Dafna, who had just done some background checking, had a suggested line of inquiry. “I understand you’re in charge of the fulfillment team for medical implants.”

The man blinked, nodded.

“But two weeks ago, you also took over fulfillment of the Voyager units.”

At this, Prawn became noticeably more nervous. “For one day, yes.”

“Why was that?”

“The tech lead for Omega Fulfillment reported in sick. Word came down they were in the middle of an important loadout and didn’t want to pause.”

“Did that cause any problems? For you, or Fulfillment as a unit?”

Prawn shook his head vigorously. “Oh, no. As I said, it was only one day. And the boxing, loading, and sealing processes were similar to what I’m used to with BioCertain implants. It was a question of supervising two lines instead of one.” His eyes widened again as he realized that downplaying his role might raise the fearful specter of redundancy. “Of course, I had to up my game substantially for that one shift. I was practically dead when it was over. But we had procedures in place to ensure there were no hiccups. Short-term procedures, you understand.”

“How many Voyager units were distributed that day?”

Prawn chewed his lip. “I don’t have the exact number at my fingertips. Probably four, five hundred.”

“Six hundred ninety-one,” Dafna said after a moment.

Peyton raised his eyebrows at the man’s humility. “Very good, Mr. Prawn. You may go. For now. Please ask the person outside to step in.”

Seconds later, it seemed, the third and last interviewee of the session was standing before him: standing rather too near, in fact, practically violating Peyton’s personal space. Peyton waved him back, indicating the seat the others had taken. The man retreated, but his attitude remained, hovering front and center. He couldn’t have been more different in appearance or demeanor than the first two Peyton had questioned: bald, fifty, with a huge red handlebar mustache. His lab coat was unbuttoned, displaying a flannel work shirt of red and black plaid. He stood for a moment — silhouetted by the window overlooking the robots that were mindlessly working the line — then settled into the chair.

“You’re… Seamus McBride?” Peyton asked, nearly faltering. This had to be a mistake — nobody outside of a dirty Irish joke had a name like that.

“Yes,” the mustached man replied. He looked Peyton in the eye, silently adding: Got a problem with that?

Peyton skipped the pleasantries and usual mind games and launched directly into his questions. “You’re in charge of distribution and tracking?”

McBride nodded.

“We’re performing a logistics audit, making sure everything fabricated at the Complex shows a clean line end to end. This is because, in addition to medical devices, Omega Division units began being assembled and distributed.”

McBride nodded again.

“Have you encountered any difficulties?”

“No.” McBride shifted in his chair. It was clear he considered this interview a waste of time. Peyton wasn’t used to such truculence, and via his Sentinel unit he indicated to Dafna they should take a closer look into McBride’s background, psychological as well as professional.

“I’m glad to hear that. Could you be more specific?”

“We spent a lot of time developing a system to transport our medical products to their destinations in a safe and timely manner. It’s been refined and battle-tested. It was simple enough to modify this process to handle Omega products.”

“Really? I would think it completely different.”

McBride shook his head. “We use the same principle for Omega devices as we do for medical implants: a data ledger that tracks transport of goods from point A to point B. Each device shipped from the Complex is geotagged with its metadata: when it was fabricated, where it’s going, and twenty other things you don’t want to know about. When that device leaves Fulfillment, its metadata is entered into the ledger.”

Peyton began to feel very tired. He interrupted this explanation, which showed no signs of ending, by raising his hand. “Thank you. Basically, what you’re saying is this… data ledger… ensures there can be no tampering between here and the delivery point.”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“What about from the delivery point?”

McBride frowned. “Excuse me?”

“What mechanisms protect our product once it reaches its destination?”

“With all respect, that’s like asking what somebody does with a bottle of painkillers — or a bazooka — after they take possession. The medical devices arrive at hospitals, or central depositories, and from there surgeons attach or implant them into patients.”

“Surgeons,” Peyton repeated.

“Surgeons,” McBride echoed. “Many, many surgeons.”

“What about the Omegas?”

“They’re securely transported and delivered, the same way — in this case, to the customers that ordered them.” He paused. “We aren’t responsible for what Fulfillment gives us. Our job is to get an item safely to its destination. And whether it’s Omegas or pacemakers, we have a perfect record at doing so.”

Peyton realized Dafna was no longer making notations. So: Delivery had a perfect record handing off Chrysalis-manufactured devices, Omega or otherwise. And he’d just finished hearing that those devices couldn’t be tampered with — before, during, or after fabrication. Both out-QA and out-QC tight as a drum.

Christ, what a pain in the ass.

“Thanks, Mr. McBride,” he said, rising and massaging his posterior, which had fallen asleep. “We’ll contact you if we have any more questions.”

And as he watched the bald man make his way to the exit, he noticed the person he’d interviewed previously — Prawn — was still loitering in the back, near the door. Why was that? Was McBride a friend? Peyton had made it clear he was dismissed. But there was no point in saying anything now, because the moment Prawn saw he’d been noticed, he slipped out the door — and in so doing let it swing back into the face of Seamus McBride, who unleashed a verbal data ledger of his own, consisting entirely of what — to Peyton — sounded like Gaelic curses.