Chrysalis

47

Orris Peyton sat at a large table in a large, uncluttered space. It was, in fact, the biggest of the three interrogation rooms within the security center, located — like the middle bun of a double hamburger — below the Torus and above the Helix, this latter currently on the cybernetic equivalent of life support.

The staff referred to the room, rather morbidly, as “the arena.” It was rarely used — none of the interrogation rooms were used, any more frequently than were the detention cells — but efforts had been made to disguise this. There were cracks and chips in the cinder-block walls, long rubber skid marks on the tiled floor — decorations designed to fuel speculation, in the person facing inquisition, that heads had once been banged here, chairs dragged along while their occupants struggled… perhaps on the way to waterboarding or some form of electrical persuasion.

Peyton glanced behind him at the two rows of security staff near the far wall. Those in the first row sat at desks, monitoring video cameras and a lie detector. Behind them stood a trio of guards in security cammo: Athos, Porthos, and Aramis with machine guns. He knew the goon on the left: Fenton, whom he’d hired himself years before. The other two he didn’t recognize — a tall, heavyset woman with short-cropped dark hair, and a thin but vaguely military-looking man. Christ, as head of Logistics he really ought to spend more time rubbing shoulders with the hoi polloi.

At a middle distance, set apart as if to remove herself from the distasteful work of “wet” security, sat Asperton, silent, arms folded across her blouse. To Peyton’s left sat Kramer, and to his right Dafna, his go-to security asset in difficult moments. She glanced back at him, her attractive almond-shaped eyes shutting, then opening, like a camera shutter at its slowest speed. That was her signal that everything was ready, and they were waiting for him to start.

Peyton looked across the table at the man handcuffed to a chair. The lie detector leads ran away from his chest and left arm. The man looked back with a placid, almost supercilious countenance that surprised Peyton. Here he’d staged such a show — the big room, the guards, all the trappings of some East German kangaroo court… to apparently little effect. With Hurricane Mountain and the surrounding land almost a private municipality, Peyton had a great deal of leeway when it came to incarceration and interrogation. He could, of course, have the man — Benjamin Cardiff — taken away and let Kramer smack him around for a while; it had been a tense, frustrating few days, and the security chief would probably welcome the chance to work up more of a sweat than he’d been allowed with Mossby. But Peyton had been trained in tactical psychology, and he’d studied all the seminal mind-control, psychochemical, and brainwashing studies, from Project Dork to MKUltra to the Milgram experiments. He had a sense Cardiff felt entitled for some reason, and applying muscle might be counterproductive.

Besides, there was a wild card: the unexpected murder of Scott Prawn, the drone he and Dafna had interrogated about the Omega fabrication line. Running him down had been Jeremy Logan’s brainstorm, and Peyton didn’t know yet exactly how he fit in to this huge clusterfuck. Cardiff couldn’t have killed Prawn, of course: he was being processed just down the hall when the murder took place.

Time to get busy. He took a deep breath, stared at the subject. “Mr. Cardiff.”

The man nodded.

“You sent an encrypted message to Ms. Asperton, here, roughly three hours ago.”

“I did.”

Once again, Peyton found himself surprised. He’d expected vehement denial, not calm assent. Asperton, too, looked surprised.

“Would you care to explain?”

“I thought it was clear enough. Why ask?”

Peyton knew better than to let a subject ask questions, but there were rare occasions when such questions could open up unexpected avenues of investigation. “Certain people believe that was the first message sent by you,” he replied, choosing his words carefully.

At this, the coder sat up with something like eagerness. His handcuff jangled as it slid up the arm of the chair. “That’s good. That makes things easier.”

“I don’t follow.”

Cardiff sat back. He was obviously making an effort to project a serene, confident air. Peyton — recalling a few of Dafna’s war stories — wondered how long that confidence would last if he put Cardiff in a room with her instead of Kramer.

“Well, it means you know someone else sent the other messages.”

Peyton waited, neither affirming nor denying.

“And, if you know that, you must also note my message contained a very different offer.”

“It seemed similar enough to me,” Peyton said, casting out a fly.

“You can’t be serious,” Cardiff replied, rising to the bait. “Those other messages were nothing but threats. My message offered a way to verify your money was well spent.”

“You mean, verify that… unwanted events would not take place if that money was paid.” Peyton cast once again, and once again he was rewarded.

Cardiff nodded. “Right. I’m the critical link in this whole thing. That’s why I let you catch me.”

Peyton didn’t believe Cardiff’s fuckup was intentional, but he let this pass. “Explain.”

“This whole — exercise, if you will — was built on certain rules. Nobody gets caught; nobody gets hurt; we get paid… and everyone lives happily ever after.”

“Except the four people you killed,” said Dafna in a low, toneless voice.

“That was not me! I told you: there were rules. There wasn’t supposed to be any killing. And when we got the money, you were supposed to get the key.”

An alarm went off in Peyton’s head. “What key are you talking about?”

“What key do you think? The one that determines whether those people live or die.”

“Don’t play games!” Peyton shouted suddenly. “Tell me what’s going on. You’re the one under lock and key… or hadn’t you noticed?”

“I’m not playing games!” Cardiff said, composure beginning to slip. “Look. They changed the rules on me. Nobody was supposed to be endangered, let alone killed. I did my part, opened communication channels, looped the Fulfillment cameras… and then found out I’d been played. They don’t give a shit how many die, one or one thousand or a million. But I do.” He swallowed. “That’s why I sent you the note. The others, the control group, they’ll walk off and let everyone die. See, I know how to stop that. I built the key; I can use it to unlock all this. But you need to guarantee me five million dollars, drop all charges, and keep me—”

“What have you been smoking?” Peyton interrupted. “You’re guilty of extortion, murder, corporate espionage — and you talk of being exonerated? Paid? You’re crazy if you—”

Abruptly, he stopped. He’d almost forgotten he had another fly in his tackle box. And given Cardiff’s attitude, now might be a good time to just stay cool and try another cast.

“There’s been a death in the Chrysalis Tower,” he said.

The BioCertain programmer looked at him.

“A murder, actually. Someone named Scott Prawn. Fulfillment lead. You probably knew him. In fact, since you mentioned Fulfillment just now, I’m sure you did.”

Cardiff’s eyes widened involuntarily, and his nostrils flared.

“We know it was a murder because a bone saw was involved. Very messy.”

Cardiff tried to stand, was pulled back into his seat by the cuffs. “Put me in a protective cell. Now.”

Peyton wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “What?”

Cardiff was talking fast now, trying to stand again, looking anxiously around the room. “If they killed Prawn, it means they’re rolling up the carpet a little early. So you’d better fucking keep me safe, because they might come for me next. And if I’m dead, you’re done. And so are all those innocent people. Guarantee my protection and the five million.”

Peyton started to respond, but Cardiff raised his voice and spoke over him. “Without me, those clients of yours are going to die! Sure, I want to save my own skin. And they double-crossed me. That’s why I sent that message… to let you know I’m cooperating. The trigger mechanism defaults to on, not off. I’m the only one with the key to disarm it. I thought that made me bulletproof — but they don’t care who dies! I’ll bet they’re just covering their tracks and walking away. But I can still fix this. I’m your letter of transit. Otherwise, it’s only a matter of hours until—”

Peyton was listening so attentively it took a second to notice the stuttering noise behind him. It was unusual, but instantly familiar: automatic weapons fire.

As he swiveled in his chair, Dafna was already out of hers and pulling her M1911 pistol. As if in a nightmare, Peyton saw the armed guard standing on the right had raised his submachine gun and was firing in measured, deliberate bursts. Fountains of blood fanned the walls beyond the other two guards as the shooter methodically mowed them down. Now he was spraying gunfire at the people at the tables in front of him, sending up clouds of wood chips, blood, bits of equipment. Asperton began to rise, then fell back as a ghastly halo of crimson plumed around her head.

Dafna fired and the shooter jerked sideways with a grunt, but he swiveled his weapon back in her direction and she went down in a torrent of bullets. Now the man turned his weapon toward the center table and unleashed a long burst at Cardiff that sent the handcuffed programmer into a manic dance and tore his body to shreds.

Everything was slowing down, and Peyton raised his own weapon just as the shooter swung the smoking barrel in his direction and he got off a shot, but in the rising clouds of smoke he couldn’t see whether the round hit home until an impact like the hoof of a horse hit him in the shoulder, and as Peyton went down the last thing he saw was the shadowy figure of the shooter dart out the exit and disappear, just as the security sirens began a rising mournful wail.