“Dr. Falkner.”
The voice stopped her cold.
Martin stood at the junction of two corridors, his pale eyes fixed on her with the particular intensity that always made her skin crawl. His lab coat was immaculate, his hair perfectly slicked, and the reek of his cologne reached her from three meters away.
“Martin.” She kept her voice neutral. “I thought you were meeting with your GenCon contacts.”
“I was.” He smiled, and the expression held no warmth. “They’re here now, actually. In the conference room. We’ve been waiting for you.”
Shit.
“I have research to attend to?—”
“This takes priority.” He stepped closer, and she forced herself not to retreat. “Bruce Bentley came all the way from OlympusMons to speak with you personally. It would be rude to keep him waiting.”
Every instinct screamed at her to run. But running would confirm whatever suspicions they already had. Running would lead them straight to Rhyx.
“Fine,” she said. “Let’s get this over with.”
The conference roomwas standard corporate sterile—white walls, recessed lighting, a long table surrounded by ergonomic chairs. Bruce Bentley sat at the head of the table like a spider in its web, his fingers steepled in front of him.
He was older than she’d expected—late fifties, perhaps, with silver hair cropped close to his skull and a face that had the too-smooth quality of expensive cosmetic treatments. His suit was worth more than Alina’s annual salary, and his smile was the kind that never reached his eyes.
“Dr. Falkner.” He rose as she entered, extending a hand. “I’ve heard so much about you.”
She shook it briefly, noting the cool dryness of his palm, the practiced firmness of his grip. “I wish I could say the same, Mr. Bentley.”
“Bruce, please.” He gestured to a chair. “Sit. We have much to discuss.”
Martin had followed her in and now took a position near the door—blocking the exit, she noted. Subtle. She ignored him and sat across from Bentley, folding her hands on the table.
“What exactly did you want to discuss?”
Bentley’s smile widened. “Your research, of course. Dr. Reece tells me you’ve made some fascinating discoveries recently. Anomalous biochemical signatures.”
“Dr. Reece is mistaken.” Alina kept her expression bland. “I’ve been conducting routine geochemical surveys. Nothing anomalous.”
“Really?” Bentley pulled a tablet from his jacket and slid it across the table. “Because these readings suggest otherwise.”
Her heart stuttered, but she forced herself to look at the screen calmly. The data displayed was fragmentary—partial sensor logs, incomplete analyses. Nothing that pointed directly to Rhyx or the cavern.
They’re fishing, she realized. They know something is there, but they don’t know what.
“These readings are within normal parameters for volcanic activity in the region.” She pushed the tablet back towards him. “That area has complex geothermal systems. Unusual readings are common.”
“Dr. Falkner.” Bentley leaned forward, his pleasant mask slipping slightly. “Let’s not play games. We both know there’s something in those mountains. Something GenCon would be very interested in acquiring.”
“Acquiring.” She let the word hang in the air. “You mean stealing.”
“I mean investing in.” His smile returned, but it was sharper now. “GenCon has resources that could accelerate your research exponentially. State-of-the-art equipment, unlimited funding,access to facilities that the Mars Research Consortium could never provide. All we ask in return is partnership.”
“Partnership with GenCon.” Alina thought of the stories she’d heard—the labor abuses, the environmental destruction, the disappeared researchers whose work had been too valuable to share. “That’s a generous offer.”
“It is.” Bentley’s eyes glittered. “I strongly suggest you consider it carefully.”
“I have considered it.” She stood, pushing her chair back from the table. “My answer is no.”
“Dr. Falkner?—”
