Deep Storm

by Lincoln Child

  “Earthquakes,” Spartan repeated.

  “Yes. Small in magnitude, generally—this is a divergent boundary, after all.” He looked over his glasses at Spartan, half sadly, half quizzically. “You never read the white paper I sent you on plate tectonics and oceanography?”

  But the admiral didn’t answer. His gaze was focused at some indistinct spot beyond Asher’s right shoulder. At last, he shook his head. “Perfect,” he said. “Just perfect.”

  31

  The temporary infirmary on deck 4 was as small as the Medical Suite upstairs was expansive. It reminded Crane of the diminutive sick bay on the USS Spectre, in which he’d toiled for the better part of a year: all bulkhead and conduit. And yet for all its tininess, at the moment it seemed depressingly empty. Crane had expected to fill it with the three men from Marble One. Instead, there had not been enough left of the crew even for red-bag waste: Marble One had been sealed in heavy plastic sheeting and placed in a low-temperature locker for later analysis.

  He sighed, turned toward Bishop. “Thanks for coming down. I’m sorry I wasted your time.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “Did you know any of the three?”

  “I knew Horst. Had some trouble with sleep apnea, dropped by for a couple of consultations.”

  “I never got the chance to meet any of them.” Crane shook his head.

  “Don’t beat yourself up about this, Peter. It’s not your fault.”

  “I know. It just seems like such a tragic waste.”

  And it wasn’t only the death of the three crew members that weighed on him. There was also the fact that he was making precious little progress. They’d run just about every test in the book—CT scans, MRIs, EKGs, CBCs. Nothing. Every fresh theory, every promising new avenue of research, had ultimately led to a dead end. It made no sense: he’d been following all the rules of diagnosis, yet the solution remained stubbornly out of reach. It was as if whatever was wrong down here was somehow playing out beyond the laws of medical science.

  He shifted, made a concerted effort to change the subject. “How are things upstairs? It’s been so busy down here I haven’t even checked your current patient status.”

  “Two new cases in the last twenty-four hours: one complaining of severe nausea, another presenting with arrythmia.”

  “You put a Holter monitor on him?”

  “Yes, twenty-four-hour cycle. Then, the cook, Loiseau, had another seizure—worse this time.”

  “You’ve admitted him?”

  Bishop nodded. “That’s about it. Actually, it’s Roger who’s been getting more of the action.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Seven—maybe eight—people have come to see him, complaining of general psychiatric disorders.”

  “Such as?”

  “The usual. Problems with concentration and focus, lapses in memory, disinhibition of character. Roger thinks it’s localized eruptions of accumulated stress.”

  “I see.” Crane was hesitant to disagree without further examination. But his own experience on stealth submarines, working with men and women under constant pressure, didn’t bear out such a conclusion. Besides, any questionable personality types would have been weeded out during the Facility’s vetting process. “Tell me more about the disinhibition case.”

  “One of the librarians in the multimedia nexus. Retiring fellow. Shy. Picked two fights in Times Square last night. When security arrived he was drunk and disorderly, screaming obscenities.”

  “That’s very interesting.”

  “Why?”

  “Because one of the patients down here in the classified sector recently displayed very similar changes in personality.” He paused, thinking. “It seems that the number of psychological cases are beginning to outweigh the physiological cases.”

  “So?” Bishop sounded unconvinced. “We’re all going crazy by degrees?”

  “No. But maybe—just maybe—it’s the common thread we’re looking for.” He hesitated. “Have you heard the story of Phineas Gage?”

  “Sounds like a Hawthorne tale.”

  “Actually, it’s a true story. In 1848, Phineas P. Gage was the foreman of a railroad gang, laying track bed for a railway company in Vermont. Seems there was an accidental explosion. The blast drove his tamping iron—a four-foot, thirteen-pound metal spike more than an inch in diameter—right through his head.”

  Bishop grimaced. “What an awful way to go.”

  “That’s just it—he didn’t die. He may not have even been rendered unconscious, despite the fact that the iron spike destroyed most of the bilateral frontal lobe of his brain. Within a few months he was able to resume work. But here’s the thing: he was not the same man. Before the accident, Gage had been efficient, pleasant natured, polite, thrifty, savvy about business matters. Now he was profane, flighty, impatient, reportedly lewd, unable to keep any position of responsibility.”

  “Like some of the early radical resection patients.”

  “Exactly. Gage was the first patient to provide a link between the brain’s frontal lobe and human personality.”

  Bishop nodded thoughtfully. “And where are you going with all this?”

  “I’m not exactly sure. But I’m starting to wonder if maybe our problem here isn’t neurological. Did that electroencephalograph unit ever come in?”

  “Yes, just this morning. They raised holy hell about it, too: took up half the Tub on the trip down.”

  “Well, let’s put it to use. I’d like to get EEGs done on the half dozen most serious cases. Symptomology doesn’t matter—in fact, mix up the psychological with the physiological.” He stretched, massaged his lower back. “I could use some coffee. You?”

  “Sure. If you don’t mind playing delivery boy.” And she frowned, jerking her thumb in the direction of the door.

  “Oh, yes. Of course.” Crane had momentarily forgotten the marine stationed outside the temporary infirmary; the man had escorted Bishop down from the unclassified section on Spartan’s orders and would be escorting her up again when she left the room. Clearly, she wasn’t happy about having a babysitter. “I’ll be right back.”

  He exited the infirmary, nodded to the marine, and made his way down the hall. His own surveillance had been eased and it felt a little strange, having relatively unrestricted access to the entire Facility. Although there were still plenty of areas to which his mediocre security rating did not permit access, during the medical interviews of the last two days he had seen enough labs, equipment bays, offices, quarters, and machine shops to last a lifetime.

  The same held true for the leisure spaces. The cafeteria on deck 4 was spartan in its decor, and had tables and chairs sufficient for perhaps only a dozen people. Yet Crane had found that its French roast was every bit as good as that served in the Times Square café.

  He entered, walked over to the service counter, and placed his order. Thanking the woman behind the counter, he put a little milk in his cup—Bishop liked hers black—and turned to head back for the infirmary. But the sound of raised voices stopped him.

  A group of men sat around a table in the far corner. They were a motley bunch: two wore the obligatory white lab coats of Facility technicians, while another wore a machnist’s jumpsuit and the last, a petty officer’s uniform. They’d been huddled together in subdued conversation when Crane entered, and he’d barely taken note of them, assuming they were discussing the tragedy of Marble One. But in the short span of time it had taken him to order the coffees, the conversation had apparently veered into argument.

  “And just how would you know?” One of the scientists was saying. “It’s an extraordinary opportunity for mankind, the most important discovery ever. It’s proof—final proof—we’re not alone in the universe. You can’t just ignore it, bury your head in the sand.”

  “I know what I’ve seen,” the machinist shot back. “And what I’ve heard. People are saying we weren’t meant to find it.”

  The scientist scoffed. “Weren�
�t meant to find it?”

  “Yeah. It was an accident. Like, it’s too early.”

  “If we didn’t find it, somebody else would have,” the petty officer snapped. “I suppose you’d rather the Chinese got their hands on that technology first?”

  “What damn technology?” the machinist said, raising his voice again. “Nobody has a fucking clue what’s down there!”

  “Christ, Chucky, lower your voice,” said the second scientist, moodily stirring his cup.

  “I’ve worked with the sentinels,” the first scientist said. “I know what they’re capable of. This might be our only chance to—”

  “And I just finished wrapping up what’s left of Marble One,” the man named Chucky shot back. “Trashed beyond recognition. Three of my friends, dead. I tell you, we’re not ready for this. We’re overextended down here.”

  “What happened to Marble One is a terrible thing,” said the first scientist. “And it’s okay to grieve. But don’t let grief blind you to the larger issue: why we’re down here. No advance was ever made without risk. These visitors clearly want to help us. They have so much to teach—”

  “How the hell do you know they want to teach us anything?” Chucky demanded.

  “If you’d seen how beautiful the markers are, how utterly—”

  “So what? A black panther’s beautiful, too…right up to the minute it rips your guts out.”

  The scientist sniffed. “That’s an inappropriate comparison.”

  “The hell it is. You assume they’re friendly. You think you know everything. Let me tell you something: nature is never friendly. Our own planet is full of life-forms, all busy trying to kill each other!” The machinist’s voice was beginning to rise again.

  “Don’t blame others for the failings of our planet,” said the first scientist.

  “Maybe they seeded planets all over the universe with these things.” Chucky’s face was pale, and his hands shook slightly. “We uncover ’em, they beam a signal back to their masters—who then come and destroy us. Very efficient system for wiping out potential competition.”

  The second scientist shook his head. “That’s a little paranoid, don’t you think?”

  “Paranoid? Then you explain what’s happening here. All the accidents, the problems nobody wants to talk about!”

  “Cool it,” the petty officer growled.

  Chucky stood up, knocking his chair over. “Then why are people dying? Why are people getting sick? Why am I getting sick? Because there’s something wrong, something wrong with my head…”

  Crane was about to step forward and intervene when, suddenly, the machinist fell silent. He righted his chair and sat down, the petty officer’s restraining hand on his shoulder.

  Commander Korolis had just entered the cafeteria, accompanied by two officers in black fatigues and combat boots.

  For a moment, all was still. The only noise was the machinist’s labored breathing.

  The commander turned his pale, out-of-synch eyes toward Crane, and his expression hardened into disapproval. Then he turned his gaze to the group at the table, moving slowly from one person to the next, as if committing each face to memory. And then—very slowly and deliberately—he turned and walked out again without saying a word.

  32

  Three hours later, the summons from Asher came. Michele Bishop had left the deck 4 infirmary to oversee the electroencephalograms Crane requested, and he’d just finished logging the morning’s events and was preparing to track down “Chucky,” the machinist, for a mandatory physical and psychological evaluation when the telephone rang.

  He walked across the small room, plucked the phone from its cradle. “Dr. Crane speaking.”

  “Peter? This is Howard Asher. I need your assistance, please.”

  “Of course. Are you in your office? I’ll be right there—”

  “No. I’m in Hyperbaric Therapy. Deck seven. You know the location?”

  “Certainly. But—”

  “Please come at once.” The phone went dead.

  Crane stared at the receiver in mystification. Why Asher would be there, of all spots, made no sense.

  It was the work of ten minutes to pass through the Barrier and ascend to deck 7. The scientific level was full of activity, as usual, but the small suite of rooms on the dead-end corridor composing Hyperbaric Therapy was empty, almost ghostly. This, too, was expected: since the atmosphere on the Facility was not, in fact, pressurized in any way, there were no pressure-related ailments to be treated. Crane had found this out the hard way, with his original theory of caisson disease.

  The therapy suite consisted of a tiny control room; a waiting area outside the hyperbaric chamber; and the chamber itself, a metal cylinder about six feet in diameter and ten feet long, with an observation porthole in the entrance hatch and another on one side. Within, two cushioned benches ran along each of the walls, set across from each other. Along the ceiling ran two identical control strips, housing the lighting as well as the emergency water deluge system.

  Asher was standing in the waiting area, along with John Marris, the NOD cryptanlyst. Marris had a large satchel slung over one shoulder. Asher looked tired, almost haggard, and his left hand—which he held protectively against his side—was bandaged with gauze. He nodded distractedly at Crane as he entered.

  “You’re not looking especially good,” Crane said. “Getting enough sleep?”

  Asher’s response was a wintry smile.

  Crane nodded at the bandaged hand. “What happened?”

  “Look for yourself. Gently, please.” Asher turned to Marris. “We’ll run those common-language routines once again, doubling the ply depth. Perhaps we’ll get a different result.”

  Carefully, Crane unhooked the metal butterfly clip and unwrapped the bandage. Beneath the gauze, an evil-looking ulceration had formed on the back of Asher’s hand.

  Crane examined it closely. The surrounding skin was pale, almost alabaster. Yet—alarmingly—Asher’s fingertips were bluish black around the nails.

  “When did you notice this?” he asked, looking up sharply at the chief scientist.

  “Last night.”

  “Well, it’s no joke.” Crane carefully rewrapped the bandage. “It’s a result of the vascular insufficiency you’re suffering from. Not only is the hand ulcerated now, but there are signs of incipient necrosis as well. You have to report to the Medical Suite. We need to run Doppler imaging on that hand, do a bypass procedure on the blockage—”

  “No!” Asher said fiercely. He took a deep breath, got himself under control. “No. There’s no time for surgery.”

  Crane looked at him appraisingly. “Why is that?”

  “We need to decipher that code. Three men just died; it’s vital we understand what the message is. Do you hear, Peter? Until we’ve done that, I can’t afford the downtime.”

  Crane frowned. “But your hand—”

  “I’m still taking Coumadin. When I got my hand bandaged in Medical this morning, the on-duty intern gave me a course of antibiotic therapy. And there’s this.” Asher waved in the direction of the Chamber.

  Crane had wondered if this might be what Asher had in mind. Hyperbaric therapy was, in fact, often used as an adjunctive treatment for clinical conditions like arterial insufficiency or for necrotizing soft tissue infections. Pure oxygen, under pressure, penetrated tissue more effectively, rallied white blood cells to the body’s defense. Yet it was no substitute for more aggressive, and more direct, treatment.

  “Listen, Peter,” Asher said, his voice growing low and persuasive. “We’re close. It’s thanks to you the sentinels are now transmitting on countless frequencies. That was a huge leap for us. And with different messages on each of the frequencies, we have that many more samples to work with. See, the trouble was we’ve been barking up the wrong tree for the last couple of days.”

  “How so?”

  “We thought we’d cracked it. We thought the sentinels had been transmitting…well, a mathemati
cal expression.”

  “A mathematical expression?” Crane repeated. He found it hard to keep the disbelief out of his voice.

  For a moment, Asher’s look became almost sheepish. “A very simple mathematical expression.”

  “What was it?”

  When Asher did not answer, Marris reached into his pocket and handed Crane a printout.

  Pass 1 of 1

  Mode: reductive

  x = 1 / 0

  Pass complete

  Integrity verified

  Machine cycles: 236340

  Crane handed the sheet back. “One divided by zero? The first thing I learned in math was that you can’t divide by zero.”

  Asher began pacing restlessly. “Obviously you can’t. Division by zero is forbidden by all the laws of the universe. But the hell of it is, the decoding went so smoothly, it all fit together so well…we thought we’d just made some minor miscalculation in our translation. That’s why I didn’t tell you earlier, that’s why we’ve wasted all this time running computer simulations and cryptographic attacks trying to spot our error. But now I see that was the wrong direction entirely.” Here he stopped and wheeled back toward Crane, his eyes on fire. “We’re going to run the signals through a series of common-language analyzers. We’d have done it sooner if we hadn’t been so hung up on that wild-goose chase.” He waved at the paper in Crane’s hand. “We’ve wasted time—time we don’t have. That’s why we can’t stop now. That’s why I’m ordering you—no, I’m asking you—to prep the chamber for oxygen therapy.” Crane didn’t move. “It’s not a cure. It’s only delaying the inevitable.”

  Asher made a visible effort to remain calm. “I know that. I just need time—maybe a few hours, maybe a day—to run the signals through the language analyzers. Then I’ll go straight to Medical, submit to any treatment or procedure you want. Marris can take care of the other issue by himself, at least for the present.”