Deep Storm (12 page)

That was fine with Crane; in fact, part of him welcomed the meeting. Because he happened to have an agenda of his own.

Lets warm up for a minute or two, Asher said. He held out the ball. Serve?

Crane shook his head. Go right ahead.

He watched Asher stroke the ball toward the front wall with a hard, clean swing. He fell back, balancing on the balls of his feet, waiting for the return. The ball bounded back, and he hit a volley, aiming for the far corner.

For several minutes they played without speaking, gauging each others skill, experience, preferred strategies. Crane figured Asher had at least twenty-five years on him, but the older man seemed in better practice. At least, Crane was playing miserably; half his volleys were going out.

Is there something unusual about this court? he asked at length, as he retrieved the ball and tossed it back to Asher.

The scientist caught it deftly in his racquet hand. Actually, there is. We had to accommodate the floor plan of the Facility. The ceilings about twelve inches shorter than regulation. To compensate, weve made the court a little deeper than usual. I should have mentioned it before. Once youre used to it, youll actually find the dimensions a little forgiving. Some more practice?

No, lets try a game.

Crane won the spin of the racquet, chose his side, and fired off a serve. Asher countered with a quick volley to the far corner, and the game began in earnest.

As they traded volleys, Crane had to admire the scientists game. Squash was part sport and part chess match a mixture of wits, strategy, and stamina. Asher was excellent at controlling the T and particularly impressive at firing the ball straight along the sidewall, keeping Crane constantly on the defensive. Hed assumed the scientists stiff and painful left hand would make playing difficult, but Asher seemed to have mastered using his right hand for balance as well as swing. Almost before he knew it, Crane had fallen hopelessly behind.

Thats the game, Asher said at last.

Ninefour. Not a very good showing, Im afraid.

Asher gave an easy laugh. Youll do better next game. Like I said, the unusual dimensions tend to grow on you. Go ahead, your service.

During their second game, Crane found Asher was right: as he grew more used to the shorter, deeper court, he found it progressively easier to control the ball. He made fewer outs and was able to rebound the ball behind the service box, forcing Asher to play the backcourt. Now he was no longer forced to concentrate simply on returning the ball, but could move back to the T after playing shots, thus setting himself up in better position. The game ran long, and this time he beat Asher, nineeight.

See what I mean? Asher said, puffing. Youre a quick study. A few more games and youll need to find a more challenging partner.

Crane chuckled. Your serve, he said, tossing Asher the ball.

Asher caught the ball, but made no move to serve it. So. Hows Waite?

Still sedated. A cocktail of Haldol and Ativan. Antipsychotic and anti-anxiety.

I understand you used a unique method of talking him down. Bishop said something about a striptease.

Crane smiled faintly. Somebody that florid needs to be shocked out of his psychotic loop. I did something he didnt expect. Bought us a little time.

Any idea what happened?

Corbett is running a complete psych profile at least, as complete as the meds will currently allow. As of yet, we cant settle on a diagnosis. Its strange. For the most part, the mans now completely lucid, if sedated. But earlier, he was grossly disorganized, responding to internal stimuli.

Excuse me?

Out of control. Hallucinating. Now he cant remember the incident. He cant even remember the terrible sounds that apparently brought it on. Eyewitnesses and friends said they saw little preindication other than general moodiness. And Waite has no history of psychological problems. But then, you no doubt know that. Crane hesitated. I think you should get him off the Facility.

Asher shook his head. Sorry.

If not for Waites sake, then for mine. Im getting really tired of having Commander Korolis or one of his minions in the Medical Suite day and night, babysitting Waite, making sure he doesnt say anything hes not supposed to.

Im afraid its out of my hands. As soon as you clear Waite for discharge, Ill have him confined to quarters. That should make Korolis go away.

Crane thought he detected an undercurrent of bitterness in Ashers tone. It hadnt occurred to him that the chief scientist might be chafing equally under Deep Storms culture of secrecy.

Asher, he realized, had just given him an opening; he wasnt likely to get a better chance to say what had to be said. Its time, he thought. He took a deep breath.

I think Im finally beginning to understand, he began.

Asher, who was staring at the squash ball in his hand, glanced up. Understand what?

Why Im here.

That was never in doubt. Youre here to treat our medical problem.

No. I meant why I was chosen for the job.

Asher stared at him, his face blank.

See, at first I was confused. After all, Im not a pulmonary specialist or a hematologist. If the workers were suffering some form of caisson disease, why ask me to make the house call? But it turns out thats not what theyre suffering from.

Youre sure?

Its the one thing I am sure of. He paused. Because it just so happens theres nothing exotic or unusual about Deep Storms atmosphere, after all.

Asher continued to hold his gaze but said nothing. Crane, taking in the mans expression, began to wonder if speaking up had been a wise idea after all. But now that hed begun, he had to say everything.

I had one of the TIA patients put in a hyperbaric chamber, he went on. And guess what we found.

Still Asher did not reply.

We found it didnt help in the least. But that wasnt all. The chambers readout showed us that the atmosphere was normal, inside and out. Crane hesitated a moment before speaking again. So this talk about pressurization, special air mixtures its all bull, isnt it?

Asher began to study the ball again. Yes, he replied after a moment. And its very important you keep that information to yourself.

Of course. But why?

Asher bounced the ball off the floor, caught it, squeezed it thoughtfully. We wanted a reason why nobody could leave the Facility in a hurry. A security precaution against information leaks, espionage, that sort of thing.

And all this talk of proprietary atmospherics, of a long acclimation process, and an even longer cool down, provides a nice cover story.

Asher gave the ball another bounce, then tossed it into the corner. Any pretense of game playing had now fallen aside.

So those rooms I had to wait in when I first got to the Facility. Theyre completely phony?

Theyre not phony. They are functional decompression chambers. Just with their atmospheric functions turned off. He glanced over. You were saying you know why you were chosen for the job.

Yes. After seeing the readout from the hyperbaric chamber, I finally put two and two together. Its what I did on the USS Spectre, right?

Asher nodded.

Im surprised you heard about that.

I didnt. The mission is still classified. But Admiral Spartan knew about it. He knew all about it. Your skill as a diagnostician, your past experience dealing with shall we say?bizarre medical situations under extremely stressful circumstances are unique assets. And since for security reasons Spartan would only allow one person access to Deep Storm, you seemed the best choice.

Theres that word again: security. And thats the one thing I havent figured out.

Asher threw him a questioning glance.

Why all the secrecy? What, exactly, is so vital about Atlantis that you need such drastic measures? And for that matter, why is the government willing to front so much money, and such expensive equipment, for an archaeological dig? Crane waved an arm. I mean, look at this place. Just to run something like the Facility must burn a million dollars of taxpayer money each day.

Actually, Asher said quietly, the amount is rather higher.

Last time I checked, the bureaucrats at the Pentagon werent big on ancient civilizations. And agencies like NOD usually have their caps out, thankful for whatever crumbs the government will toss them. But here youve got the most sophisticated, most secret working environment in the world. He paused. And thats another thing: the Facility is nuclear powered, isnt it? Ive been on enough boomers to know. And my ID badge seems to have a radioactive marker embedded in it.

Asher smiled, but did not reply. It was funny, Crane thought, how closemouthed the man had become in recent days.

For a minute, the squash court was filled with a tense, uncomfortable silence. Crane had one more bomb to drop, the biggest of all, and he realized there was no point delaying it any longer.

Anyway, Ive been thinking a lot about all this. And the only answer I can come up with is that its not Atlantis down there. Its something else. He glanced at Asher. Am I right?

Asher looked at him speculatively for a moment. Then he nodded almost imperceptibly.

Well? What is down there? Crane pressed.

Im sorry, Peter. I cant tell you that.

No? Why not?

Because if I did, Im afraid Spartan would have to kill you.

Hearing this cliche, Crane began to laugh. But then he looked at Asher and his laughter died. Because the chief scientist who always laughed so easily wasnt even smiling.

Chapter 13

At the uttermost frontiers of Scotland beyond Skye, beyond the Hebrides, beyond even the tiny battered chain of islands known as the Seven Sisters lies the archipelago of St. Kilda. It is the remotest part of the British Isles, rough hummocks of brown stone struggling to rise above the foam: a bleak, sea-torn, savage place.

On the westernmost point of Hirta, the main island, a thousand-foot granite promontory rises above the bitter Atlantic. Seated on its crown is the long, gray line of Grimwold Castle, an ancient and rambling abbey, hardened against weather and catapult alike, surrounded by a star curtain of local stone. It was built in the thirteenth century by a cloistered order of monks, seeking freedom from both persecution and the growing secularization of Europe. Over many decades, the order was joined by other monks Carthusians, Benedictines looking for a remote place for worship and spiritual contemplation, fleeing the dissolution of the English monasteries. Enriched by the personal contributions of these new members, the library of Grimwold Castle swelled into one of the greatest monastic collections in Europe.

A small fishing population grew up around the skirts of the monastery, serving the few earthly needs the monks could not fulfill themselves. As its fame spread, the monastery hosted in addition to new initiates the occasional wanderer. At the castles zenith, a Pilgrims Way led from its medieval chapter house, across a grassy close, through a portcullis in the curtain wall, and then down a winding path to the tiny village, where passage to the Hebrides could be found.

Today the Pilgrims Way is gone, visible only as an occasional cairn rising above the bleak stonescape. The tiny supporting village was depopulated centuries ago. Only the abbey remains, its grim and storm-lashed facade staring westward across the cold North Atlantic.

In the main library of Grimwold Castle, a visitor sat at a long wooden table. He wore a pair of white cotton gloves and slowly turned the vellum pages of an ancient folio volume, set on a protective linen cloth. Dust motes hung in the air, and the light was dim: he squinted slightly to make out the words. A pile of other texts stood at his elbow: illuminated manuscripts, incunabula, ancient treatises bound in ribbed leather. Every hour or so, a monk arrived, removed the books the man had finished with, brought another set he had asked to view, exchanged a word or two, and then retired. Now and then, the visitor paused to make a cursory jotting in a notebook, but as the day went on these pauses grew less and less frequent.