Deep Storm (27 page)

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.

Thats 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. Were all going crazy by degrees?

No. But maybe just maybe its the common thread were looking for. He hesitated. Have you heard the story of Phineas Gage?

Sounds like a Hawthorne tale.

Actually, its 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.

Thats just it he didnt 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 heres 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 brains frontal lobe and human personality.

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

Im not exactly sure. But Im starting to wonder if maybe our problem here isnt 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, lets put it to use. Id like to get EEGs done on the half dozen most serious cases. Symptomology doesnt 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 dont 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 Spartans orders and would be escorting her up again when she left the room. Clearly, she wasnt happy about having a babysitter. Ill 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 cafe.

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 machnists jumpsuit and the last, a petty officers uniform. Theyd been huddled together in subdued conversation when Crane entered, and hed 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. Its an extraordinary opportunity for mankind, the most important discovery ever. Its prooffinal proof were not alone in the universe. You cant just ignore it, bury your head in the sand.

I know what Ive seen, the machinist shot back. And what Ive heard. People are saying we werent meant to find it.

The scientist scoffed. Werent meant to find it?

Yeah. It was an accident. Like, its too early.

If we didnt find it, somebody else would have, the petty officer snapped. I suppose youd 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 whats down there!

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

Ive worked with the sentinels, the first scientist said. I know what theyre capable of. This might be our only chance to

And I just finished wrapping up whats left of Marble One, the man named Chucky shot back. Trashed beyond recognition. Three of my friends, dead. I tell you, were not ready for this. Were overextended down here.

What happened to Marble One is a terrible thing, said the first scientist. And its okay to grieve. But dont let grief blind you to the larger issue: why were 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 youd seen how beautiful the markers are, how utterly

So what? A black panthers beautiful, tooright up to the minute it rips your guts out.

The scientist sniffed. Thats an inappropriate comparison.

The hell it is. You assume theyre 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 machinists voice was beginning to rise again.

Dont blame others for the failings of our planet, said the first scientist.

Maybe they seeded planets all over the universe with these things. Chuckys 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. Thats a little paranoid, dont you think?

Paranoid? Then you explain whats 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 theres 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 officers 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 machinists 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.

Chapter 32

Three hours later, the summons from Asher came. Michele Bishop had left the deck 4 infirmary to oversee the electroencephalograms Crane requested, and hed just finished logging the mornings 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? Ill be right there

No. Im 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.

Youre not looking especially good, Crane said. Getting enough sleep?

Ashers response was a wintry smile.

Crane nodded at the bandaged hand. What happened?

Look for yourself. Gently, please. Asher turned to Marris. Well run those common-language routines once again, doubling the ply depth. Perhaps well 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 Ashers hand.

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

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

Last night.

Well, its no joke. Crane carefully rewrapped the bandage. Its a result of the vascular insufficiency youre 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. Theres no time for surgery.

Crane looked at him appraisingly. Why is that?

We need to decipher that code. Three men just died; its vital we understand what the message is. Do you hear, Peter? Until weve done that, I cant afford the downtime.

Crane frowned. But your hand

Im 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 theres 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 bodys defense. Yet it was no substitute for more aggressive, and more direct, treatment.