Deep Storm (8 page)

I have no time for modern poetry, and neither should you. Like I said: read Homer. The man dropped the book back onto the duffel and glanced at the other volume, Pi: Its History and Mystery. Aha! And this?

Its a book about irrational numbers.

The man laughed and nodded. Indeed! And how appropriate, no?

Appropriate for what?

The man looked up at him in surprise. Irrational numbers! Dont you see?

No. I dont see.

Its so obvious. A number of us here are irrational, arent we? If were not, I fear we soon will be. He extended a wiry index finger and tapped Crane on the chest. Thats why youre here. Because its broken.

Whats broken?

Everything is broken, Flyte repeated in an urgent whisper. Or at least, will be very soon.

Crane frowned. Dr. Flyte, if you dont mind

Flyte held up one hand. The mood of sudden urgency seemed to pass. It hasnt occurred to you yet, but we have something in common. He paused significantly.

Crane swallowed. He was not about to ask what it was. But it seemed that Flyte needed no encouragement.

The man leaned forward, as if to share a confidence. Our names. Crane. Flyte. You understand?

Crane sighed. No offense, but Im going to have to ask you to leave. I have a lunch appointment Im already late for.

The tiny old man cocked his head to one side and grasped Cranes hand. Delighted to make your acquaintance, Dr. Crane. As I said, weve got something in common, you and I. And we need to stick together.

With a parting wink he ducked outside, leaving the door open. A moment later Crane went to close it, and he glanced curiously down the long corridor. It was empty, and there was no sign of the strange old man. It was as if hed never been there at all.

Chapter 8

Howard Asher sat at the desk in his cramped office on deck 8, staring intently at a computer screen. The wash of color from the flat-panel monitor turned his silver-gray hair a strange, ethereal blue.

Behind him was a metal bookcase stuffed with technical manuals, textbooks on oceanography and marine biology, and a few well-worn collections of poetry. Above the bookcase were several framed etchings: reproductions of Piranesi studies taken from Vedute di Roma. Another, smaller bookcase, this one with a glass door, held a variety of maritime curiosities: a fossilized coelacanth, a battered handspike from a clipper ship, a tooth from the impossibly reclusive Blue Grotto shark. Neither the diminutive size of the office nor its eclectic collections gave any evidence its occupant was the chief scientist of the National Ocean Service.

Faintly, through the closed door, came the sound of approaching footsteps. Then a face appeared in the glass window of the door. Glancing over, Asher recognized the red hair and freckled face of Paul Easton, one of several marine geologists at work on the reclamation project.

Asher swiveled in his chair, leaned over, opened the door. Paul! Good to see you.

Easton stepped in, closed the door behind him. I hope Im not catching you at a bad time, sir.

How often do I have to tell you, Paul? My names Howard. Here at the Facility, were on a first-name basis. Just dont tell Admiral Spartan I said so. And Asher chuckled at his little joke.

Easton, however, did not laugh.

Asher regarded him carefully. Normally, Easton was a puckish fellow, fond of practical jokes and very dirty limericks. Today, however, he was frowning, and his youthful features looked somber. More than that: Easton looked worried.

Asher waved a hand at the lone empty chair. Sit down, Paul, and tell me whats on your mind.

Although Easton sat down immediately, he did not speak. Instead, he raised a hand to his forearm and began rubbing it gently.

Is something wrong, son? Asher asked.

I dont know, Easton said. Maybe.

He was still rubbing his arm. Some people, Asher knew, had minor skin reactions from the RFID chip implantation process.

Its the vulcanism, Easton said abruptly.

The vulcanism.

At the burial site. Ive been working with several samples of basalt from the sea floor, trying to get a firm date for when the burial event occurred.

Asher nodded in encouragement.

You know how it is. Easton seemed to grow flustered, or maybe defensive. Because the undersea currents in this region are so strong, the sedimentation of the ocean floor is all messed up.

Is that the technical term for it? Asher said, trying to lighten the tone.

Easton didnt notice. Theres no layering, no stratification. Core sampling is virtually useless. And you cant get any kind of clear dating from visual examination, either. There isnt the kind of weathering or erosion youd find on land. So Ive been trying to date the basalt formation by cross-comparison with known samples in our geological database. But I couldnt get any definitive match. So then I decided to date the sample from the decay of radioactive isotopes within the basalt.

Go on, Asher said.

Well. Easton seemed to grow even more nervous. You know how weve always put a rough estimate on when the burial event took place. Its just that He faltered, started again. I made the same assumption in my tests. I never checked for magnetic field reversal.

Now Asher realized why Easton seemed so flustered. The man had made the one mistake a scientist should never make: hed made an assumption, and as a result skipped a basic test. Something inside Asher relaxed.

Time to play the frowning paterfamilias. Im glad you told me, Paul. Its always embarrassing when we realize we havent followed the scientific method. And the dumber the mistake, the dumber we feel. The good news here is that no vital work was compromised as a result. So my advice to you? Feel bad, but dont feel broken.

The worried look had not left Eastons face. No, Dr. Asher, you dont understand. You see, just today, I performed that test, measured the magnetism. And there was no magnetic reversal in the sample.

Abruptly, Asher sat up in his chair. Then he settled back slowly, trying to keep surprise from blossoming over his face. What did you say?

The samples. Theres no evidence of magnetic reversal.

Are you sure the orientation of the samples was correct?

Absolutely.

And you made sure there was no anomaly? That you werent using a bad sample?

I checked all my samples. The results were the same in each case.

But that cant be. Magnetic reversal is a fail-safe method of dating rock samples. Asher exhaled slowly. This must mean the entombment happened even longer ago than we thought. Dating back two reversals, rather than just one. North to south, then south to north again. Im sure your examination of the isotopes will confirm that.

No, sir, Easton said.

Asher looked at him sharply. What do you mean, no?

Ive already checked the radioactive isotopes. Theres hardly any decay. Hardly any at all.

Asher said simply, Impossible.

Ive spent the last four hours in Radiography. I ran the tests three times. Here are the results. And Easton removed a DVD from his lab coat pocket and laid it on Ashers worktable.

Asher stared at it but did not touch it. So all our conclusions were wrong. The burial event is much more recent than we expected. Have you got a new date, based on the tests?

Just a rough one, sir, for now.

And that is?

Approximately six hundred years ago.

Very slowly, Asher leaned back in his chair. Six hundred years.

Once again, the tiny office fell into silence.

You need to requisition one of the rovers, Asher said at last. Have it fitted with an electron-phasing magnetometer, do several passes over the burial site. Youll take care of that?

Yes, Dr. Asher.

Very good.

Asher watched as the young geologist stood up, nodded, made for the door.

And, Paul? he said quietly.

The man turned back.

Do it right away, please. And dont tell anyone. Not a soul.

Chapter 9

Crane looked up from the digital clipboard that hed been scribbling notes on with a plastic stylus. And thats it? Just some pain in the legs?

The man in the hospital bed nodded. Even beneath the sheet it was clear he was tall and well built. He had good color, and his eyes were clear.

On a scale of one to ten, how severe is the pain?

The man thought a moment. Depends. Id say around six. Sometimes a little more.

Nonfebrile myalgia, Crane jotted on the clipboard. It seemed impossible no, it was impossible this man had suffered a ministroke two days ago. He was too young, and, besides, none of the tests indicated one had occurred. There were only the initial complaints: partial paralysis, slurred speech.

Thank you, Crane said, shutting the metal clipboard. Ill let you know if I have any more questions. And he stepped back from the bed.

Although termed a suite, the medical facility of the Deep Storm station boasted equipment that a moderate-sized hospital might envy. In addition to the ER, surgical bays, and two dozen patient rooms, there were numerous breakout areas for specialties from radiography to cardiology. There was a separate complex in which the staff had working areas and conference rooms. It was here that Crane had been given a small but well-equipped office with an attached lab.

Of all the recent complaints Dr. Bishop had described, only three had been severe enough to warrant hospitalization. Crane had already interviewed two of the patients a forty-two-year-old man suffering from nausea and diarrhea, and this supposed stroke victim and the fact was, neither really needed to be hospitalized. No doubt Dr. Bishop was just keeping them under observation.

Crane turned and nodded to Bishop, who was standing well back.

Theres no indication of TIA, he said as they stepped into the corridor.

Except for the initial presentation.

You witnessed it yourself, you said?

I did. And the man was clearly having a transient ischemic attack.

Crane hesitated. Bishop had said little during his examination of the two patients, but the hostility had been just below the surface. She wouldnt like having her diagnosis called into question.

There are numerous syndromes that can present in similar fashion he began as diplomatically as possible.

I did my internship in a vascular care unit. Ive seen more than my share of patients stroke out. I know a TIA when I see one.

Crane sighed. Her defensiveness was starting to wear on him. True, nobody liked an interloper, and perhaps thats what he seemed. But the fact was the medical team here had only done superficial tests, treating each case as a separate event. He was convinced that if they dug deeper, ran more extensive tests, some commonality would surface. And despite what Bishop had told him, he was still betting on caisson disease as the main differential.

You never answered my question before, he said. There is a hyperbaric chamber here, right?

She nodded.

Id like this man placed in the chamber. Lets see if repressurization and pure oxygen ease the pains in his extremities.

But

Dr. Bishop, Asher told me this Facility uses some kind of classified pressurization technology. Basically untested in the field. That makes the bends the most likely culprit by far.