Deep Storm

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.