Deep Storm

14

When Crane entered Conference Room A, the smaller of the two in the Medical Suite, he found Michele Bishop there already, entering a notation into her palmtop computer with a metal stylus. The glossy surface of the conference table was conspicuously bare. In his prior experience, medical fact-finding meetings were always accompanied by a blizzard of paperwork: charts, reports, histories. But save for the thin folder beneath Crane's arm, there was no paperwork here today. Hard copy took up valuable space, and so wherever possible, data inside the Deep Storm station was kept scrupulously within the digital realm.

As he took a seat, Bishop looked up, gave him the ghost of a smile, then glanced back at her palmtop and made another entry.

"What's Waite's status?" he asked.

"I'm recommending he be released tomorrow."

"Really?"

"Roger's given him psych clearance, and Asher's agreed to confine him to quarters. No reason to keep him here any longer."

As she spoke, Roger Corbett entered the room, a large latte from the nearby coffee bar in one hand. He smiled broadly at them in turn, then took a seat at the far side of the table, placing the latte and his own palmtop before him.

"Michele was just telling me you've cleared Waite for discharge," Crane said.

Corbett nodded. "I've done a full psych workup. He's got some anxiety issues that didn't show up during the initial approval tests, perhaps some non-specific depression as well. But he's responding well to the meds. We've backed off on the antipsychotics without adverse effects. I think we're looking at a simple mood disorder that should respond well to therapy."

Crane frowned. "It's your call to make, of course. But seventy-two hours ago, this 'simple mood disorder' took a hostage, then jammed a screwdriver into his own throat."

Corbett took a sip of his latte. "Waite clearly has some issues to grapple with, and we have no idea how long he's been internalizing. Sometimes this stuff manifests as a cri de coeur. People here are under a great deal of stress-no matter how well we vet them, we can never predict all possible behavior trees. I plan to follow up with daily sessions in his quarters, keep him under close observation."

"Fine," Crane said. At least it will get Korolis and his goons out of the Medical Suite.

He glanced back at Bishop. "Any new cases?"

She consulted her palmtop. "A technician came in complaining of spastic colon. Another reported palpitations. And there's a maintenance worker with non-specific symptomology: sleeplessness, inability to focus."

"I see. Thank you." Crane looked from one to the other. "Shall we get on with it, then?"

"Get on with what?" Bishop asked. "I'm not exactly sure why you called this meeting."

Crane looked across the table at her, wondering if every step would be a struggle. "I called this meeting, Dr. Bishop, to determine just what we're dealing with here."

Bishop leaned back in her chair. "Have we narrowed it down to any single agent?"

"It's a single agent, all right. We just don't know what it is."

Bishop crossed her arms, looked at him intently.

"A quarter of the people on this station have symptoms of illness," Crane went on. "That's no coincidence. Health problems don't occur in isolation. It's true that I assumed, early on, it was caisson disease. I was wrong to make that assumption before knowing the facts. But nevertheless something is going on here."

"But there's no common symptom," Corbett said. "At least, none specific."

"But there must be some commonality-we just haven't found it yet. We've been too busy running around putting out fires to look at the big picture. We have to step back, make a differential diagnosis."

"How do you suggest we do that?" Bishop asked.

"Just like they taught us in med school. Observe the symptoms, propose possible explanations, eliminate each hypothesis as it's proven wrong. Let's start by making a list." He took a sheet of paper from his folder, pulled out a pen. Then he glanced at the two palmtops, gleaming on the polished wood. "Sorry," he said with a small laugh. "I prefer doing this the old-fashioned way."

Corbett smiled and nodded, took another sip. The rich smell of espresso perfumed the conference room.

"We know now that the air of the station has no unusual gases or other atmospherics-we're to keep that to ourselves, by the way-so we can eliminate that as a possibility. What does that leave us? Dr. Bishop, you've mentioned several complaints of nausea. That suggests poison: either systemic, something eaten or drunk, or general: interaction with some toxin here on the station."

"Or it could just mean bad cases of nerves," Bishop replied.

"True." Crane made a notation. "There's a good argument for this being psychological-Waite has shown us that. We're in a strange and stressful environment."

"What about infection?" Corbett asked. "An outbreak of some unknown nature?"

"Another possibility. Deep Storm, or one of its inhabitants, might be a reservoir of some disease. Viral, fungal, bacterial. Some or all the patients coming to us might be vectors."

"I'm not sure I agree," Bishop said. "The only thing I can think of that would manifest in so many different ways would be the side effects of drug use."

"An excellent suggestion. Drugs could also be the causal agent." Crane made another notation. "Was everybody given a series of shots, say, before being admitted to the station? Or a certain prescription vitamin? Are workers being administered any kind of medication to keep them alert?"

"Not that I know of," Bishop said.

"We should look into it. There's also the possibility of illegal drugs."

"Like methamphetamine," Corbett added.

"Or Ecstasy. It inhibits glutamate transmission; it can cause behavior similar to that displayed by Waite."

"Diet might be a possibility," Bishop said. "The nutritionist staff here has developed a special high-protein, low-carbohydrate diet. The Navy is using our Facility as a test bed."

"Interesting. We should examine the bloods again, see if nutrition might play a role." Crane looked from Bishop to Corbett, pleased to find the two participating. "We're developing a good set of possibilities-let's see if there's anything we can rule out. We know the symptoms aren't confined to a certain area of the station or a specific job type. Could they be age or gender related?"

Bishop tapped at her palmtop. "No. The patients skew across all ages, and the gender ratio of the patients is the same as for the entire population."

"Very well. At least we have something to go on." Crane examined his notes. "At first glance it seems that poison, or perhaps drugs, is most promising. Heavy metal poisoning, for example, could explain the wide variety of symptoms. Infectious disease is a distant third, but still worth checking out." He glanced at Corbett. "Who's the strongest tech in the Medical Suite?"

Corbett thought a minute. "Jane Rand."

"See if you can get her to pull together all the records we have on every patient who's come in, program a data agent to mine everything for any hidden correspondences. Have her check everything, from employment records to medical results." He paused. "Can she check the patients' cafeteria selections as well?"

Corbett tapped a few keys on his palmtop, then glanced up and nodded.

"Add that to the list. See if anything comes up. Then compare the records of the patients to the Deep Storm population that is not ill: maybe there is an area of difference." He glanced at Bishop. "Dr. Bishop, if you could reexamine the blood work for anything that might hint at poison or drug use?"

"Okay," Bishop said.

"Please have your people take hair samples from every patient who's come by the medical suite in the last two weeks. And going forward, we should probably take blood and urine samples from all new patients-even if all they've got is a splinter. In fact, let's run a complete battery of tests, EKG, echo, EEG, the works."

"I told you before, we don't have an electroencephalograph here," said Bishop.

"Any chance we can get one?"

She shrugged. "In time."

"Well, put in the request, please. I'd hate to leave any stone un-turned. Oh, and speaking of that, you might ask your medical researchers to examine the earliest patient reports. If this is an outbreak of some sort, maybe we can isolate the index case." Crane stood up. "I think I'll have a talk with the nutritionists, learn what I can about that special diet. Let's meet in the morning to discuss our findings."

At the door, he paused. "By the way, there's something else I've been meaning to ask you. Just who is Dr. Flyte?"

Bishop and Corbett exchanged glances.

"Dr. Flyte?" Bishop asked.

"The old Greek fellow in the bib overalls. He dropped in on my cabin, uninvited, shortly after I arrived. Strange chap, seemed to enjoy talking in riddles. What's his job here?"

There was a pause.

"Sorry, Dr. Crane," Corbett said. "I'm not familiar with him."

"No?" Crane turned to Bishop. "Short, wiry, with a wild mop of white hair? Told me he did highly classified work."

"There's nobody here who fits that description," Bishop replied. "The oldest worker here is fifty-two."

"What?" Crane said. "But that's impossible. I saw the old man myself."

Bishop glanced down at her palmtop, typed in a short command, peered briefly at the tiny screen. Then she looked up again. "Like I said, Dr. Crane. There's nobody named Flyte on Deep Storm."