Deep Storm

36

Crane sat at the desk in his quarters, staring at the computer monitor but seeing nothing. Several hours had passed since the accident but he was still numb. He'd taken a long shower, and he'd delivered his clothes to the laundry, yet his room still stank of charred hair and skin.

He felt a sense of disbelief that was almost paralysis. Was it really only eight hours since he'd performed the autopsy on Charles Vasselhoff? At the time, they'd had one postmortem report to write.

Now they had three.

In his mind, he kept seeing Howard Asher as he'd first appeared: an image on a screen in the Storm King library, tanned and smiling. What we have here, Peter, is the scientific and historical discovery of all time. Asher had never smiled again as much as he had on that first day. In retrospect, Crane wondered how much of it had been a show put on to make him feel welcome, feel comfortable.

There was a soft rap on the door, then it pushed open to reveal Michele Bishop. Her dark blond hair was pulled back severely, exaggerating her high cheekbones. Her eyes looked reddened and sad.

"Peter," she said, her voice low.

Crane wheeled his chair around. "Hi."

She stood in the doorway, uncharacteristically hesitant. "I just wanted to make sure you were okay."

"I've been better."

"It's just that you never said a single word. Not when we moved Asher's body to the Medical Suite. Not when we performed the final examinations. I guess I'm a little concerned."

"I can't understand what went wrong in the hyperbaric chamber. What caused the fire? Why was the sprinkler system off-line?"

"Spartan's ordered an investigation. He'll find out what went wrong."

"I should have done more. Checked the chamber myself. Tested the water deluge system."

Bishop took a step forward. "That's exactly what you shouldn't be thinking. You did everything you had to. It was an accident, that's all. A terrible accident."

There was a brief silence before Bishop spoke again. "I guess I'll head back to the Medical Suite. Can I bring you back something from the pharmaceutical locker? Xanax, Valium, anything?"

Crane shook his head. "I'll be fine."

"I'll look in on you later, then." And Bishop turned away.

"Michele?"

She looked back.

"Thanks."

She nodded, then left the stateroom.

Crane turned slowly back toward the terminal. He stared at it, without moving, for several minutes. Then he pushed himself roughly away from the desk and began pacing. That didn't help, either: he recalled how Asher had paced in much the same way on the day he'd revealed what Deep Storm was really about.

That had been just four days ago.

It was all so horribly ironic. Here, at last, he'd made the breakthrough-only for Asher to die before he could hear about it. Asher, who had brought him down to solve the medical mystery in the first place.

Of course he wasn't the only one who'd made a breakthrough. Asher had as well. But now he was dead: spontaneous pneumothorax, gas emboli, and third-degree burns over 80 percent of his body.

Bishop was right: he had been unnaturally silent in the aftermath of Asher's death. It wasn't only the shock, though that was part of it. It was also because of what he couldn't say. He'd wanted so badly to tell her what he'd discovered, to share it with someone. But she didn't have the necessary clearance. Unable to speak of it, he'd found himself saying nothing.

He couldn't put off the PM reports any longer.

He sat back down at his terminal, brought up his desktop. A blinking icon told him he had incoming mail.

With a sigh, he booted up his mail client, moused his way to the in-box. There was one new piece of electronic mail; curiously, no sender was listed.

"There is a time for many words, and there is also a time for sleep."

Homer, Odyssey, Book XI

Dr. Asher was a man of many words. Important words. Now, he can only sleep.

It is a tragedy indeed.

Too much death-and we have not even reached it yet. I fear the worst.

The burden is all on you now, my dear doctor. I'm forced to stay here; you are not. Find the answer, then leave, quick as you can.

If one must labor in darkness, one should not labor alone. Find a friend.

I'm afraid our irrational numbers here on the Facility have grown since we spoke in your cabin. But perhaps there's a silver lining, because, after all, the answer to your puzzle lies with them.

I bid thee good morrow.