Deep Storm

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 I'm not catching you at a bad time, sir."

"How often do I have to tell you, Paul? My name's Howard. Here at the Facility, we're on a first-name basis. Just don't 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 what's 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 don't know," Easton said. "Maybe."

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

"It's the vulcanism," Easton said abruptly.

"The vulcanism."

"At the burial site. I've 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 didn't notice. "There's no layering, no stratification. Core sampling is virtually useless. And you can't get any kind of clear dating from visual examination, either. There isn't the kind of weathering or erosion you'd find on land. So I've been trying to date the basalt formation by cross-comparison with known samples in our geological database. But I couldn't 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 we've always put a rough estimate on when the burial event took place. It's 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: he'd made an assumption, and as a result skipped a basic test. Something inside Asher relaxed.

Time to play the frowning paterfamilias. "I'm glad you told me, Paul. It's always embarrassing when we realize we haven't 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 don't feel broken."

The worried look had not left Easton 's face. "No, Dr. Asher, you don't 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. There's 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 weren't using a bad sample?"

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

"But that can't 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. I'm sure your examination of the isotopes will confirm that."

"No, sir," Easton said.

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

"I've already checked the radioactive isotopes. There's hardly any decay. Hardly any at all."

Asher said simply, "Impossible."

"I've 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 Asher's 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. You'll 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 don't tell anyone. Not a soul."

9

Crane looked up from the digital clipboard that he'd been scribbling notes on with a plastic stylus. "And that's 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. I'd 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. "I'll 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.