Deep Storm

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 ru

"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."

15

Robert Loiseau stepped back from the industrial range, removed the toque from his head, and wiped his sweaty face with the chef's towel hanging from his belt. Even though it was cool in the kitchen he was sweating like a pig. And he was only half an hour into his shift. It was shaping up to be a long, long day.

He glanced at the wall clock: half past three. The lunchtime frenzy had passed, the cleaning staff had washed the pots and pans, and the kitchen was quiet. But quiet was a relative term: he'd learned long ago that working cuisine in the Navy was nothing like on dry land. There were no set eating schedules; people came and went as they pleased. And with the Facility ru

He wiped his face again, then let the towel fall back into place. It seemed he was sweating all the time these days, and not just in the kitchen. And that was only one of the things he'd noticed, along with hands that shook a little and a heart that beat faster than he liked. He felt tired all the time, too; and yet he was unable to sleep. He wasn't sure when it had started, but one thing was certain: slowly but surely, it was getting worse.