Deep Storm

When Asher did not answer, Marris reached into his pocket and handed Crane a printout.

Pass 1 of 1

Mode: reductive

x = 1 / 0

Pass complete

Integrity verified

Machine cycles: 236340

Crane handed the sheet back. "One divided by zero? The first thing I learned in math was that you can't divide by zero."

Asher began pacing restlessly. "Obviously you can't. Division by zero is forbidden by all the laws of the universe. But the hell of it is, the decoding went so smoothly, it all fit together so well…we thought we'd just made some minor miscalculation in our translation. That's why I didn't tell you earlier, that's why we've wasted all this time ru

Asher made a visible effort to remain calm. "I know that. I just need time-maybe a few hours, maybe a day-to run the signals through the language analyzers. Then I'll go straight to Medical, submit to any treatment or procedure you want. Marris can take care of the other issue by himself, at least for the present."

"Other issue?" Crane asked.

"Marris thinks he's figured out the method of transmission the saboteur is using to get information on and off the Facility."

"Really? What is it?"

"No time to explain now. But once I'm out of the chamber he's going to test his theory, try to trace the transmissions to their source. Meanwhile, I've e-mailed all the department heads-Ferguson, Conover, Bishop, the rest-to be on the lookout for anything suspicious." He paused. "But that's for later. Right now, our top priority is to decipher these signals."

Crane sighed. "Very well. But the moment you emerge from the chamber, I expect you in Medical."

At this, Asher gave a fleeting smile-the old smile Crane remembered from his first days aboard Deep Storm. "Thank you, Peter." He turned to Marris. "Got everything?"

Marris hefted the laptop, nodded.

"We'll be able to access the WAN wirelessly on the inside," Asher said. "The sentinels are all several decks below us; there won't be any interference here."

"I'll get the chamber prepped," Crane said, turning away. Then he stopped. "Wait a minute. What's this 'we'?"

"I'm going inside with Dr. Asher," Marris said.

Crane frowned. "That's highly unusual. You're not the one requiring therapy."

"It's the only way to continue our work without interruption," Marris said.

Crane hesitated a moment longer. Then he shrugged. It's only oxygen, after all. "Very well. Go ahead then, step into the chamber, please. I'll walk you through the setup procedures via the onboard microphone."

He stepped into the control room only to find that Asher had followed him. The chief scientist laid his right hand on Crane's arm. "Peter," he said, lowering his voice. "Don't tell Spartan."

"Don't tell him what?"

"About the wrong turn we took. Or about how close we are now."

This caught Crane by surprise. "I thought the whole point of this exercise was to tell Spartan what you find."

Asher shook his head vigorously. "No, not right away. I don't trust Spartan." His voice fell even further. "And I trust Korolis even less." His grip tightened on Crane's arm. "Promise me, Peter?"

Crane hesitated. Hearing this-seeing the strange light in Asher's eyes, the sheen of sweat on his brow-a new thought suddenly occurred to him. Vascular insufficiency might not be the only thing afflicting Asher. Perhaps what was striking the rest of the perso

It was a profoundly depressing and disturbing thought.

Gently, he freed his arm from Asher's grasp. "Very well."

Asher nodded, smiled again. Then he turned away and walked toward the hyperbaric chamber. And as Crane ran through the control room setup-bringing the compressors online, ensuring the ASME storage tanks were topped up, checking the relief valves and pressure gauges-the haunted, hunted look in Asher's eyes remained always before him.

33

Charles Vasselhoff shuffled slowly and uncertainly toward Bottom, the mess hall located on deck 3. It wasn't so much that he was hungry-his mouth felt dry, as if moths had nested in it, and there was an unpleasant feeling in the pit of his stomach-it was simply that he had no place else to go. His large frame shook with chills, yet he felt so hot he'd had to unzip the top half of his orange jumpsuit. But what bothered him most was his head. The pain had begun like a normal headache, and he'd assumed it was just stress or maybe overwork. But then it had grown worse: a strange, irritating feeling of fullness, as if his brain had grown too big for his skull. His vision blurred, and his fingers grew tingly and numb at the tips. So he'd stopped work in the Electromechanical Machine Shop, where he'd been repairing impact damage to the alpha Doodlebug, and went to his quarters.

But that had been no better. He'd tossed and thrashed, soaking the pillow with a cold sweat and entangling his limbs in the sheets. Patroni, one of his bunkmates, had been there, big smelly feet up on the communal table, watching a cooking show on the Facility's internal cable network. The incessant drone of the cooking pro became more and more a

And now he found his feet taking him in the direction of Bottom. At least, he thought it was the direction of Bottom, but somehow he found himself in front of a Radiography Lab instead. He blinked, swayed slightly on his feet, turned around. Somewhere he'd taken a false step: he'd try again. Putting one foot deliberately in front of the other, he started back down the narrow corridor.

A man in a white lat coat passed by, digital clipboard in hand. "Yo, Chucky," he said without stopping.

Chucky took another two steps, then halted. Slowly, even stiffly, he turned in the direction of the technician, who was already halfway down the hall. The words had taken a second to register: the strange, crowded feeling in his head was causing his eyes to water slightly and the ringing in his ears to increase, and he was withdrawing into himself, preoccupied with the pain in his head and the chills that racked his body.

"Hey," he said tentatively, his voice sounding thick and strange. He licked his lips again but was unable to bring any moisture to them. Turning back, he made his slow, plodding way to the cafeteria, stopping at each intersection and blinking at the direction signs, forcing himself through the fog of confusion to make the necessary turns.

Bottom was crowded before the impending shift change. Some people were clustered before an easel sporting the evening's menu choices. Others had formed a line for the serving stations. Chucky joined this line, wondering-remotely-why his legs felt so wooden and heavy. The buzz of conversation in the small cafeteria seemed to make the ringing in his ears worse. It was so loud, so distinct, he was certain the others must hear it, too. Yet nobody seemed to find anything strange or out of place. It was as if invisible beams of noise were being directed into his head alone.