Deep Storm

Asher's eyes flew open.

For a moment, Crane thought it was muscle contraction, the nucleotide ATP ru

"Fluids!" Crane called immediately to the paramedic team. "I need massive saline, now! Ice compresses!"

Slowly-agonizingly-Asher raised a claw that was little more than singed meat on bone. It gripped Crane's shirt collar, pulled him close. The chief scientist struggled to move blackened lips; they cracked with the effort, weeping clear fluid.

"Don't try to talk," Crane said in a low, soothing voice. "Lie still. We'll get you to Medical, get you comfortable."

But Asher would not lie still. His hand tightened around Crane's shirt. "Whip," he said in a desiccated whisper.

An EMT came up behind Crane and, with gloved fingers, began pulling back Asher's charred clothing and prepping an IV. Another one bent over the still form of Marris.

"Relax," Crane told Asher. "You'll be out of here in a moment."

Asher's grip grew tighter still, even as his limbs began to convulse. "Whip…"

He let out a high-pitched gasp and shuddered. His eyes flew up in his skull; there was a gargling in his ruined throat. Then his grip relaxed, his arm slid to the floor, and he spoke no more.

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, ta

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 u

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.

F.

Crane frowned at the computer screen, unsure what to make of this cryptic message. Find a friend…

There was another knock on his door: Bishop, no doubt, returning with the meds he'd said he didn't need. "Come in, Michele," he said, closing the note.

The door opened. Hui Ping stood in the entrance.

Crane looked at her in surprise.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I hope I'm not disturbing you."

"Not at all," Crane said, recovering. "Come in."

Ping stepped in, took the seat Crane offered. "I just learned of Dr. Asher's death. I would have found out earlier, but I'd stumbled across something strange in the lab. Anyway, as soon as I heard…well, fu

Crane inclined his head.

Abruptly, Ping rose. "It's selfish of me. After all, you were there. You must be feeling-"

"No, it's all right," Crane said. "I think I need to talk, too."

"About Dr. Asher?"

"No." That's still too raw, he thought. "About something I discovered."

Ping sat down again.

"You know how I've been ru

Ping nodded.

"I was getting nowhere until something occurred to me: people were complaining about two completely different kinds of symptoms. Some were physiological: nausea, muscle tics, a horde of others. Others were psychological: sleeplessness, confusion, even mania. I'd always believed there had to be a common factor involved. But what kind of factor could cause both? That's when I got the idea the underlying cause had to be neurological."

"Why?"

"Because the brain controls both the mind and the body. So I ordered EEG tests. And just today I got back the first set of tests. Every patient had spikes in the theta waves of their brains-waves that are supposed to be quiet in adults. Even stranger, the pattern of spikes was exactly the same for every patient. That's when I got a crazy idea. I plotted the pattern of spikes. And you know what I discovered?"