Deep Storm

  “No luck?” he asked in a quiet voice.

  Logan shook his head.

  The abbot came forward. “I wish you would let me assist you. I don’t know what you seek, but it is clearly something of great importance—at least to you. I may be an inquisitive old fool, but I know how to keep secrets entrusted to me. Let me help you. Tell me what you seek.”

  Logan hesitated. More than once, his client had emphasized the need for complete discretion. But what good was discretion if one had nothing to be discreet about? He had visited three repositories of critical knowledge, and several others of lesser relevance, while furnished with only the vaguest of assignments. Unsurprisingly, he had found nothing.

  He looked carefully at the abbot. “I’m looking for local accounts—eyewitness accounts, preferably—of a certain event.”

  “I see. And what event is that?”

  “I don’t know.”

  The abbot raised his eyebrows. “Indeed? That does make things difficult.”

  “All I know is that the event would be significant enough, or perhaps unusual enough, to prompt recording in a historical text. Most likely, an ecclesiastical historical text.”

  Slowly, the abbot moved around the table and sat down once again. As he did so, his eyes never left Dr. Logan’s.

  “An unusual event. Such as a—miracle?”

  “That is quite possible.” Logan hesitated. “But it’s my understanding the miracle—how can I say it?—might not have its roots in a divine source.”

  “In other words, the source could be demonic.”

  Dr. Logan nodded.

  “Is that all the information you have?”

  “Not quite. I also have a time frame and an approximate location.”

  “Pray continue.”

  “The event would have taken place roughly six hundred years ago. And it would have happened there.” And he raised his hand and pointed toward the northwest wall of the library.

  At this, the abbot started visibly. “Over water?”

  “Yes. Something seen by a local fisherman, say, straying far from shore. Or perhaps, if the day was exceptionally clear, something observed on the horizon by a person walking the coastal cliffs.”

  The abbot began to speak, then paused as if reconsidering. “The other two monastic libraries you visited,” he began again quietly. “They, too, were situated on the coast—were they not? Both of them overlooking the North Atlantic. Just as we do.”

  Logan considered this a moment. Then he nodded almost imperceptibly.

  For a moment, the abbot did not reply. He looked past Logan and his eyes went distant, as if viewing something far away or, perhaps, long past. At the front of the library, a monk gathered several books under his arm, then slipped out on noiseless feet. The dusty old room fell into an intense silence.

  At last, Father Bronwyn stood up. “Please wait,” he said. “I’ll be back shortly.”

  Logan did as requested. And within ten minutes the abbot returned, carrying something gingerly between his hands: a bulky rectangular object wrapped in a rough black cloth. The abbot laid the object on the table, then drew the cloth carefully back. Beneath lay a lead box figured in gold and silver leaf. Drawing out a key from around his neck, the abbot unlocked the box.

  “You have been candid with me, my son,” he said. “So I will be the same with you.” He patted the lead box gently. “What is inside this box has remained one of the greatest secrets of Grimwold Castle. Originally it was felt very dangerous to possess a written record of the events herein. Later, as myth and legend grew, the record itself became too valuable and controversial to show to anyone. But I think I can trust you with it, Dr. Logan—if only for a few minutes.” And, slowly, the abbot pushed the box across the table. “I hope you don’t mind if I remain here while you read it? I can’t allow it to leave my sight. That was an oath I swore on being named abbot of Grimwold Castle.”

  Logan did not open the box immediately. Instead, he simply stared at the gold and silver scrollwork adorning its top. Despite his eagerness, he hesitated.

  “Is there something I should know before I begin?” he asked. “Something you would care to tell me?”

  “I think it will speak well enough for itself.” Then a smile—not grim, exactly, but not entirely pleasant—spread across the abbot’s features. “Dr. Logan, surely you are aware of the saying, ‘Here there be monsters’?”

  “I am.”

  “It is found in the blank spaces of the oceans on old maps.” The abbot paused again. Then, very gently and deliberately, he tapped the box. “Read this carefully, Dr. Logan. I am not a gambling man—except perhaps on the quality of Brother Frederick’s wine when each new vintage is laid down—but I would bet this is where that expression first came from.”

  14

  When Crane entered Conference Room A, the smaller of the two in the Medical Suite, he found Michele Bishop there already, entering a notation into her palmtop computer with a metal stylus. The glossy surface of the conference table was conspicuously bare. In his prior experience, medical fact-finding meetings were always accompanied by a blizzard of paperwork: charts, reports, histories. But save for the thin folder beneath Crane’s arm, there was no paperwork here today. Hard copy took up valuable space, and so wherever possible, data inside the Deep Storm station was kept scrupulously within the digital realm.

  As he took a seat, Bishop looked up, gave him the ghost of a smile, then glanced back at her palmtop and made another entry.

  “What’s Waite’s status?” he asked.

  “I’m recommending he be released tomorrow.”

  “Really?”

  “Roger’s given him psych clearance, and Asher’s agreed to confine him to quarters. No reason to keep him here any longer.”

  As she spoke, Roger Corbett entered the room, a large latte from the nearby coffee bar in one hand. He smiled broadly at them in turn, then took a seat at the far side of the table, placing the latte and his own palmtop before him.

  “Michele was just telling me you’ve cleared Waite for discharge,” Crane said.

  Corbett nodded. “I’ve done a full psych workup. He’s got some anxiety issues that didn’t show up during the initial approval tests, perhaps some non-specific depression as well. But he’s responding well to the meds. We’ve backed off on the antipsychotics without adverse effects. I think we’re looking at a simple mood disorder that should respond well to therapy.”

  Crane frowned. “It’s your call to make, of course. But seventy-two hours ago, this ‘simple mood disorder’ took a hostage, then jammed a screwdriver into his own throat.”

  Corbett took a sip of his latte. “Waite clearly has some issues to grapple with, and we have no idea how long he’s been internalizing. Sometimes this stuff manifests as a cri de coeur. People here are under a great deal of stress—no matter how well we vet them, we can never predict all possible behavior trees. I plan to follow up with daily sessions in his quarters, keep him under close observation.”

  “Fine,” Crane said. At least it will get Korolis and his goons out of the Medical Suite.

  He glanced back at Bishop. “Any new cases?”

  She consulted her palmtop. “A technician came in complaining of spastic colon. Another reported palpitations. And there’s a maintenance worker with non-specific symptomology: sleeplessness, inability to focus.”

  “I see. Thank you.” Crane looked from one to the other. “Shall we get on with it, then?”

  “Get on with what?” Bishop asked. “I’m not exactly sure why you called this meeting.”

  Crane looked across the table at her, wondering if every step would be a struggle. “I called this meeting, Dr. Bishop, to determine just what we’re dealing with here.”

  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.

&
nbsp; “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 running around putting out fires to look at the big picture. We have to step back, make a differential diagnosis.”

  “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 running on three shifts, it wasn’t unusual to serve somebody breakfast at 8 P.M. or lunch at 2 in the morning.

  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.

  Al Tanner, the pastry chef, walked past, whistling “Some Enchanted Evening.” He had a pastry cone draped casually over one shoulder as if it were a freshly killed goose. He ceased his whistling long enough to call out, “Hey, Wazoo.”

  “It’s Wah-zoh,
” Loiseau muttered under his breath. You’d think that in a gourmet kitchen, people would know how to pronounce a French name. Maybe they were all just teasing him. But the fact was only Renault, the executive chef, pronounced his name properly—and he rarely condescended to call people by name, preferring to beckon with a curt movement of his index finger.

  With a sigh, he turned back to the range. No time for daydreaming. Right now he had to prepare some béchamel sauce: a whole lot of béchamel, in fact. Chef Renault was serving tournedos sauce Mornay and côtelettes d’agneau Écossais on the dinner menu, and both sauces used a béchamel base. Of course, Loiseau could practically prepare béchamel in his sleep. But he’d learned the hard way that cooking was like running a marathon: when you paused, everyone else kept going, and if you paused too long it became impossible to catch up.

  Sweat the onion, incorporate the roux… As he went over his mise en place, Loiseau felt his heartbeat accelerate again and his breathing grow shallow. It was possible he was getting sick, of course. But he thought he had a better explanation for the sweaty palms and sleepless nights: anxiety. It was one thing to work on an aircraft carrier, with its cavernous hangars and endless echoing corridors. But this was different. During the protracted vetting process, with its endless interviews, he hadn’t stopped to think much about actually living in Deep Storm. The pay was fantastic, and the thought of participating in a classified, cutting-edge project was a little intoxicating. He’d spent five years in the Navy, working in admirals’ kitchens: how different could it be, cooking beneath the sea instead of floating on it?

  As it turned out, nothing could have prepared him.

  Christ, it’s hot. He slowly added a pale roux to the mixture of milk, thyme, bay leaf, butter, and onion. As he bent over the pot, whisking vigorously, a brief sensation of dizziness washed over him and he had to step back, gulping for air. He was hyperventilating, that was the problem. Get your nerves under control, Bobby-boy. Shift’s just starting and there’s a ton of shit to do.

  Now Tanner was coming back from the pantry, a large sack of cake flour in his hands. When he saw Loiseau, he stopped. “Everything okay, fellah?”