Deep Storm (28 page)

Listen, Peter, Asher said, his voice growing low and persuasive. Were close. Its thanks to you the sentinels are now transmitting on countless frequencies. That was a huge leap for us. And with different messages on each of the frequencies, we have that many more samples to work with. See, the trouble was weve been barking up the wrong tree for the last couple of days.

How so?

We thought wed cracked it. We thought the sentinels had been transmittingwell, a mathematical expression.

A mathematical expression? Crane repeated. He found it hard to keep the disbelief out of his voice.

For a moment, Ashers look became almost sheepish. A very simple mathematical expression.

What was it?

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 cant divide by zero.

Asher began pacing restlessly. Obviously you cant. 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 wellwe thought wed just made some minor miscalculation in our translation. Thats why I didnt tell you earlier, thats why weve wasted all this time running computer simulations and cryptographic attacks trying to spot our error. But now I see that was the wrong direction entirely. Here he stopped and wheeled back toward Crane, his eyes on fire. Were going to run the signals through a series of common-language analyzers. Wed have done it sooner if we hadnt been so hung up on that wild-goose chase. He waved at the paper in Cranes hand. Weve wasted time time we dont have. Thats why we cant stop now. Thats why Im ordering you no, Im asking you to prep the chamber for oxygen therapy. Crane didnt move. Its not a cure. Its only delaying the inevitable.

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 Ill 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 hes 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 Im out of the chamber hes going to test his theory, try to trace the transmissions to their source. Meanwhile, Ive e-mailed all the department heads Ferguson, Conover, Bishop, the rest to be on the lookout for anything suspicious. He paused. But thats 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.

Well be able to access the WAN wirelessly on the inside, Asher said. The sentinels are all several decks below us; there wont be any interference here.

Ill get the chamber prepped, Crane said, turning away. Then he stopped. Wait a minute. Whats this we?

Im going inside with Dr. Asher, Marris said.

Crane frowned. Thats highly unusual. Youre not the one requiring therapy.

Its the only way to continue our work without interruption, Marris said.

Crane hesitated a moment longer. Then he shrugged. Its only oxygen, after all. Very well. Go ahead then, step into the chamber, please. Ill 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 Cranes arm. Peter, he said, lowering his voice. Dont tell Spartan.

Dont 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 dont trust Spartan. His voice fell even further. And I trust Korolis even less. His grip tightened on Cranes arm. Promise me, Peter?

Crane hesitated. Hearing this seeing the strange light in Ashers 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 personnel was affecting him now, as well.

It was a profoundly depressing and disturbing thought.

Gently, he freed his arm from Ashers 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 Ashers eyes remained always before him.

Chapter 33

Charles Vasselhoff shuffled slowly and uncertainly toward Bottom, the mess hall located on deck 3. It wasnt 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 hed 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 hed 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 hed stopped work in the Electromechanical Machine Shop, where hed been repairing impact damage to the alpha Doodlebug, and went to his quarters.

But that had been no better. Hed 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 Facilitys internal cable network. The incessant drone of the cooking pro became more and more annoying. The strange sensation in his head increased, causing his ears to ring. And then there was the way Patroni looked at him sidelong, sneaky glances, the way youd look at somebody who was talking to himself just a little too loudly. Vasselhoff had been aware of people staring at him for the last couple of days it started, he thought, around the same time the headaches began but never his own bunkmates. And so with a whispered curse, he swung his legs out of the bunk, pushed himself to his feet, and stepped out into the hallway, shutting the door behind him without a word.

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 hed taken a false step: hed 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 evenings 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.

Where was it coming from? Who was doing this?

He took a tray from the stack, shuffled ahead, bumped into the person ahead of him, mumbled an apology, lurched backward.

It took all the concentration he could muster to move forward with the line. He reached for a can of soda, then another and another, thinking they might wash the dryness from his mouth. He took a plate of watercress salad, looked at it uncertainly, put it back. He stopped at the carving station, where a chef wielding a heavy steel knife cut a thick slab of prime rib for him, forking it onto a plate and drizzling a brownish line of gravy over it.

Holding his tray with both hands, he made for the nearest empty seat and sat down heavily, the soda cans rattling against each other. He had forgotten to pick up a knife and fork, but it really didnt matter: the painful oppression in his head was spreading, causing his jaws to ache and his neck to feel stiff, and any trace of hunger he might have felt was now completely gone. Two women were sitting at the table, talking animatedly. They paused to glance at him. He remembered they were programmers in the research department but could not recall their names.

Hello, Chucky, one of them said.

Tuesday, Chucky replied. He tugged at one of the cans of soda, tugged again, and it opened, spraying a small jet of brown liquid over his hands. He raised it to his lips and took a long, greedy sip. It hurt just to fit his mouth to the can opening, and he did it imperfectly; soda dribbled down his chin as he swallowed. Even the swallowing hurt.

Damn it.

He put down the can, blinking, and listened to the ringing in his head. Hed been wrong, it was not a ringing: it was a voice. No, several voices, whispering to him.

Suddenly, he felt afraid: afraid of the numbness in his fingers; afraid of the chills that racked his body; and, most of all, afraid of the whispering inside his head. His mouth went dry again and he took another sip, heart pounding. He could feel the warm liquid going down, but it had no taste.

The voices grew louder. And as they did, Chuckys fear went away, replaced by a rising anger. It wasnt fair. Why were they doing this to him? He hadnt done anything. Beam signals into somebody elses head; there were plenty of assholes on the Facility ripe for it.

The women at the table were looking at him, frowning with concern. Are you okay, Chucky? the other programmer asked.

Fuck you, Chucky said. They didnt give a shit about him. They just sat there staring, letting the signals fill his head with voices, fill his head until it exploded

He rose abruptly, knocking over his tray and spilling soda and meat juices over the table. He swayed dangerously, righted himself. The cafeteria was spinning and the voices in his head were louder still. But that was suddenly all right: he knew now where the beams were coming from. They were radioactive, they had to be; hed been a fool not to have realized it before. He lurched toward the carving station, grabbed one of the heavy knives lying there, still speckled with bits of meat and shiny gobbets of fat. The chef said something and reached forward, but Chucky slashed with the knife and the man shrank back. There was a scattering of screams, but they were barely audible beneath the voices in his head and Chucky paid no attention. He staggered out of the cafeteria and into the hallway, brandishing the knife. It was the radiation, he knew that now: getting into his head, making him strange, making him sick.

He would put a stop to that.

He lurched as quickly as he could down the hall. There would be no wrong turns this time: he knew exactly where he needed to go, and it wasnt far away. People he passed pressed themselves against the walls to avoid him, but they were now little more than fuzzy, monochromatic shapes and he paid them no heed.