Free Deep Storm by Lincoln Child

little to no medullary dysfunction. It isn’t syringomyelia.”
    Crane was now even more surprised by the depth of her diagnostic technique. But it couldn’t hold.
    Time to lay my cards on the table,
he thought. “What about the sensory defects? The neuropathy? And did you notice the tonsils?”
    Bishop was still staring at him, her face expressionless. “Yes, I did notice the tonsils. Enlarged and yellowish.”
    There was a silence.
    Gradually, a smile crept over her features. “Why, Doctor,” she said. “Surely you’re not suggesting Tangier disease?”
    Crane froze. Then slowly—very slowly—he relaxed. He found that he couldn’t help smiling back. “As a matter of fact, I was,” he said a little ruefully.
    â€œTangier disease. So, what: now we’ve got a hundred rare genetic diseases floating about this station?” But her voice was mild, and there was no hint of reproof that Crane could detect. Even the smile, he decided, might be genuine.
    At that moment a series of alarms sounded, loud and fast, cutting through the wash of classical music. An amber light snapped on in the hallway outside.
    The smile left Bishop’s face. “Code orange,” she said.
    â€œWhat?”
    â€œMed-psych emergency. Let’s go.” She was already running toward the door.

10
    Bishop stopped at the front desk just long enough to grab a radio. “Get Corbett!” she called to a nurse behind the desk. Then she ran out of the medical suite and down the corridor, Crane at her heels, heading toward Times Square.
    As she ran, she punched a code into the radio, dialed through the bands. “This is Dr. Bishop, requesting location of code orange.”
    There was a brief pause before the return squawk. “Code orange location: deck five, rover repair hangar.”
    â€œDeck five, roger,” Bishop replied.
    An elevator stood waiting beside the sidewalk café; they ducked inside and Bishop pressed the lowest button on the panel,
7
.
    She turned once again to the radio. “Request nature of emergency.”
    Another squawk. “Incident code five-twenty-two.”
    â€œWhat’s that stand for?” Crane asked.
    She glanced at him. “Floridly psychotic.”
    The doors opened again, and Crane followed her out into a brightly lit intersection. Corridors led away in three directions, and Bishop ran down the one directly before them.
    â€œWhat about medical supplies?” Crane asked.
    â€œThere’s a temporary infirmary on deck four. We’ll get an MICU kit from it if necessary.”
    Crane noticed this deck felt a lot more confining than the ones he’d previously seen. The corridors were narrower, the compartments more cramped. The people they passed wore either lab coats or jumpsuits. He recalled this was the science level and computer center. Despite the audible rush of ventilation, the air was heavy with the smell of lab bleach, ozone, and hot electronics.
    They reached another intersection and Bishop jogged right. Glancing ahead, Crane saw something unexpected: the corridor widened dramatically and ended in a black wall. This wall was smooth and broken only by a single airlock set in its center. The airlock hatch was guarded by four MPs with rifles, and a fifth sat in a high-tech pillbox to one side. A large LED above the airlock glowed red.
    â€œWhat’s that?” he asked, slowing instinctively.
    â€œThe Barrier,” Bishop replied.
    â€œI’m sorry?”
    â€œPortal to the classified levels.”
    As they approached, two of the MPs took up positions directly before the airlock, rifles across their chests. “Clearance, ma’am?” one of them asked.
    Bishop trotted over to the pillbox. The fifth MP stepped out and passed a bulky scanner over her forearm. There was a loud beep.
    The MP glanced at a small LED screen set into the top of the scanner. “You’re not