Lucifer (aka the Lucifer Code) (2001) Read online

  And, of course, it's fast - there's nothing faster.

  'It's been eight years since Optrix launched the first optical computer and transformed the world. If you cast your mind back to the opening years of this millennium, silicon was becoming obsolete as the physical limits of processing power were reached. Even Intel had to concede that Moore's famous law, which claimed processing speeds doubled every eighteen months, was impossible to sustain.

  'So when the first optical computer - the Lucifer One - was launched, all the rules were broken. There was no longer a need for a silicon-based processor chip and RAM and a hard disk, because the Lucifer used subatomic light photons to do all these things - to process, memorize and store data. A quartz motherboard of optical circuits allied to a sphere containing processor cells of captured light photons created a computer with the processing speed of the fastest thing in the universe. Light. Optrix turned Moore's law into an anachronism overnight.'

  Amber paused and walked across the stage. From his vantage-point Soames found it hard to see her in any detail, but he heard her amplified voice and could tell from the hush that she held the attention of the audience. It had been her charisma as well as her mind that had drawn him to her. That she was physically striking had been largely irrelevant. Her talents, however, would pale into insignificance if his suspicions about her were proven tonight.

  Soames looked at Walter Tripp, who was powering up the optical computer and entering the code for the foundation's Data Security Provider, accessing live video of the experiment four and a half thousand miles away. On the delayed photon screen, which gave a three-dimensional texture to the images, Soames could see the glass sphere being placed over the subject's head. He shifted his attention back to Amber Grant. Confirmation would soon be at hand.

  As chief executive officer of Optrix Industries,' he heard her say, 'I want to remind you of how far we've come in eight years, how far we've entered the light age. I often think that although our logo is "Let There Be Light" it should be "Pushing Back the Darkness" because that's what we're consistently trying to do. In case you've forgotten the leap we've made, the Lucifer can perform a calculation ten to the power thirty-eight times faster than an old electronic Pentium IV computer. In other words, in less than a second, the Lucifer can do a calculation it would take an old IBM ThinkPad the age of the universe to complete.

  'The Lucifer design is already a classic. The translucent cube, which contains a glass sphere of photon light particles interacting with memory and processor cells and rests on a motherboard of optical fibre, is a familiar sight in homes and offices around the world. Over ninety per cent of the world's computers, home and commercial, are now optical, produced either by Optrix or our licensees. And the Internet is entirely optical -wireless signals and optical fibres now unite the world at the speed of light. Indeed, many people refer to the Internet as the Optinet.'

  Here Amber's tone changed, from triumphant to humble. 'Despite being the public face of Optrix, and credited as the co-inventor of the optical computer, I'm painfully aware that most of the real breakthroughs, the real insights into some of the quantum anomalies of the Lucifer, came from my mentor and the chairman of Optrix Optoelectronics. Bradley Soames is the true genius behind the Lucifer and you'll be delighted to know he's agreed to make a rare public appearance and talk to you later this afternoon.'

  Ignoring the buzz of excitement that rose from the audience, Soames glanced at the computer beside Tripp, saw the electrode being attached to the subject's temple. It was close now and, assuming that his suspicions were well founded, Amber would be exposed to the press and the public when it happened. This would make it easier to persuade her to do what was necessary.

  'Now to the future,' Amber said, as a low, rhythmic beat filled the hall and the ambient lighting dimmed again, leaving the giant light sculptures pulsing to the music. 'Since the launch of the Lucifer, Optrix have developed new and better ways to exploit the technology. And today's launch is no exception. The Lucifer soft-screen offers a radical new way to present data. Let me show you.'

  The tempo of the background music increased and Soames watched her move towards a table at the back of the stage and tap a touch-sensitive control pad beside a translucent glowing cube. A blue rectangular screen bearing the Lucifer logo appeared behind her. It started at no more than a foot high but grew until it was over ten feet high and twelve feet wide. Like the sculptures, it looked solid and opaque but it, too, was formed of light particles.

  The screen image changed and the Lucifer logo was replaced by a real-time moving image of Amber. It was as if a vast eight-foot twin stood behind her own five-and-a-half-foot frame, ghosting her every move. The definition was stunning. Her olive skin and thick black hair looked luminous on the screen, and her green eyes were incandescent. She smiled, showing even white teeth, and as her huge alter-ego walked across the stage her Chanel suit shimmered.

  'This soft-screen technology literally pushes back the darkness and, within reason, can be whatever size you want it to be,' she said. As visible in direct light as conventional LCD and LED displays, it is backward compatible so can be used with all Lucifer models. The display area can be enlarged like now for presentations, or minimized for laptops or personal use.' The screen image shrank down to postage-stamp size then grew again to its full magnificence. 'And, of course, it's portable,' said Amber, her huge luminous image smiling at the audience. She laughed. 'You could say it's the lightest screen in the world.'

  The audience laughed with her and clapped; some even stood to applaud, and Soames was swept up in their enthusiasm. Then he heard Tripp clear his throat and say, 'Almost time, sir.'

  Keeping an eye on Amber, he glanced back at the small computer screen beside Tripp. The subject's visor had been sealed and the green caesium and flavion gas was filling the sphere. The scientist in the white bodysuit and eye-protectors held a control pad in one hand. The screen shifted to close-up, focusing on the subject's face within the glass sphere.

  Then it happened.

  The electrode sparked on the subject's temple. Instantly an even brighter spark - seemingly from the subject's eyes - lit up the gas-filled sphere like a brilliant bulb, before hitting a dark glass oblong embedded in the visor and leaving a stripy wave interference pattern similar to the exhibit in the hall below. It disappeared, lingering momentarily in the sphere's outer layer of optical fibre, glowing like a halo, before it vanished into the ether.

  The experiment wasn't interesting in itself: Soames had witnessed a hundred identical experiments over the last nine months and didn't care unduly about today's result. The subject, Mother Giovanna Bellini, was dead, and he doubted the trial had succeeded. What interested him more was its possible connection with what was happening now below him in the turbine hall where the giant on-screen image of Amber Grant was clutching her head and reeling.

  At the exact instant the spark had appeared in Mother Giovanna's head-sphere, marking her point of death, Amber Grant had stumbled forward in pain, reaching for her left temple. She was now on her knees and members of the audience were rushing forward to help.

  Not taking his eyes off Amber, Soames reached for his cellphone and dialled a number in Cambridge. Someone picked up on the third ring. Soames wasted no time. 'Put me through to the director, please.'

  'Dr Knight's in a meeting-'

  'Tell her Bradley Soames wants to talk to her. Now.'

  In seconds she was on the phone. 'Virginia,' he said, 'it's urgent. The scientist at your clinic I earmarked funds for-'

  'Miles Fleming?'

  'Yes, he's got to examine Amber Grant -immediately.'

  'But that might not be-'

  There's no time to argue. Amber needs urgent help. I'll double the funding we discussed for Fleming's NeuroTranslator. She'll be arriving in the next two hours.'

  Three minutes later, assisted by Tripp and members of the Optrix staff, Soames was in the hall, standing over Amber who was curled up in the foetal position
. Speaking into the microphone, he addressed the crowd: 'Would everyone please move from the hall into the lobby. I'll continue the presentation personally when you return.'

  When he was satisfied that the Optrix staff and gallery officials were shepherding the audience away from the stage, he bent down to Amber's rigid form. Lifting her head, he forced two analgesic tablets down her throat and gave her a sip of water.

  Amber, it's me. I've arranged for you to see someone who's going to figure out these migraines. Don't pretend it's no big deal any more.'

  He waited for her to say something, but she didn't.

  He couldn't remain silent. He had to ask. He had to know. 'The pain in the same place as before?'

  'Yes,' she whispered, her pale face contorted in agony.

  'Where?' he demanded. 'Point.'

  Her hand was shaking as she raised it to indicate the area of pain. But she wasn't touching her head - she was pointing to a position in thin air at least three inches from her left temple.

  *

  Barley Hall Research Clinic

  Cambridge, England

  It was moments like this that restored Miles Fleming's belief in the possible, which had been sorely tested over the last eleven months. He turned to the young man sitting beside him. 'The arm okay, Paul?'

  Adjusting the blue latticework Thinking Cap on his head, Paul stared at the anatomically correct figure on the upper half of the split computer screen in front of him. 'Fine, Doc. No pain at all.'

  'No trace twinges?'

  Paul grinned. 'Nothing.'

  'Okay, let's see you move it again. Try raising it above your head.'

  watching the on-screen figure lift its right arm, Fleming checked the horizontal lines spiking furiously on the lower half of the screen. 'Excellent, Paul. Your brainwaves are looking strong. You've got the Alphas under good control now: Lower the arm. Great.' He turned to his research patient, who was frowning with concentration as he willed his thoughts to control the arm on screen. The twenty-six-year-old wore a Nike sweatshirt and faded jeans. His right sleeve hung empty from his shoulder.

  Four years ago Paul had lost his arm in a factory accident and until he had come to Barley Hall he had been tormented by severe pain in his absent limb. In Fleming's experience many amputees suffered phantom pain. It emanated from the brain, which had a virtual 3D map of the body in its neural net and often continued to send signals to a limb long after it had been amputated. In Paul's case the NeuroTranslator had helped identify the brainwaves sending pain signals to his missing limb, enabling Fleming to suppress them. He had responded so well to the treatment that a month ago Fleming had decided to extend it beyond stopping the pain signals to boosting the control signals.

  'Okay, so you're pretty good on screen.' Fleming turned to the latex mannequin in the corner. 'How about handling Brian?'

  Paul grinned. 'No problem.'

  'Pretty confident, huh? Let's see you do the egg test then.'

  'The what?'

  Fleming stood up and went over to the body surrogate. 'Brian' was sexless, but otherwise every prosthetic muscle and joint beneath its latex skin replicated those of the average human body. Fleming retrieved a box from the pocket of his crumpled white coat, opened it and removed an egg packed in cotton wool. He moved to the small table beside the mannequin, placed the egg on one end of the polished wooden surface and the box on the other. Both were within reach of Brian's right hand.

  He walked to the other side of the high-ceilinged Victorian room, and stopped at the glass window separating the Think Tank from the observation room. He bent to the workstation, and made some adjustments to the keypad by the translucent cube. 'Right, you're connected to Brian. Ignore the rest of its body. Just focus on the right arm. Lift the egg and put it back in the box.'

  'From here?' said Paul, who was ten feet from the egg.

  'Just think about moving your missing arm. Like you did with the figure on screen.'

  Paul grimaced in concentration.

  'Don't try so hard. Imagine that Brian's arm is your arm.'

  At that moment the mannequin's right arm bent at the elbow and the hand shot forward, almost hitting the egg.

  'Careful. Take your time.'

  Slowly the hand opened, moved closer to the egg and gripped it. Paul flashed Fleming a grin.

  'Not bad, not bad at all,' said Fleming. 'That's the easy part, though. Now you've got to lift it and put it into the box. Pay attention to the feedback sensors in the fingertips.'

  The mannequin's hand raised and moved towards the box. Then it closed suddenly and crushed the shell, dripping yolk and white on to the polished wood.

  Fleming laughed and patted Paul on the shoulder.

  'Harder than it is on screen, isn't it? Good first effort, though.'

  There was a knock at the door and Staff Nurse Frankie Pinner poked her head into the room. An attractive thirty-year-old with dark hair and a wide smile, she was the senior nurse among Fleming's team of doctors, scientists and nurses who helped run his research section in the east wing of Barley Hall. 'Dr Fleming, it's four o'clock. You wanted to check the ward.'

  Fleming glanced at his watch. 'Thanks, Frankie. Could you stay and help Paul finish his exercises?' He turned back to Paul. 'Keep practising,' he said. 'Once you've mastered Brian you'll be ready for your own arm.'

  He left the Think Tank, turned right into the east-wing corridor and pushed open the first pair of swing doors on the left.

  The Barley Hall research ward was an imposing oak-panelled hall with tall lancet windows overlooking the ornamental lake and landscaped lawns to the rear of the clinic. It had been converted from what had been a gymnasium in the Victorian manor's days as a boys' boarding-school. The ward was composed of six roomy private cubicles surrounding an open central area with chairs and a television. It accommodated patients who had to sleep over during clinical trials. Most stayed a few nights before returning either to their homes or to one of the larger specialist hospitals, such as the spinal injuries unit at Stoke Mandeville in Buckinghamshire.

  Through the half-open screen doors of the first occupied cubicle he could see a girl lying asleep in bed. A nurse was standing over her. 'How is she?' he whispered. A year ago, two months after her sixteenth birthday, her boyfriend had taken her for a ride on his motorbike. He had walked away from the crash with bruises, but her spine had snapped at the base, paralysing her from the waist down. Yesterday, Fleming's team had inserted electrical implants in her lower spine and legs. With the NeuroTranslator, he hoped that her brain would be able to bypass the damaged spinal cord and control her legs directly.

  The nurse looked up. 'She's doing fine, Dr Fleming. Should be ready in a few days' time for her first stint in the Think Tank.'

  The adjacent cubicle was Paul's, and the doors to the next two were closed. Fleming opened each a crack to look at his charges. Both occupants were also asleep. He checked their monitors and left them undisturbed before moving on to the fifth cubicle. As he approached this one his usual detached professionalism wavered.

  Fleming was only thirty-six but he had become hardened to suffering because he'd seen so much. He knew better than most how a charmed life could be destroyed in an instant. In his career he had come to understand one thing: suffering was arbitrary, and there was no point putting your faith in gods to protect you from it.

  For all his fatalism, however, he still found it hard to accept the harsh reality of what had befallen the occupant of cubicle five eleven months ago. It reinforced his conviction that permanence couldn't be guaranteed. His family and friends, particularly ex-girlfriends, often accused him of wanting change for change's sake, but that wasn't true.

  He had once been in love when he was at Cambridge, and had been prepared to devote his life to her. But she'd married a lecturer twenty years her senior. Fleming's heart had been broken, but he'd survived. Since then he had enjoyed a number of relationships, although none had yet rekindled in him the spark of true passion. More than o
ne girlfriend had left him because he couldn't commit to marriage. Every time it became serious he shied away. Change was adventure. Change - even bad change - offered possibility, and striving for the possible, regardless of the odds, was his token antidote to suffering.

  Most of the patients on this ward, along with the many others he had seen over the last few years, had been told by a doctor that their condition was hopeless, that any form of recovery or positive change was impossible. And he hated that. Particularly when it came to the occupant of cubicle five.

  'Miles!'

  Virginia Knight was standing in the doorway of the ward. The American director of Barley Hall was in her fifties but looked younger. Tall and slender, she was elegant in her classic navy suit, her fair hair cut short and feathered in a style that softened the angular lines of her long, intelligent face. She took off her glasses and smiled at him. 'Can I see you for a moment in my office? It's kind of urgent.'