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

  Before she could bring it down, Fleming reached out and held her wrist.

  'What are you doing?

  'Let him go,' he said gently. Tears stung his eyes. 'Let him go.'

  'But, Miles,' Frankie objected, 'he's-'

  'Let him go,' he repeated, as he watched the ECG and heard the flat tone of the alarm.

  He lost track of how long they stood there before he released Frankie's hand and she said, softly, 'He's gone.'

  The nurses and Greg stared at Fleming and he felt something sag inside him. Only a few moments ago he had witnessed an incredible breakthrough, and now it had all gone wrong. This wasn't supposed to happen. He was supposed to help Rob speak and then, in time, get his body to work again. He was supposed to protect and save his brother, as his brother had so often saved him in the mountains. He wasn't supposed to stand by and help him die.

  He stared at Rob on the bed. He seemed to be sleeping, but when Fleming looked closer his brother had become a stranger to him. The corpse looked exactly like Rob, but at the same time different, as if the essence of Rob had slipped away.

  He checked his watch and swallowed hard. Time of death, eleven fifty-eight a. M.' Silently, the team spent the next few minutes clearing up while Fleming braced himself to break the news to his mother and Jake, news he hadn't accepted yet. All the time he kept telling himself, At least Rob's free from pain now. He's gone where no suffering can reach him.

  Then, turning to leave the Think Tank, he froze.

  Fresh static crackled from the NeuroTranslator speakers. The noise was louder than before and the voice sounded different, slurred, as if the signal was breaking up.

  'Milo. Help Me Bro. I Can't Hold On Much Longer. I'm Falling. Pull Me Up.'

  Fleming's mouth was dry but he willed himself to stay calm. How could this be happening? What had he done? 'Rob, what's going on?' He looked to Frankie for reassurance, but she was checking the monitors.

  The static came back even louder.

  'I'm Falling. Can't Hold On. Promise Me You'll Take Care Of Jake,' the voice said.

  'I promise,' Fleming gasped. 'But hang on, we haven't lost you yet.'

  The voice was breaking up but perversely it sounded more fluent. Glancing at the top half of the NeuroTranslator screen, Fleming saw that all brain-wave traces had gone. Taking the controls from Greg, he scrolled frantically down the display but all the brain-waves were flat, the signals inert. Then he scrolled up and saw activity on a brainwave signal at the highest end of the frequency spectrum.

  'God, Bro. Help Me. This Isn't Good. There's Something Bad Here. I Need To Tell-'

  'Tell me what, Rob?' Fleming said desperately. 'How can I help you?'

  Sounding more and more agitated, the words crackling from the speakers began to break up.

  'No . . . Help . . . You Must . . . Important . . . Dangerous . . . Take Care Of Jake.

  The chilling words faded to hissing static and then, finally, silence.

  'Come on, Rob,' Fleming rasped, his mouth drier than sandpaper. 'Talk to me.'

  He turned to Frankie and caught her studying her wristwatch before she looked up. Her usually rosy cheeks were deathly pale and her eyes were as wide as plates. 'He's long gone, Miles,' she whispered. 'We lost him in the first seizure and he never revived.'

  'That's impossible! Where did his last cries for help come from?'

  'God only knows,' said Frankie. 'But he's been clinically dead for almost six minutes.'

  Marin County, California. The next day Amber's flight arrived late at night and she returned to her airy, echoing home in Pacific Heights. The next morning she awoke to a blue-sky California day. The bright sunlight and warm breeze blowing in from the bay helped thaw the lingering chill from the dream of dying that still made her shudder. She climbed into her Mercedes and drove across the Golden Gate Bridge to Marin County, and the Church of the Soul Truth Hospice.

  The nun in scarlet robes at the reception desk in the sun-washed lobby was brisk and efficient. 'Your mother's being bathed at the moment, Dr Grant,' she said. 'If you wait in the visitors' reception room, I'll collect you when she's ready.'

  Amber was pleased to see that the linoleum on the hospice floor was new and the paint fresh: she owed Gillian Grant more than if she'd been her natural mother, and whenever she felt guilty about paying another Church to care for her Amber reminded herself that this hospice, which the Church of the Soul Truth had taken over from the Catholic Church, was the best in the bay area.

  Like so many other Catholic organizations around the world it had fallen into decline as the Red Pope's breakaway Church of the Soul Truth had surged in popularity. Nuns in black habits had once walked these corridors, but now they wore scarlet. The hospice offered the best care available, in beautiful surroundings. Each occupant had their own private apartment, with access to the communal pool, restaurant and the exquisite gardens, with which her mother had fallen in love.

  Amber had wanted Gillian to stay with her when her father died five years ago but her mother had hated the idea of being a burden to Amber and giving up her independence. When she had fallen ill she had asked to come here where she had the best of both worlds: round-the-clock professional care and her own private space.

  A picture of the Red Pope looked out from the wall above Amber. Even in a photograph the man was charismatic. He had a fine aquiline nose, chiselled cheekbones, and a smooth olive skin that belied his sixty-eight years. On his head he wore a scarlet skullcap that matched his splendid robes and the crucifix that hung on his chest from a gold chain. There was also a photograph of a magnificent red ship with a gleaming white superstructure designed to resemble a Gothic cathedral, the famous Red Ark, the so-called Floating Vatican, which toured the world continuously, eschewing any national flag of origin on its endless global pilgrimage. It was from the Red Ark that the Red Pope now preached to the world via the first ever electronic Church. In a corner of the room a television set, with the volume turned down, showed the Red Pope in action, conducting one of his online services aboard the Red Ark. A flashing message scrolled across the bottom of the screen: Attend the service online: www. RedArk/ChurchSoulTruth. com.

  Behind the chair to her left was a ledge with three KREE8 WebCruisers lying idle. Each was a standard wireless headset with a surround-vision display visor, earphone, microphone and nasal scent pad. A sign on the ledge invited Amber to 'Board the Red Ark and attend a service live with the Red Pope'. She put on the headset, inserted the foam earpieces and angled the nasal pad.

  The first thing she saw was a home page and an MTV-style video montage introducing the Red Pope.

  'Viewing his near-death experience as a signal to focus all his drive and passion on the spiritual,' the voiceover said, 'Cardinal Xavier Accosta became a Catholic priest and soon ascended the hierarchy until he was summoned to Rome, to the Holy See. By the age of fifty-four His Holiness was already one of the most powerful men in the Catholic Church, one of the so-called Three Popes of Rome. Alongside the Pontiff, the White Pope and the Superior General of the Jesuits, the Black Pope, Cardinal Accosta was the Vatican's Grand Inquisitor, the Red Pope. But even then the Roman Catholic Church was in turmoil, struggling to survive the corruption, misogyny and scandal that permeated the Curia and many bishoprics around the world.

  'His Holiness made a stand for reform on many fronts, including allowing women more say in the Church, permitting priests to marry and changing the objectives of the Institute of Miracles from validating miraculous claims to using technology positively to seek out evidence of the hand of God. But the reactionary right and their puppet Pope continually blocked his endeavours.

  'He waited for the sick Pope to die before he made his stand. As one of the few members under seventy of the College of Cardinals, Cardinal Accosta was papabile and he attracted support. If he became pope he could fashion the Church into the powerful spiritual body he knew God desired.

  'But it was not to be. Other cardinals feared his ambition and appeti
te for dramatic reform. They voted in one of their own to maintain the status quo. His Holiness could stay silent no longer and was forced to attack his own Church, advocating aggressive reform to ensure survival. He was heartened by the support he gained from within and without the Church, including the powerful lay organization Opus Dei. Eventually he was summoned by the new Pope and excommunicated.'

  Amber listened to how, within six months, an impressive array of powerful, wealthy backers had lined up to support him, helping him found the world's first electronic Church - the Church of the Soul Truth - and how Accosta retained many of the trappings of his old office, with the sobriquet the Red Pope.

  The video montage concluded with triumphant scenes of the Red Ark on its global pilgrimage as the voiceover explained how, over the last ten years, Accosta's electronic ministry had blossomed into what it was today: a vital and integral part of the modern world, founded on technology and receptive to new ideas.

  At the bottom of the virtual homepage there was an instruction: 'Click button on headset to attend service.'

  She did so and was immediately transported to an alternative reality. No longer was she in the visitors' reception room of the hospice, or watching a video, but in the front row of a surreal amphitheatre. If she turned her head she could see fellow members of the congregation as if she were sitting among them. She could almost feel the fabric of her neighbour's coat. Ahead of her she could hear the Red Pope's rich voice as clearly as if he was only a few feet away.

  'Technology need not undermine religious faith,' he was saying, in reply to a question. 'It was Einstein who said that religion without science is blind, and science without religion is lame. Science should support faith and turn it into something more potent. Not just knowledge but something far more ambitious. Truth.'

  The Red Pope sat on a raised dais on a simple chair. The informality of the setting reminded Amber more of a television talk-show than a structured church service, but that was partly why the Red Pope's ministry had proved so popular with old and young alike. Its potent alliance of charismatic leadership, transparent religious values and state-of-the-art technology was irresistible. Movie stars, rock idols and leading political figures from around the world often made guest appearances at the services. All were keen to bask in his reflected glory.

  Amber was aware of the sniffles and shuffles of the people around her, and her nostrils detected incense. She took in the sweeping pillars and arches that soared up to a perfect sky. It was as though she wasn't in an earthly space at all, but in some celestial temple. The congregation appeared limitless, representing all those, like her, who were attending virtually, online.

  To her left, suspended in air, a number scrolled upwards continually, like a meter in a taxi. This represented the total number of people attending the service online via the Optinet and those watching via the television stations that paid for the broadcast rights. If the figure was correct, the Red Pope was currently talking to over five hundred million people world-wide: almost half of the total number of Catholics in the world at Rome's prime. The Church of the Soul Truth already had a global following in excess of one and a half billion.

  A red light flashed in her peripheral vision, alerting her to a signal from the real world, and Amber felt a hand on her shoulder. She took off the headset and turned to the nun standing over her. 'Dr Grant, your mother is ready to see you now.'

  When Amber entered Suite 21 on the second floor her mother was sitting in her wheelchair, her fine grey hair freshly washed and brushed. The french windows leading on to the walled sun terrace were open and a gentle breeze rustled the transparent curtains. After her bath, in the diffuse sunlight, she didn't look ill. Although she was painfully thin her cheeks were pink and her pale eyes bright. There was little sign of the cancer that riddled her body.

  On the bedside table stood three framed photographs. The first showed Amber's parents smiling on a beach. The second showed Amber and Ariel when they were children, wearing matching blue dresses. The third showed the whole family in front of St Peter's in Rome with Amber's godfather, Papa Pete Riga, standing slightly apart in black robes, hands behind his back.

  Her mother's face lit up when Amber entered the room and embraced her. 'Amber, how are you feeling? I heard about the headaches on TV Why didn't you tell me before?'

  Amber felt a stab of guilt that her sick mother should be so concerned about her health. 'I didn't want to worry you, Mom, and anyway I'm okay. It's nothing.' She sat down beside her mother. 'I'm seeing Papa Pete for dinner tonight. He said he came to see you the other day'

  Gillian Grant nodded. 'We talked about old times and he lifted an enormous weight off me by giving me his blessing for choosing to live here.' She paused. 'But something's up, I know. What is it?'

  Amber sighed. Then she told Gillian everything - the headaches, Miles Fleming, the Neuro-Translator, her dream. 'The weirdest thing is I feel Ariel's trying to tell me something. It's like she's never been out of my head since she died.'

  Her mother smiled. 'That's not so strange, Amber. Ariel's rarely been far from my thoughts either. Your sister and your father will always live on in me. And when I go I'll live on in you. We are our relationships. Increasingly, as I get nearer to the end of my life, I think that's all we are.'

  Amber wanted to explain that it was more than that, but she let it go because she recognized a deeper truth in what her mother had said. The quantum world was all about relationships and entanglements between elemental particles: why should humans be different?

  'You need to go back to England to cure your headaches?' her mother said.

  'For about a month, yes.' Amber frowned. 'But I'm worried about-'

  Her mother waved her hand dismissively. 'Worried about what? You must go. Don't worry about me. I'll be here when you get back. The doctors say I've got a year, so it's better you go as soon as possible.' She reached for Amber's hand and squeezed it. 'I'm so proud of you, Amber, and all you've achieved, but perhaps these headaches are a blessing in disguise. A chance to stop blaming yourself for what happened to Ariel and start getting on with the rest of your life. Ariel would want you to be happy. She always looked after you and she'd hate to think she was causing you distress. Let things take their course.'

  Amber sat back in her chair and allowed herself to bask in her mother's love and wisdom. She would miss her when she died. Though it was hard to think of death when she was here because Gillian was so full of vitality.

  Later Amber accompanied her outside, pushed her wheelchair around the garden and reminisced, made plans.

  At lunchtime she wheeled Gillian back to her room and helped her into bed. Before she left, she kissed her forehead, just as her mother had kissed her and Ariel when they were children. As she turned to leave, she stopped and tried to freeze in her mind the peaceful scene of her mother asleep in bed, sunlight filtering through the thin curtains, the greenery on the terrace beyond.

  As she committed the calm scene to memory she couldn't have foreseen the storm to come. Or known that she would never again see her mother in this tranquil sun-filled room.

  *

  Pacific Heights.

  Five hours later

  'The thing is, Papa Pete, I don't think what I experienced really was a dream.'

  'Why not? If your discussion with Dr Fleming was making you focus on Ariel, it musta been a dream.' Years with the Society of Jesus had softened Father Peter Riga's New York accent, but it was still there. Now Amber and her godfather sat in her spacious kitchen. Dressed in black, with tightly curling grey hair and piercing blue eyes, he looked tired but ageless. Amber had sent the maid home and herself conjured up his favourite spare ribs and pasta. Now she and Papa Pete sat over empty plates drinking the Barolo he had brought from Italy. She was telling him about her dream.

  'Papa Pete, I never dream. Remember? Ariel used to dream but I never did - that was one of the differences between us. What happened the other night reminded me more of the weird near-de
ath experience I had during the operation. It wasn't like a dream.'

  'So what was it?'

  'That's what I want to find out. You remember telling me your first thoughts when you saw Ariel and me in the hospital in Sao Paulo after our natural parents had abandoned us?'

  He sipped his wine and nodded. 'Sure. Though the doctors called you a single biological organism, I saw two separate souls.' His eyes narrowed. 'Where you going with this, Amber?'

  She tried to frame her impossible question. 'Miles Fleming said I possessed part of the living brain of a dead person. Could I still possess that person's soul too?'

  Riga frowned and swirled the wine in his glass.

  She continued, 'What if Ariel's soul has not been allowed to die because part of her mind still lives in me? What if, after all these years, she's using headaches and dreams somehow to contact me - to get me to release her?'

  The frown deepened.