The Lucifer Code (13 page)

In the four days since Rob had died, Fleming had kept himself from dwelling on his brother's death, immersing himself in practicalities. After notifying Virginia Knight and completing the death certificate, he had taken leave from Barley Hall to join his parents and Jake and arrange the funeral. His professional persona had taken over but inside he felt numb, his shock and loss bubbling away beneath a fragile lid of control.

He almost lost it in Cambridge when he had broken the news to his mother and Jake. She had crumpled briefly, then rallied and hugged an uncomprehending Jake to her chest. But it was when she had hugged Fleming and tried to comfort him too, saying, 'Miles, you did all you could. No one could have done more for him. He's safe with God now,' that he'd had to bite his lip and blink back tears. Because he hadn't done all he could to save his brother. Although he knew the stimulant probably wouldn't have saved Rob, he lived with the guilt of holding the nurse back and allowing his brother to die. He still hadn't told his parents what he'd done, and probably never would, because they wouldn't understand - to them life mattered more than suffering.

'O almighty, all-knowing, compassionate Lord The priest's words cut through Fleming's thoughts and dark rage rose within him. As far as he was concerned, here in front of him was the essential conundrum of faith. Either God knew about suffering and could stop it but didn't care, in which case he wasn't compassionate, or he knew about suffering and cared about it but couldn't do a damn thing about it, in which case he wasn't all-powerful, or he could do something about suffering and cared about it, but didn't know about it, in which case he wasn't all-knowing. It was impossible for God to be almighty, all-knowing and merciful.

He looked across at his parents. His mother looked small and frail and his father, a retired architect, looked old for the first time. Both were gazing at the priest, needing their faith to sustain them and make sense of suffering, which Fleming had long accepted as cruel and arbitrary. He wished he had the comfort of blind faith now: But things weren't so simple.

Although his brother had been virtually dead when he had asked Fleming to 'cut the rope', and Fleming believed he'd done the right thing in releasing him from suffering, he was haunted by the knowledge that not only had Rob spoken again six minutes after he had died, but he hadn't sounded as though he was free of suffering.

Wrestling with the responsibility of what he'd done, Fleming tried to still the conflicting thoughts in his head, refusing to believe that Rob was anywhere but in oblivion. There must have been a lag in the NeuroTranslator, which gave the impression that he had spoken after death, some electronic glitch, and what Miles had heard weren't the words of a soul in torment but the last frightened gasp of a dying mind before oblivion claimed it.

Fleming had to believe this, because his credo wouldn't allow him any alternative. He could not bear to think that his beloved brother's consciousness lived on and continued to suffer. Particularly when he hadn't tried to save him.

An officer from Rob's regiment was speaking of his friend now. The man's soft Irish accent and understated recollections seemed to bring him back to life. Hearing Rob described as 'the best of fathers, the best of sons and the best of brothers, but above all the best of men', brought tears to Fleming's eyes.

But it was only when he heard Jake sobbing beside him and imagined his loss that he felt the dam burst within himself. The tears were painless when they came, a release of pent-up pressure. He pulled Jake into his arms and they wept together with unrestrained grief.

*

Three hours later

When the last of the mourners had left the wake at his parents' rambling house, Fleming wandered out into the garden. It had been good to see Rob's friends but he felt raw and bruised. As dusk gathered around him he sat on the bench beneath the sycamore he and his brother used to climb when their parents had moved here from the Peak District.

He found this place and its memories comforting, but part of him was itching to get back to Barley Hall. He had wanted to run a check on the NeuroTranslator to put his mind at rest before leaving the clinic, but then his priority had been to join his family. Now, the longer he allowed the lag to fester in his mind the more prominently it featured in his thoughts. It wasn't enough to believe it hadn't been significant; he had to prove it.

A small figure ambled out into the gloom from the kitchen. 'Milo?'

Even though the prosthetic legs were still new to him, Jake walked so naturally that Fleming found it hard to imagine anyone detecting any awkwardness in his gait. 'Hi, Jake. Come over here.'

The child sat on the bench beside him and leaned against him.

'Milo, why did they have to go?'

Fleming wrapped his arm around Jake. For the last four days Jake had been asking his grandmother what had happened to his mum and dad and she had talked of heaven and God. Fleming had been more preoccupied with Jake's future: after lengthy discussions it had been decided that his grandparents would take care of him in the short term, but that Fleming would adopt him. 'Well, sometimes we don't know why things happen in life, Jake,' he said. 'They just do. But I know your mum and dad loved you a lot, and that I love you, and your grandma and grandpa love you too. We've all still got each other, Jake.'

'Where are Mum and Dad now, though? Have they got e-mail?'

Miles smiled at that. 'If they do, they haven't told me the address.'

'But where do you think Dad is? He must be somewhere, Milo.'

'Well, I suppose he's alive in our memories and our hearts.'

'But what's he thinking now? Can he see me?'

'I don't know,' answered Fleming. 'I think your dad's just gone to sleep. He was sick and now he's resting.'

'What's he dream about, then?'

Amber's dream and her notion that her sister's mind lived on in her flashed into Fleming's thoughts. 'If he dreams of anything I'm sure it's happy things - like you and all the people he loves.'

'What happens when he wakes up?'

'Perhaps he doesn't wake up. Perhaps he has a long, peaceful sleep that goes on for ever.'

'Grandma says Mum and Dad are in heaven.'

'Perhaps they are.'

'She says heaven's really high up and it's full of nice things.'

'Well, if it's a nice place and it's high up then your dad will have found it. He's a good climber.'

Jake looked up at the stars and sighed. 'Milo,' he said, frowning in concentration, 'if God makes heaven, which is good, why does he make this happen, which is bad? Why did he take Mum and Dad? He doesn't need them both.'

Fleming wondered what his mother would say to that. Jake hadn't even mentioned that the apparently almighty, all-knowing and compassionate God had also taken his legs. 'I don't know, Jake. If there is a God, perhaps he's greedy and thought your mum and dad were so special he wanted them for himself.

'Heaven's a good place, isn't it?' Jake's earnest face was worried.

'Sure,' said Fleming, and ruffled his nephew's hair.

'So Mum and Dad are happy - because in heaven everyone's happy, aren't they?'

Fleming met Jake's intense gaze. 'Yeah, Jake, I'm sure they are,' he said.

But, of course, he couldn't be sure.

How could anyone?

*

The Think Tank.

Nine hours later

At twenty to three in the morning Amber was sleeping soundly in the Think Tank at Barley Hall. Earlier that afternoon she had returned from San Francisco and heard from Virginia Knight of Rob Fleming's death. The nurses had helped her settle into her cubicle where Amber had been delighted to find a card from Father Peter Riga with a box of her favourite Belgian chocolates. 'I'm sure that all the tests will reveal is that you have an excellent mind. Call me when you want to talk. Papa Pete.'

Then she had been wheeled into the Think Tank to continue her exercises and analysis. Eighteen minutes ago, she had fallen asleep and was now moving into REM, the dream state.

As her unconscious mind was pulled from her body, she twitched, then thrashed about on the bed. Moments later she was still and her eyeballs began their rapid movements. Her eyelids opened, and she stared blindly at the ceiling. Amber was being pulled away from her body even faster than before - so fast she could barely breathe - rushing at terrifying speed towards the bright light. Everything was compressed, the darkness blacker, the light brighter. She was sure that this time the light would reveal some terrifying truth and engulf her for ever.

As she raced towards it she could do nothing but scream soundlessly into the void . . .

Miles Fleming drove through the gateway of Barley Hall and up the gravel drive. He parked outside the front door. The entrance portico, flanked with Doric pillars, was imposing in the glare of the security lights but Fleming didn't look up as he entered the house and headed straight for his office.

After his talk with Jake he had turned in early and fallen into a fitful sleep some time after ten. Two hours later, a dark but forgotten dream had woken him in a cold sweat, galvanizing him to leave his parents' home and race here. He had to know why the NeuroTranslator had enabled Rob to speak after death. He had to explain rationally what had happened and he had to explain it now.

Striding down the dimly lit corridor of Barley Hall's east wing he ignored the night nurse dozing at her desk but slowed when he heard a child's plaintive cry coming from the Think Tank. There were no children staying at Barley Hall currently. When he heard what the child was saying, the hairs stood up on the back of his neck.

He inched open the door of the Think Tank until he could see Amber Grant lying rock still in bed, wearing the blue skullcap. Her skin was shiny with perspiration and her eyes were open. The sight of her was unsettling but it was the childish voice coming from her lips that made Fleming catch his breath.

She was calling, 'Amber, Amber, where are you?' sounding frightened and frustrated.

He padded across to the NeuroTranslator, pulsing in a spectrum of rainbow colours as its optical parallel processors performed countless simultaneous calculations. He made two adjustments to the circular dials on the lower panel beneath the sphere and flicked a switch. As the speakers hissed into life he had no idea what he was listening for. He waited for a few moments and was about to switch them off when a sound broke through the static.

The wailing scream was like nothing he had ever heard before. All he could think about as he scrambled to switch it off was a biblical quotation at which his brother and he had laughed nervously during Divinity classes at school. 'But the children of the kingdom shall be cast out into outer darkness: there shall be wailing and gnashing of teeth.'

For all his adult scepticism, that desperate keening unmanned Fleming. It hadn't been from this world: it was the sound of a soul in torment.

He collected himself and turned to the bed. Amber was now calm and breathing regularly, her eyes were closed and she was quiet. He left the Think Tank and carried on to his office. He was no longer anxious that he couldn't explain how Rob had spoken after death. He was now terrified that he could.

*

The Red Ark. 33deg 15' S, 16deg 06' E.

That night

Xavier Accosta hated the night. There was still so much to do and while he slept he achieved nothing. There had been a time when he had hardly needed sleep but it had passed. The night also brought introspection: when he was alone with his thoughts the doubts came. His faith was tested.

'Tell me honestly, Monsignor,' he asked, as his assistant helped him prepare for bed in his private stateroom aboard the Red Ark, 'do you believe that the Doctor and the scientists will succeed?' Paulo Diageo was the only person on earth to whom he could voice his doubts. The huge man had worked for him ever since Accosta ascended to the Curia in Rome over twenty years ago. He had been the first to swear his allegiance when Accosta left the Vatican. A graduate of the slums of Naples, Diageo once told him that he had experienced two religious conversions: one had been earthly, when he joined the Dominicans to escape his upbringing, the other spiritual, when he first heard Accosta preach and determined to follow him. He was a hard man, with a sharp, feral intelligence, who still had contacts with the secular underworld - some even said the Mafia - and Accosta knew he would do anything for him.

Diageo took Accosta's scarlet robes from him, folded them and placed them in the laundry basket. Then, with surprising gentleness, he reached for the fresh set by the door and peeled off the plastic wrapper, then hung them in the tall mahogany wardrobe for the next day. Finally he reached for the white towelling bathrobe on the bed and held it for Accosta to put on. 'It isn't the scientists who'll ensure your destiny is fulfilled, Your Holiness,' Diageo said, in his slow deep voice, as Accosta put his arms into the sleeves. 'It's God who'll make this happen. He won't allow time to run out. You're too important to His plans.'

Accosta took comfort from the man's quiet certainty.

Diageo walked into the adjoining bathroom. 'The bath is ready, Your Holiness,' he said when he returned. 'Your pain-killers and medication are beside your bed. You require anything else?'

'No. God bless you, Monsignor.'

'And you, Your Holiness. If you-'

'Thank you, Monsignor. I'll ring if I need you.'