Lucifer (aka the Lucifer Code) (2001)

by Cordy, Michael

  Fleming glanced at cubicle five. It could wait. The patient wasn't going anywhere.

  *

  The director's office

  Located in the central section of the Victorian mansion, the office was a grand room with ornate cornices, foot-high skirting boards and a splendid bay window overlooking the front driveway and manicured lawns.

  Miles Fleming crossed his arms and sat back on the large chesterfield that the insomniac director often used at night. 'Virginia, you're not being serious! Since when was a migraine urgent?'

  Virginia Knight rose from her desk and moved to her Italian coffee machine. She made two espressos and handed one to Fleming. 'It's important, Miles,' she said. 'Trust me.'

  Fleming shook his head. 'But I need the Think Tank and the NeuroTranslator tonight. Paul's in there now, and Rob needs to be prepped for his communication trial tomorrow. The research schedule's overloaded as it is. After the success with Jake we're getting huge interest in the NeuroTranslator. We've already got a mile-long queue of research patients and I can't let anyone jump to the front and push the programme back -

  particularly someone with a headache, for Christ's sake.'

  Virginia Knight sighed. 'Miles, you're forgetting that both Jake and Rob jumped to the front of the line.'

  'That was different. You can't compare their cases with this.'

  'It was different for you - that's why I never challenged my predecessor's decision to turn a blind eye to your priority-shuffling - but according to the Barley Hall Trustees' strict research protocol, the rules were bent. All I'm saying is that, as director of Barley Hall, I've got to do what's best for the clinic and you've got to make time for this patient. Tonight.'

  Miles Fleming sipped his coffee. He had nothing against Virginia Knight, but she wasn't the reason why he had come to Barley Hall eight years ago after a Cambridge medical degree and Ph. D. in neurology from Harvard. Unlike Knight, who was a doctor turned administrator, her predecessor had been a pure researcher, a true scientist. The great, and now sadly late, Professor Henry Trier had been one of Fleming's professors at Cambridge. And when Trier had taken over the Neurological Trust - a research council set up by private business, Cambridge University and the spinal injuries unit at Stoke Mandeville - Fleming had leapt at the chance to join him.

  Eight months ago Trier had had a fatal heart-attack and Knight, who already held numerous executive and non-executive directorships, was appointed his successor. Fleming understood why she had been chosen: she excelled at management, publicity and fundraising, but he worried sometimes that she put commercial concerns above patients and research.

  'Setting aside the issue of line-jumping,' she said, reaching for a magazine on her desk, 'let me explain the benefits of seeing Dr Amber Grant tonight.' She passed the magazine to him. 'First of all, you do realize who she is?'

  'Sure, I've heard of her.' And that's what concerned him. Amber Grant was rich and celebrated, and in Knight's view that made her especially worthy of treatment. The magazine was Time and the front cover featured the airbrushed picture of Bradley Soames that appeared in every publication, and next to him the strikingly beautiful face of his business partner, Amber Grant. Beneath their picture was the line 'Turning the Spotlight on the Light Wizards'.

  Fleming flicked through the magazine. On page six he found an interview with Amber Grant, timed no doubt to coincide with the much-hyped launch of the Lucifer soft-screen. Fleming's own NeuroTranslator was based on the Lucifer optical computer and dependent on the technology that Grant and Soames had developed. Despite his annoyance, Fleming was intrigued, and more so when he turned to a profile of the enigmatic and reclusive Bradley Soames - the man many regarded as the genius behind Optrix.

  'Go ahead,' said Knight. 'Read it.'

  Fleming skimmed the article. Much of it regurgitated the now famous legend of the man, but he was still fascinated by some sections - particularly the one on Soames's early years:

  Bradley Soames suffers from xeroderma pigmen-tosum, commonly called XP; a syndrome caused by a mutant gene that means even the shortest exposure to the weakest sunlight causes skin cancers. Born into the wealthy Soames oil dynasty - during a full solar eclipse, so the story goes -many psychologists have wondered how Soames might have developed if he hadn't been so cursed.

  He would certainly have been less eccentric but it is doubtful that he would have become so phenomenally successful. It goes beyond irony that this brilliant young man who has lived all his life at the mercy of light should be the one to cage its power and harness its speed.

  From his early childhood, confined indoors to protect him from ultraviolet rays, Soames was obsessed with light photons, the subatomic quantum particles of electromagnetic radiation that made up the very thing that imprisoned him. Focusing his intellect on light, he was convinced by the age of thirteen that photons could be harnessed to process, store and transmit data.

  At sixteen Soames outgrew even the most gifted private tutors his parents hired to teach him at home, so he attended Cal Tech in Pasadena, one of the leading technical colleges in the world, graduating with top honours two days prior to his eighteenth birthday - younger then than most students applying for the course. But he hadn't enrolled to pass exams: he was looking for a partner. He was seeking someone of sufficiently high intellect to understand his concepts and someone with the requisite drive, social skills and character to do what he couldn't do - go out into the light and help realize his dream. That person was to be a Ph. D. student researching particle physics: Amber Grant.

  Many people, including Amber Grant, had thought of developing an optical computer, but their designs had relied solely on optical fibres, which, even had they worked, would have involved a dragon's nest of wires. Soames's approach was different: he proposed using sound to create the strong electrical field necessary to keep electron-hole pairs apart long enough to trap light and the data stored within it before sending it on its way again.

  Soames's vision and Amber Grant's dedication, plus a host of relatively minor modifications, each in itself worthy of a Ph. D., led to the invention eight years ago of the world's first practical optical computer. It made Optrix Industries, based in San Francisco, one of the fastest growing companies the world has ever seen.

  In addition to his role at Optrix, Bradley Soames increasingly spends time at his private technology innovation facility in Alaska: the VenTec Foundation . ..

  'The point is,' said Knight, when Fleming looked up, 'Soames wants to make a multimillion-dollar donation to your research.' She smiled. 'You know I'm always talking about the Christopher Reeve effect? Well, you can't deny that stem-cell regeneration of the damaged spinal cord is seen as the Holy Grail of neurological research, which makes it so much easier to get funding for Bobby Chan's genetic-engineering team in the west wing.'

  Fleming allowed himself a wry smile. 'Whereas my work in the east wing is still seen as a mechanical Band-Aid and not a real solution -even though, realistically, Bobby's team won't get any practical results for decades.'

  Knight laughed. 'Well, that perception's changing fast. Your breakthrough with Jake is making waves. And we've gotta capitalize on it. Bradley Soames is interested in the NeuroTranslator and he's willing to commit serious money to developing it.'

  Fleming knew this already: six months ago Soames had approached him indirectly, wanting him to transfer to VenTec. 'And in return for serious funding I have to examine his precious colleague with the NeuroTranslator? Apart from collapsing with a migraine, what's really wrong with her?'

  Knight tapped a manila folder on her desk. 'That's another reason you should see her. She's a researcher's dream. Her medical history's fascinating and, as a neurologist, you could learn a lot from her. Don't fight this one, Miles, you're on to a winner. She's only putting back your schedule by a day or so - a minor inconvenience in light of all the benefits she's going to bring.'

  Despite Fleming's reservations he was interested. 'Benefits?'

&n
bsp; 'She's unique,' said Knight. I'll release her full medical records to you online, but these topline notes give an idea of what I'm talking about.'

  Reluctantly Fleming picked up the folder. Virginia Knight was an accomplished manipulator and he was wary of her. Glancing again at the beautiful woman on the cover of Time, he said, 'I still don't see why she should take priority over my other patients. She's not an amputee, is she?'

  Virginia Knight leant back in her chair and a broad smile crossed her face. 'Not exactly' she said, as Fleming opened the folder at the first X-ray and gasped. 'Not exactly.'

  Barley Hall. 5 p. M.

  By the time Amber Grant's ambulance arrived at Barley Hall from London it was dark. The crippling migraine had subsided but, as always, she still felt weak. The headaches came without warning and she was resigned to that. However, this last attack had angered her. She had collapsed during an important presentation and the sense of failure lingered. Her work was one of the most important things in her life and she had let herself and everyone else down - in front of the goddamn media. She would miss the key dinner tonight too, and the round of publicity and business meetings planned for tomorrow morning before her return flight to San Francisco. Despite the pain she had wanted to return to the turbine hall and continue, but Bradley Soames had insisted she come here. Regardless of what the specialists might say, Amber was determined to catch her flight home tomorrow to see her sick mother, Gillian.

  As they drove through the impressive gates of Barley Hall, she peered out across verdant lawns. Even in the gathering dusk and with the onset of winter everything looked more lush than it did in California, and she couldn't help contrasting the Victorian mansion with the featureless American hospitals and clinics she had attended as a child.

  Until nine months ago those clinics had been a bad memory. But recently, at the mercy of the increasingly crippling migraines, she had been reacquainted with clinics, doctors and tests. In the last six months she had undergone every test possible, including PET, CAT and MRI scans, but they had revealed nothing to explain her condition. When Soames had escorted her personally from the turbine hall to the ambulance, she had been sceptical about seeing yet another 'specialist'. He, though, had insisted that she see Dr Miles Fleming.

  Amber, you've always nagged me about the damage done to my skin as a child before I got diagnosed with XE Every two months you stop me firing my dermatologist and insist I take her advice to have another goddamn melanoma or two cut out of me before they kill me. And you know what? You're probably the only person in the whole world I listen to. So now I want you to listen to me. Get your headaches checked out properly. This guy Miles Fleming is smart. His NeuroTranslator is the best application of the optical computer there is - and that includes the new generation of gene sequencers.' Soames regarded most people as fools and the rest as mediocre, so for him to rate the thirty-six-year-old Englishman so positively was high praise indeed.

  The orderlies offered her a wheelchair, but she walked into the elegant reception hall. She hated being regarded as an invalid. Although she spent most of her life working in laboratories she prided herself on keeping fit with early-morning swims in the Optrix pool. Inside, she was greeted by a nurse holding a clipboard.

  'Good evening, Dr Grant. I'm Staff Nurse Frankie Pinner. Are you okay to walk? Need anything for the pain?'

  'I'm good for now, thanks.'

  'In that case, would you mind sitting down in the lounge area while I get Dr Fleming? If you need anything, just let Reception know.'

  In a corner of the large hall was a row of back-to-back divans. Amber sat down and retrieved her mobile communicator from her jacket pocket. The device, no larger than a cellphone, opened into two halves: one contained a touch-sensitive control pad, the other a set of numerical keys. She pressed a button on the control pad and a display screen rose from the centre hinge. Just as she was about to check her e-mail and phone messages she heard a sharp intake of breath behind her and a hushed: 'Wow.'

  Turning, she saw a small boy leaning over the divan behind hers, peering over her shoulder. He had spiky fair hair, an open, expressive face, and huge grey eyes that gazed at the state-of-the-art soft-screen of her communicator. A woman, too old to be his mother, sat beside him reading a magazine.

  'Is that yours?' he asked, resting a small hand on her shoulder and wriggling up the back of his seat for a better look.

  She smiled at him. 'Yup.'

  'I haven't seen one like that before.'

  'It's new'

  'Where did you get it?'

  'I made it.' She corrected herself. 'Rather, my company made it.'

  The boy looked at her hard and then asked, seriously, 'Are you a genius?'

  Another laugh. 'No.'

  'My uncle's a genius,' he said matter-of-factly.

  'Oh, I'm impressed. What's your name?'

  'Jake.'

  'Hi, Jake, I'm Amber.'

  He flashed her a wide smile. 'What can it do?' he asked.

  'Lots of things. Make calls, send e-mails, do computing stuff, check the weather forecast, sports results . . .'

  'Can it play games?'

  'You betcha.'

  'Can it give football scores?'

  'Sure,' she said, racking her brains. Sport was a black hole as far as she was concerned. Back home she followed the Forty Niners American football team but only because Optrix sponsored them. 'Who are you a fan of?'

  'Man U, of course,' he said, as if only a fool would support any other team. 'I love football.'

  'I bet you're pretty good at it too.'

  'I'm not so good any more, but I'm getting better again.'

  There was something about the way he said it that gave her pause.

  'Dr Grant.' Looking up, Amber saw that the nurse with the clipboard had returned. 'If you'll follow me I'll take you straight through to the Think Tank. If you need the bathroom or a glass of water, please let me know. We can fill in the admission forms later.'

  'Gotta go, Jake,' she said, and stood up to follow the nurse.

  When she was on her feet she turned and looked down at the boy. Then she saw why he wasn't so good at soccer any more. She felt a pang - she understood what it was like to be a kid who looked different, but she kept the pity from her face and bent to shake his hand. 'Pleasure meeting you, Jake. Good luck with Man U.'

  'Bye-bye, Amber,' he said, with a grin.

  The nurse led Amber to the east wing, down a long corridor to the Think Tank, then ushered her into a small chamber next door that contained a desk, a Lucifer optical computer, two chairs and a bank of monitors. A glass window looked into the Think Tank and she assumed that this was an observation room. The nurse poured her some water and left.

  Sitting on a soft chair away from the desk, Amber glanced around the room. On one wall there was a corkboard. Pinned to it were what appeared to be thank-you postcards and photographs of patients and staff. One caught her eye: it showed two tanned men in full climbing gear, standing on a white mountain peak against a sky of the most brilliant blue. Similar enough to be brothers, they held their hands aloft in triumph.

  Then she caught sight of her reflection in the observation window. She looked pale and drawn. Unconsciously she brushed back her hair, exposing the left side of her face and the thin silver scar running from her temple into her hairline. Now it was apparent that she had no left ear, highlighted by the striking jade and gold earring on her right lobe. She had persistently refused plastic surgery: to eradicate any trace of her childhood operation would somehow be an act of betrayal, she believed.

  'Dr Grant? Miles Fleming.'

  As he entered the room, she caught herself smoothing her skirt and patting her hair. She recognized him immediately as one of the men in the photograph. He wasn't what she had been expecting. Apart from his unbuttoned white coat he didn't look like a scientist, certainly not the ones she knew, and she was unprepared for his sheer physicality. He was tall, at least six foot, and he moved in that unconsciou
sly graceful way that only the truly co-ordinated can. His dark hair was as unruly as his crumpled clothing and his skin had a ruddy outdoor glow. When he extended his hand towards her and smiled, small crows' feet gathered around his grey eyes. His large hand was warm and gripped hers firmly.

  'Sorry to keep you waiting, but we're having to juggle a few things.'

  'No problem. Thanks for seeing me at such short notice.'

  'Your migraine? How's the pain now?'

  'Under control.'

  'Good. Why don't I outline what we do here and then we'll discuss your problem?'

  'Sure.'

  'Basically the work here at Barley Hall is divided into two areas. The west wing deals in pure scientific research, focusing on stem-cell regenerative work - rebuilding spinal cords, that kind of thing. Here in the east wing, where my team is based, our research is more practical. We specialize in harnessing the signals in the brain to help amputees and paraplegics regain control of their paralysed limbs and operate their prosthetics.' Fleming smiled at her. 'We also help to manage pain.'