Accosta was sweating as he watched those unblinking eyes, his heart pounding in his chest. Despite his guilt the thrill was almost sexual. What had she seen when she died? What was she seeing now?
'Let me talk you through what happened, Your Holiness. This was typical of all the latest trials.'
The screen changed to reveal the same experiment from a wider angle. Accosta could now see Giovanna Bellini's whole body lying on the laboratory couch. At the foot of the couch were two monitors.
'I'll play it back again but this time slowed down over two hundred thousand times. Light travels one hundred and eighty-six thousand miles a second. Only by slowing the film can we track how successfully we channelled the life energy. I'll start from when the electric shock's administered, which sadly is the only way we can pinpoint the exact moment of death.'
This time when the lightburst occurred Accosta saw it as a spark emanating from the woman's eyes. Somehow a single spark passed through both tinted lenses simultaneously before colliding with the screen in the visor, leaving a zebra pattern of white stripy lines on the previously dark monitor.
'Note the quantum wave-particle duality exhibited here. For reasons we don't yet fully understand, life energy leaves through the eyes, allowing us to re-create the classic double-slit experiment. As the life energy leaves Mother Bellini's body it passes through both eyes before hitting the photon-detector screen in the visor. See how the screen records a classic wave interference pattern as the collection of light particles, or photons, leave the body and interfere with themselves. This stripy pattern is unique to Mother Giovanna Bellini, a barcode that's effectively her soul signature.'
Accosta nodded, absorbing the technical commentary as he followed the spark's progress past the screen and into the outer layer of the sphere. Here, although the film had been slowed to a snail's pace, the spark raced along every millimetre of the densely coiled translucent fibre in the outer layer in the blink of an eye, momentarily lighting it up like a halo. Then the light was gone.
'This is the problem,' said Soames. 'We can now identify and channel the passage of the Bose-Einstein condensate but-'
'You mean the soul,' Accosta said.
'Yes, Your Holiness. The Bose-Einstein condensate's merely the correct quantum term for the boson system that forms the soul.'
Accosta frowned. 'So in plain English you're saying that you can channel the departing soul but you still can't hold it long enough in the head sphere to get a trace?'
'I'm saying it'll take time, Your Holiness. In the same way electricity always seeks earth, this energy always seeks the heavens. Stopping it for even a millisecond so that we can get a trace is difficult. You must appreciate that proving the quantum duality between brain and mind, or body and soul, is a significant achievement. Just proving the existence of the quantum soul as a boson system of photons is a breakthrough.
'But tracking the soul goes beyond the realm of quantum physics and into the realm of quantum metaphysics. The window of death is so small it's virtually impossible to take the learning from one experiment to the next. Each individual's death is different, so we're reduced to trial and error, hoping eventually to stumble on the right tracking frequency. If people died more than once we'd be able to focus on one person, running self-correcting iterative experiments each time they died. We'd find the locking frequency of the Bose-Einstein condensate - the soul - in no time.'
'But people don't die more than once. So how close are you to locking on to the soul?'
'Real close. The principle of what we're trying to achieve already exists in optoelectronics. In the same way that an optical computer captures a coherent collection of light photons encoded with data, we should be able to capture an intact soul as a coherent boson system of life photons for long enough to lock on to its frequency. We just need time.'
'We haven't got time. What other contingencies are in place?'
'The Truth Council's explored all related technologies, however diverse, to see which may prove useful. The most promising are being monitored and offered significant donations so we'll gain the inside track on any that show potential, but this technology is still our best bet.'
Accosta frowned. 'Frank Carvelli said you were confident of a breakthrough.'
'There's an unexpected recent development that I'm watching closely but I want to confirm a few aspects before I discuss it with you.' He paused. 'However, perhaps you want to call a halt for a while, take stock . . .'
'No. No. Not at all,' Accosta said hastily. 'If anything, you must speed up the experiments. What we're embarked on is too important to delay and if your confidence in the technology is justified we're tantalizingly close. We're almost there. There's too much at stake.'
'But after your reaction to Mother Giovanna's death, surely we should . . . ?' Soames trailed off.
Accosta glared at him, hating his need for this man, wondering, not for the first time, at the scientist's real motives for helping him. Keeping his voice icily controlled, he said, 'Now that you have killed Mother Giovanna, Dr Soames, it's even more imperative that we succeed with the Soul Project. I'll not allow her death to have been in vain.'
*
Surrey, England.
The next day
Sitting in the front pew in the old church, Miles Fleming kept his eyes straight ahead and told himself again that when he returned to Barley Hall he would discover a rational explanation for why his brother had spoken six minutes after death. It troubled him more than he could articulate.
The small ancient church, close to his parents' home in Surrey, smelt of incense, beeswax polish and the dust of the past. Its dark wooden pews were worn and its stone wall-plaques commemorated local parishioners who had died in wars that were now centuries past.
Someone once said that funerals were for the living and not the dead, and it felt that way to Fleming today. Despite his atheism, he had unquestioningly arranged a church service for the sake of his parents and Jake. His mother and father needed to believe their son was going to a better place, and the ritual made it easier for Jake to understand and accept what had happened.
The church was full and people were standing at the back. As well as family, many of Rob's friends were there: an eclectic mix of ramrod straight military types in full uniform, people in suits and even a few climbing bums with badger-eye tans and crumpled fleeces had converged on this small village south of London to pay their respects and mark Rob's passing.
When Fleming carried the coffin into church with five of Rob's army colleagues he had felt an overwhelming need to shout that he'd let his brother die and had heard him speak after death. But instead he'd helped the others to lay the coffin before the altar, then taken his seat at the end of the front pew next to Jake and his parents. Sitting there now, he could feel Jake's warm thigh next to his and hear his breathing as the child stared at the coffin. Fleming was aware of the Anglican priest's measured tones but he didn't hear his words. All he could focus on were his nephew's ragged breaths, as he listened for any sign that the little boy was breaking down.
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 allowi
ng 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. T
wo 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.
Lucifer (aka the Lucifer Code) (2001) Page 10
