Lucifer (aka the Lucifer Code) (2001)

by Cordy, Michael

  'Well, if I can access all my Barley Hall files from here, as Bradley says, that should be relatively straightforward.'

  'Oh, all your flies are accessible,' she said, and led them all into the elevator. She pressed a button and the cabin descended. 'You can check them whenever you want.' The doors opened and she took him into an impressive laboratory, the orb pulsing on his left behind the glass.

  He recognized the two NeuroTranslators, although they looked different from his Barley Hall prototype. This design was more finessed, featuring a sphere in a translucent blue cube 'with rounded corners supporting an integrated plasma screen with touch controls. The device was at least 20 per cent larger than Fleming's prototype with in-built speakers. It was also significantly more powerful.

  'Why two units?' asked Fleming.

  'VenTec policy,' Soames said. 'We always develop prototypes in pairs - so we have a backup.'

  'It's beautiful,' Fleming said, looking over it. At the back were two wireless infrared connectors he had never seen before. The left bore the legend 'receive' and the right 'transmit'. 'I don't recognize these ports, though. A new type of communication sensor?'

  Tripp gave a dismissive shrug. 'Sort of. We've only included them to ensure that the Neuro-Translator's compatible with our latest optical networking technology.'

  'Look, Miles,' said Soames. 'We've even built our own body surrogate.'

  Fleming turned and saw the life-size mannequin standing by the door. It was eerily similar to Brian. 'I'm impressed, Bradley, but also a little spooked. How long have you guys been copying my work?'

  About a year,' said Soames, without any hint of shame. 'If you recall, we did try to recruit you in the past, but when you wouldn't join us we had to develop our own thought-control system.' He smiled. And after all, your invention was based on the Lucifer, our invention. Just be glad we're this far along the development track. It'll make your research easier.'

  The small voice of protectiveness rumbled at the back of Fleming's mind but he silenced it.

  Soames looked at him. 'So?'

  Fleming decided he might as well go forward as back. 'So, when can we start?'

  'I thought we already had,' Soames said.

  *

  The blue sector.

  One hour later

  A few hundred yards away, Xavier Accosta stood in the virtual reality media suite of the blue sector wearing a skin-tight bodysuit studded with electrodes that accentuated and defined every contour and muscle group on his head and body. To his right, on a large screen, an animated figure comprised of dots reflecting each position of the electrodes mirrored his every move. The room contained matt black sound, audio and digital video-capture equipment as well as a bank of white optical computer consoles.

  Carvelli sat before a computer terminal, dividing his attention between the large screen by the wall and his monitor. 'Could you walk on the treadmill, please, Your Holiness?'

  'Is it necessary to exert him so much?' Virginia Knight demanded. She stood beside Monsignor Diageo checking the oxygen station she had prepared. 'His respiratory system is weak. He mustn't be pushed.'

  Carvelli looked up and smiled apologetically. 'I understand, but I need to get all the movements into the computer if it's to be realistic'

  Accosta grimaced through the pain that, since his arrival in Alaska, had worsened. He reached for the oxygen mask and took a deep breath, sucking the sweet pure air into his diseased lungs. 'Relax, Virginia. Frank's only doing what's necessary.'

  Knight sighed. 'Just take it easy. Please.'

  'We've almost finished anyway,' Carvelli said, making some further adjustments using the spherical mouse beside him. 'We've captured all the facial expressions we need. Could you do the arm again one last time?'

  Accosta did as he was told and went through the full range of movements, bending his elbows and stretching out his arms, exercising every single muscle, then working his fingers.

  'Excellent, Your Holiness. Do you want to see how it'll look?'

  Accosta was still unsure of how realistic the end result would appear, although he had heard of the wonders this technology had already performed in Hollywood. Carvelli had explained that three of last summer's biggest box-office hits had starred 'virtual actors' and the audiences hadn't been able to distinguish between them and the real ones. With the increasingly prohibitive fees paid to movie stars and the seamless digital effects made possible by optical computer technology, virtual actors were now a viable alternative.

  Carvelli clicked three buttons on his monitor and, within seconds, the animated figure on the large screen filled in from the feet up to become a man wearing only a pair of boxer shorts. Accosta recognized the body as his own but it was only when he saw the head definition filling in that his eyes widened. The person on screen was him - as lifelike as if he were looking in a mirror.

  'What you're seeing, Your Holiness, is a composite figure taken from your physical genetic profile, adjusted by age - the movement scans I've just completed, and all those digital photographs we took of you earlier. The digital photography is what allows us to get such an exact likeness. That face up there is a computer-generated amalgam of your genetic makeup and a high-resolution multi-billion pixel digital image of you. The movement exercises we've been conducting ensure that the image obeys all your facial muscles and moves naturally. Now watch.'

  His eyes fixed on the screen, Accosta saw his screen persona being dressed. Socks appeared on his feet, then shoes, followed by each layer of clothing, culminating in his scarlet robes, skullcap and chains of office. Even the official rings appeared on his fingers.

  'That's incredible,' he said.

  Carvelli beamed. 'With all due respect, Your Holiness, I believe you'll find this far more impressive.' He flipped a switch, illuminating a small red diode on a horizontal, four-foot-diameter, black enamelled disk at the back of the room, which began to hum. 'It takes a little time to warm up,' he said.

  Red changed to green.

  Then a figure appeared on the pad, building upwards in fully rendered laser stripes as if painted by an invisible hand. This time when it was complete and Accosta recognized it as himself it was fully attired in all his scarlet splendour, matching the image on the screen. But this was no two-dimensional screen image: this was a real person. It was as if Accosta had been frozen and placed on the black disk. He doubted whether even he would be able to tell the difference if he saw himself standing beside it, dressed in the same attire.

  Then Carvelli touched the monitor beside him.

  And Accosta watched his image come to life.

  First he noticed the subtleties: the breathing, the chest subtly rising and falling, the lips parting slightly. Then the heavy-lidded eyes blinked and the mouth smiled.

  To Accosta's astonishment he found himself mimicking his double, as if he were the mirror image. It was like looking at his reflection but having no control over its movements. When it stepped towards him Accosta moved back involuntarily.

  'The image can't move beyond the boundaries of the holo-pad,' Carvelli reassured him. 'It will do whatever the computer operator tells it to but the hologram can only exist on the pad. What do you think, Your Holiness? You happy with your image? After all, eternity is a long time.'

  Accosta stepped forward and reached out, almost touching the phantom, mesmerized by the likeness. It was - to all intents and purposes - him. But this embodiment, this vibrant rebirth of his own fading body, would never succumb to disease or death. 'Yes,' he said with a sigh, 'I'm happy with it.'

  Suddenly the hologram moved and Accosta watched the image smile as it knelt before him.

  'You want to give him your blessing, Your Holiness?' Carvelli said.

  'Yes,' said Accosta blankly, extending his hand and resting it on his phantom head, shocked to find no substance there. 'But it has to be able to speak. What about its voice?'

  'You mean your voice?' Knight said behind him.

  Accosta nodded.


  Carvelli pointed towards the bank of audio equipment and two microphones beyond the holopad. 'Well, that's what we plan to do next.'

  The white sector canteen. Three days later. 11.18 p. M.

  'Thought I might find you here, Miles. Had much sleep over the last few days?'

  Miles looked up from his Caesar salad and gave Soames a weary grin. 'No, not much. But after I've eaten this I'm going to collapse in my room for at least eight hours.' It was late in the evening: Tripp and Bukowski had retired hours ago. He was almost too tired to eat.

  Soames sat down next to him. On his tray he had a bowl of fruit, a can of Coke and a bread roll. He appeared eager to discuss Fleming's progress. 'So, how's it going?'

  'Good.'

  'Walter and Felicia been attentive?'

  'Sure.' At times Bukowski had been almost too attentive.

  'Walter told me you've finished the mods.'

  'I've set up a small demo for you and Frank tomorrow.'

  Soames's eyes lit up. 'Great. Good work.'

  Fleming allowed himself a smile. He was satisfied with the progress they'd made in just three days.

  It had taken over sixty hours, stopping only to eat and grab a couple of hours' sleep, for Fleming to arrive at this point. As he had suspected, the hardware in the spotless white and chrome laboratory was excellent, and the NeuroTranslator was superior to the prototype he had developed at Barley Hall. True to his word, Soames had arranged for Fleming to download his files from the database at Barley Hall. He'd spent hours wearing the Thinking Cap in front of the body surrogate, calibrating the NeuroTranslator so that it would correctly decode the complex patterns of neural signals that instructed even the simplest tasks. It had taken six hours alone just to fine-tune the device's interpretation of eye movements.

  Once these early adjustments had been achieved to his satisfaction, the other body movements followed more quickly as the device's neural net learnt for itself. And, with the relevant calibrations made, this NeuroTranslator was so fast that there was no lag between thought and action. Immediately he thought about raising an eyebrow, the body surrogate did the same. In the pure world of the abstract it was perfect.

  Movement control, however, had been a relatively easy precursor to the more difficult task of interpreting thought speech. Again he had started at the beginning, going through the basic vocabulary, feeding back glitches to Tripp and Bukowski, who had diligently obeyed his every order. Gradually he had enriched the vocabulary until the computer's neural net had taken over.

  Earlier that evening, after Tripp and Bukowski had retired to their quarters, Fleming put on the Thinking Cap and powered up the NeuroTranslator for a final check. Scrolling up and down the screen he'd registered the standard brain waves spiking across the monitor: alpha waves, mu waves, theta and beta waves, as well as the others. Everything appeared to be in order. Every recorded wavelength was in evidence.

  Except one.

  Now that the new NeuroTranslator was up and running, he downloaded Amber Grant's neural scan with its unique wavelength from his Barley Hall files. By the time he'd done this and turned back to the NeuroTranslator a new line had appeared at the top of the screen, soaring above the highest megahertz band of the other wavelengths. And within a few hours of studying the soul wavelength he had reached an inescapable conclusion.

  'How do you feel?' Soames asked.

  'Dog tired.'

  'I mean about the NeuroTranslator.'

  'Pretty good. You'll see tomorrow'

  For a few minutes they sat in silence, Fleming eating his salad, Soames drinking his Coke and picking at his fruit.

  'How about your soul wavelength?' Soames asked. 'I mentioned it to the others and they're fascinated. You had a chance to look into it yet?'

  Fleming frowned. He had only talked about the soul wavelength with Soames, and was unsure how he felt about involving the others.

  Soames read his expression. 'They want to help, Miles. You're among friends here. Carvelli's a smart guy, and Walter and Felicia aren't stupid. Use all of us to bounce ideas off. That's what we're here for.'

  Fleming felt a sense of release: it would be good to share his concerns and feed off their collective intellect and experience. 'Thanks.'

  'So, you had a chance to look into it?'

  'Briefly. It's early days, but I can already see two big issues I need to resolve.'

  'Want to talk about them?'

  Fleming was too tired. 'I'd welcome your opinion. I really would. But not now' He rose from the table. 'I'm sorry but I'm dead on my feet. My brain's frazzled and I've got to crash. I'd love to discuss it tomorrow, though, after the demo.'

  'Sure.' Soames stood up and rested a hand on Fleming's shoulder. 'Get some sleep, Miles. Tomorrow promises to be a big day.'

  *

  Later that night

  Sleep came as soon as Fleming had stripped naked, climbed into bed and placed his head on the pillow.

  Hours later, however, Amber Grant intruded on his dreams about Rob and Jake. She was whispering in his ear, her hand brushing his thigh, her touch so light and sensuous it brought goose-bumps to his skin and made the hairs rise on his legs. Her cool fingers travelled up to his groin, gently massaging him until he became erect.

  Night air cooled his skin as the covers were pulled back and someone slid in beside him. A soft form moulded itself to his, hot, sweet breath warmed his cheek, and the insistent fingers quickened their motion.

  He moaned in his sleep as he felt hot breath move down his neck, to his chest and then his stomach. For a delicious moment a tongue licked his belly, while the fingers circling his straining erection slowed to a teasing feather-light caress. Surrendering to the sensation, he yearned for release and as the tongue moved lower he unconsciously clenched his buttocks, thrusting his pelvis upwards.

  'Amber,' he groaned aloud, as the searing mouth enveloped him, waking him with a start. Then he realized instantly that it hadn't been a dream.

  And that it wasn't Amber.

  What the hell?'

  Felicia Bukowski's blonde hair looked luminous in the glow from the illuminated alarm clock as her head gently bobbed up and down on him. And when she looked up her pale irises shone in the light like metallic discs. Every physical instinct told him to let her continue. But something compelled him to reach down and push her away. 'No, no. Stop. I'm sorry, but this is wrong.'

  He wasn't sure why he stopped her, except that he knew he had to. Perhaps it was because of what he had seen in her glinting eyes: the flash of naked triumph that made him fear that if he yielded to her he would somehow surrender far more than he realized.

  He suspected, however, that his compulsion had more to do with betrayal. It was irrational, particularly for a man who had hitherto placed so little value on commitment, but Fleming suddenly knew that he felt a strange allegiance to Amber Grant. So strong that, until he reached some kind of resolution with her, any other intimate relationship would be tantamount to treachery.

  Felicia's eyes hardened but he saw no hurt in them. Only disappointment and anger. Saying nothing, she held him for a moment longer, squeezing him tight as if testing his resolve, and then she rose, put on her robe and left.

  After she had gone, Fleming lay in the dark, listening to his pounding heart, knowing that, despite his exhaustion, sleep would elude him.

  Unknown to Fleming, a few hundred yards away in the black sector, Amber Grant was also unable to sleep.

  Over the last few days she had been recovering her strength and observing the guards, registering the time when they checked on her, the time when they brought her food and the time when they collected the meal trays. Looking for patterns in their behaviour, she watched and waited.

  Plotting her escape.

  *

  The red sector.

  The next day

  Both Walter Tripp and Felicia Bukowski were at the demonstration in the red sector laboratory the next afternoon. Fleming had considered mentioning Bukowski's in
trusion to Soames - how had she been able to gain access to his room? - but since it would serve no purpose he had said nothing. And now, in the light of day, he could almost convince himself that it had never happened. If he didn't mention it again he was sure she wouldn't. He hoped it wouldn't sour their working relationship. So far, aside from a discernible coolness, he was relieved to see that she was acting as if nothing had happened.

  'That's fantastic,' Soames said, as the mannequin extended its right arm.