Lucifer (aka the Lucifer Code) (2001)

by Cordy, Michael

  Tripp and Bukowski appeared in the doorway.

  Both were kitted out in survival suits and carried guns. Their gloved hands were smeared with blood and their suits were streaked with dark stains. Carvelli leant against the wall to steady himself.

  'You've cleared away the mess?' Soames asked.

  Bukowski nodded.

  'Well done. Now go outside and find the wolves. Bring back whatever they've left of Fleming and Amber.'

  Bukowski and Tripp turned away.

  'One word of advice,' Soames said, before they left. 'Don't disturb them if they're still eating. Let them finish before collecting what's left.'

  'Bradley what's got into you?' Carvelli moaned. 'Why are you doing this? It's madness. Why's it so important to you that Amber Grant and Miles Fleming die?'

  Soames's disconcerting eyes appeared to look deep into Carvelli's soul, evaluating, deciding. 'Do you really want to know?' he asked eventually. The way he said it made it sound like a challenge. Can you handle the truth?

  Carvelli's mouth felt dry. 'Yes,' he croaked.

  For a second Soames didn't respond. Then he gave a small smile and led Carvelli out of the security suite. He passed through the white sector and pressed the elevator button.

  Fleming's luck had changed: the weak part of the ledge had broken away, creating a barrier between Amber and the wolves - but plunging him, for one heart-stopping second, into the void. It had taken all his strength to implant his picks into the icy rock-face beneath the ledge on Amber's side. His first attempt didn't hold, but the second - which almost wrenched his right arm out of its socket - did.

  Then he clawed his way up and on to the ledge.

  Amber rushed to help him up. 'Why didn't you answer me?'

  'I was kind of preoccupied.'

  'You scared me,' she said, holding him close.

  'I scared myself.' The wolves were pacing around the ledge on the opposite side of the gap, mustering the resolve to make the leap. 'Come on,' he said. 'We can't stay here.'

  'There's no way I can climb down there,' she said, pointing to the sheer rock-face, which disappeared into the darkness without any hint of a ledge or natural break.

  Fleming reattached Amber's rope to his own suit, then reached into his rucksack for the palmtop computer Virginia had given him, laid it in his hand and checked the screen. 'We're not going down. We're going up.' He waved at the open pipe ten feet above them. 'If I've read this plan correctly, that's an overflow pipe from the original Alascon oil-rig. The pipeline probably cuts through the mountain towards the refinery on the eastern mountain, which isn't far from the rangers' station. It should be relatively easy to move along - it's protected from the elements and those bastards shouldn't be able to follow us.'

  Even as he indicated the wolves, the larger animal was backing away from the ledge preparing for a leap.

  Fleming moved to the ice wall at the end of the ledge. 'Stand back from the edge and keep your hand on the carabiners - sorry, that's the snap rings on the rope linking you to me. If I fall, unsnap them or I'll drag you down with me.'

  She gave him a horrified look. And let the wolves get me? I'm not touching any damn snap rings. Just make sure you don't fall. You're supposed to be good at this.'

  Fleming planted his left ice pick in the sheer face, used his right boot to kick out the first foothold and pulled himself up. Then he planted his right pick higher up and kicked in his left boot. Climbing fluidly, he reached the pipe with little difficulty. Inside it resembled a manmade cave, damp and dark but infinitely more inviting than the bleakness and the wolves outside. He could feel a current of warmer air blowing from inside the mountain.

  He looked down, and saw the first wolf leap across the gap. He braced his legs and tugged on the rope, hoping Amber wouldn't slip, but the wolf gave her impetus and he pulled her into the pipe before it caught her.

  They paused for a moment to watch the wolves baying helplessly below, then turned and walked into the mountain.

  There was an uphill gradient to the pipeline but a flat track running along the base acted like steps. They walked in silence for almost fifteen minutes, when Fleming became aware of a change in the air. The subtle current was now a warm breeze and he could smell something too. 'That's odd.

  Bradley told me his father never produced oil here.'

  'He didn't,' said Amber. 'He made a strike but died before the rig began to produce. Bradley closed everything down and sealed up the borehole when he sold Alascon Oil and converted the rig to VenTec' She stopped in her tracks. 'Look!'

  Ahead, through the gloom, Fleming could see the most bizarre sight: a stroboscopic light show accompanied by a whirring hum. The breeze was now so strong he felt the warm air pushing against him. As he approached he had to turn his eyes away from the source of light above him because it was so bright, but by keeping his eyes down and squinting he could take in his surroundings. They had arrived at a crossroads where the pipe they were walking along bisected the central borehole. Below was a vast circular hole, at least thirty feet wide and blocked with an iron plug some twenty feet down. In the centre of the plug was a projecting pipe, which Fleming guessed was the top of the drill bit. The smell was strong here and he guessed that somewhere down in the murky abyss beneath the iron cap was oil. A dilapidated gantry ran across the borehole offering access to the other side.

  A glance upwards told Fleming that a vast fan, sucking in cooler air, pushing out hot air, was producing the light show. Above it he could hear a now familiar hum. This and the bright light told him what was overhead.

  Stepping forward, he checked the gantry: although it was corroded, it seemed sound. 'Come on,' he said, 'let's get a move on.'

  The wind from the fan threatened to blow him off the gantry, and the blinding light meant he had to look down into the unnerving pit.

  'God, it looks like it goes down to hell itself,' he heard Amber say behind him. She rested a hand on his shoulder, and when they reached the other side they breathed audible sighs of relief.

  From here the pipeline sloped downwards and Fleming was encouraged. The lower the pipe exited on the other side of the mountain, the less climbing Amber would have to do. They walked in silence for half an hour until they came to a fork.

  'Which way?' Amber said.

  'I have no idea, but my hunch is to take the easterly one - the left. That should take us closest to where we want to be. I can also feel some air coming from there.'

  'Okay' she said, and stepped forward into the left tunnel, taking the lead.

  As he watched her small form walk ahead, his mind wandered to the strange look of understanding that had passed between Amber and Soames when she had challenged the Red Pope's announcement, and Soames's cryptic remark: 'I think now you understand why I can't let you or Miles live.'

  What the hell had he meant by that?

  Amber?'

  'Yes?'

  'What did Bradley-'

  Amber stumbled and disappeared. She screamed, 'I'm falling, Miles!'

  Fleming braced his legs, gripping the rope that still joined them together. She was falling too fast, though, and it snapped taut. He fell on to his stomach and was dragged along the pipe. Ahead the incline fell away sharply, like a chute, and beyond he could see only snow and the dark, cold night. This was another overflow pipe. It had spewed Amber out of the mountain into thin air and was trying to do the same to him. He tried to dig in his crampons and boots but couldn't get any purchase on the sheer iron.

  'Cut the rope!' Amber shouted. 'Please cut the fucking rope!'

  In desperation he thrust his ice picks into the metal pipe, trying to get a grip, the friction sparking like a subway train with its emergency brakes on.

  Just feet from the mouth of the pipe he heard a crack and experienced the white-heat of pain in his right arm as he flipped round to dangle feet first out of the pipe. But at least he had stopped falling. Somehow the tip of the pick in his right hand had anchored itself to a protrusion in one
of the weld seams. Quickly he thrust in his left pick to ease the pressure on his strained right arm. The rope round his waist was pulling at his arms but he was grateful for the survival suit's internal wire framework, which helped spread Amber's weight through his body. But he had no foothold. He couldn't pull her up. Gritting his teeth, he wondered how long he would be able to hold on.

  In her dreams of dying, Amber was falling through blackness towards death. But this time there was no light ahead of her, only more darkness. And this was no dream.

  The first thing she was aware of was that the ground had fallen away from her feet and then, almost immediately, she was out of the pipe and in free fall.

  When she felt the first yank as the rope went taut she sighed with relief, but then she began to fall again arid realized she was pulling Fleming with her.

  Seconds later her fall was broken for a second time. Suspended by the ring on the front of her suit she lay on her back in the dark, the light from her helmet torch illuminating the flecks of snow swirling around her in the void.

  'Miles, what's happening?'

  'It's not good.'

  'Cut the rope, then.'

  'I'm not cutting any more goddamn ropes.'

  She was surprised by the aggression in his voice. 'But. . .' She paused. 'I'm sorry'

  There was a moment of silence.

  'What were you going to ask me before I fell?' she asked.

  'It was about Bradley and what the Red Pope said. But it hardly matters now. I guess I'll find out the answers myself soon enough.'

  'I guess we both will,' she said.

  Hanging in the gusting air, looking down into the gloom, she thought, This is it. I'm going to die. I'm actually going to die. At last.

  She felt no fear: instead there was anger and a burning sense of injustice. She also experienced a sudden and surprising stab of sadness for Fleming and herself, which filled her with a wistful sense of what might have been.

  Miles knew he was near the end, but inches to his left he could see a tantalizingly close series of handholds in the form of a line of proud rivets running down a vertical seam in the pipe. Just above his feet the bottom of the pipe was curled into a broad lip, which formed the perfect foothold if he could just raise his feet high enough to perch on it. But with Amber's body weight pulling him down, these havens, inches away, might as well have been miles out of reach. He would only find safety if he released Amber's rope, but after Rob he wasn't about to cut any ropes and help anyone else go to their death.

  'I guess we've all got to die some time,' he heard Amber say. There was no fear in her voice but he detected sadness. And a frustration that matched his indignation.

  'Yep. We're going to die some day,' he muttered, through clenched teeth, 'but it's not going to be today'

  *

  The red sector

  Frank Carvelli was not a brave man: he had poise, a certain presence when required, but this wasn't one of those situations. Following Bradley Soames down into the red sector made his bowels feel loose. He had never been to this part of the VenTec Foundation before and was unsure of the dubious privilege of being invited down here now.

  Carvelli had always prided himself on his ability to turn events to his advantage by understanding the ebb and flow of human needs and desires. His media and film production empire was founded on it: he knew what the public wanted and could charm his business partners. His affiliation with the Red Pope had done wonders for the KREE8 profile: his company's presentation technology had helped the world's first electronic Church come into existence and his grasp of public relations and producing movies had allowed him to guide Accosta's use of the technology to make an already media-friendly personality into a phenomenon.

  But if Accosta's Church had provided the opportunity to showcase KREE8's products on the world stage, Bradley Soames had provided the technological expertise and resources to maximize them. Without Soames and VenTec's research input, KREE8 would have remained unexceptional in the communications technology arena.

  Carvelli thought he had played Soames well, convincing the man to give him the fruits of his genius for a fraction of their market value, all in the name of helping the Red Pope's grand plan, the Soul Project. But now he realized that in fact Soames had managed him. It was becoming increasingly evident that Soames had manipulated everyone, including the Red Pope, to satisfy his own agenda. Whatever that agenda was.

  'Put these on,' Soames ordered, handing him a pair of eye protectors. As the elevator stopped, Carvelli could see a blue-white light leaking in beneath the door. Soames was rearranging his clothing to cover his skin, and by the time the doors opened he resembled a cowled monk.

  'Do you understand what this is?' Soames asked, as Carvelli stood on the steel gantry and looked down the borehole into the sphere of pulsating light energy.

  Carvelli stared at the orb for some moments before replying. He marvelled at the sparks flickering inside the sphere like sunspots. As his eyes became accustomed to the light he noticed the laboratories that encircled the orb. Through the curved tinted viewing windows of one he could see a replica of Fleming's NeuroTranslator and Soames's soul-capture head-sphere. But the main viewing area was decked out with consoles and monitors, and a host of peripheral equipment. 'It's a computer,' he whispered, in awe of the vast power the twenty-foot-diameter sphere must contain. 'It's a huge optical computer.'

  'It's more than that, Frank. Far more.' Soames's voice changed. His usual aloof detachment was gone, replaced by pride. 'This is our Lord's power made manifest, the instrument for spreading his dark enlightenment across the globe. This furnace of white-hot heat and light will forge the four nails to be hammered into the coffin of faith. Through its power the four signs promised by Satan and revealed by the Red Pope's lost soul will be delivered.'

  Carvelli's anxiety increased. It was all he could do to stop himself shaking. His voice didn't sound like his own when he said, 'That's why you weren't surprised by the Red Pope's revelation. You already knew who our master was, because you've always served him.' He was horrified by the depths of Soames's deceit.

  There was a sound to his left and Carvelli turned to see the elevator door open. Bukowski and Tripp stepped out, followed by the wolves, their muzzles caked with blood.

  Amber and Miles?' Soames demanded, as the wolves moved to stand beside him.

  Her face impassive, Bukowski shook her head. 'No sign. The wolves returned without finding them. They've probably fallen off the mountain. And, if not, it's unlikely they'll survive. The weather's getting worse, and although Amber Grant's many things, she isn't a climber.'

  'But Miles is,' said Soames.

  Carvelli ignored the exchange. He was still trying to come to terms with Soames's agenda. 'You've always served Satan,' he said again, as if hoping that by repeating it the revelation would become less shocking.

  'No,' barked Bukowski and Tripp in unison, turning on Carvelli as if he had uttered a blasphemy.

  'Don't you understand?' demanded Bukowski, with a chilling half-smile as she and Tripp looked towards Soames. 'We serve him.'

  Turning to the cowled figure of Soames, who was silhouetted with his wolves against the bright light radiating from the sphere, Carvelli's bowels loosened. He couldn't help it: he had never known fear like this before. 'Who are you?'

  'Who do you think I am?' Soames answered.

  Whimpering, Carvelli could only stare. Suddenly he understood, with sickening, terrifying clarity.

  Soames stepped towards him. 'Now, let me explain why Amber and Miles can't be allowed to threaten what's in place.'

  Trembling, smelling the reek of his own fear, Carvelli listened.

  'Now that you understand everything, only one question remains,' Soames said, when he had finished. Are you with me or, like Virginia, against me?'

  Carvelli looked at Soames and then at the wolves, standing tense beside him. He tried to speak, but his mouth wouldn't function. All he could do was kneel and hang his head in
submission.

  'Would you do something for me?' Soames asked.

  Anything,' Carvelli rasped. Anything at all.' Soames nodded with satisfaction. 'Take the helicopter to Fairbanks. You can use my plane from there. It's a little matter. An extra insurance policy'

  Climbers call the phenomenon the third-man syndrome: the sense, when climbing in pairs, of an invisible but benign guiding presence. Arctic explorers have reported the same sensation. Fleming had experienced it on a few occasions with his brother, usually when they were exhausted, hungry and at the end of their endurance. Afterwards, Rob always confirmed that he had felt it too.

  This time it was different. As Fleming gripped the ice pick handles, his joints and muscles burning, there was no third presence. But even as his hands numbed and it became hard to breathe he did feel something: the strange sensation of strong hands closing around his wrists. Husbanding his remaining reserves he prepared for one last desperate lift, hoping he could gain enough height to plant his feet on the bottom of the pipe and take the weight off his arms.