Copyright © 2017/2018

Print ISBN 978-1-54395-046-5
eBook ISBN 978-1-54395-047-2

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

To Mom

Who gave her love and guidance in the creation of this Book In The Same Way That She Gave Them to her children, and the only way she knows how, both tirelessly and unconditionally. I can never thank her enough!

In Memory of Amanda Marie Saulter
(November 14, 1991–February 10, 2019):

Your encouragement for this book was unwavering. You volunteered your face for the cover at a time of dire need and you were my inspiration for the chapter, “The Huntress.”

In a world of superficial friendships and fleeting friends, we shared our souls through our art and achieved something more; but you left too soon.

Rest In Peace, Manda—I hope you’re in a better place.

Dreams beget both fantasy and fear,

they’re ours alone to choose.

Memories are but moments dancing,

stretched the length of time.

— Sevi

Dear Reader,

1. Several scientific and technological terms are used in The Cerebranauts: In Search of the Human Experience, many of which are illustrated. They’re meant to be a fun way to further engage you with the science behind the story. Don’t be dismayed if you don’t understand them. You can relate to the novel as a whole without them.
2. The same can be said of the Appendices, which provide technological information on brain imaging and the Human Connectome Project.
3. Part 3 (An Interlude) is exactly that—a break from the remainder of the story. It’s included for historical interest and is unrelated to the plot as a whole.
4. Although I had wanted to publish only color images, the cost for the paperback would have been prohibitive, so I elected to use color for the electronic version and black and white for print. The color images will, however, be made available to the public on The Cerebranauts Facebook page.
5. Please write a review! Most authors thrive on the relationship they have with their readers. So, if you like The Cerebranauts, I want to know why, and if you don’t, I want to know what I could have done to make it better.

Prologue

As Nexus came to life, Lizzie felt her consciousness accelerate, as if falling through a tunnel. In a flash, her mind was transported out of her brain and into his. Once again, she would have to explore the internal connections of another’s brain and construct a map. Only then could she search for the mind within his brain and locate the source of his problem—what was preventing this brilliant scientist from completing his work? His knowledge of Impenetris had to be recovered and as the world’s first cerebranaut, Lizzie was the one who had been chosen to do it.

Entering through a portal placed in his right parietal cortex, she made her way toward the part of his brain where the center of his self, the seat of his soul, was likely to reside.

As she progressed, she sensed his presence and stopped. She tried to communicate with him, not with words but with thoughts, and she sensed that he was trying to do the same. But she could not yet understand his message, so she proceeded cautiously.

Lizzie soon realized that he was sending her a warning, and that it was getting stronger. He was telling her to leave now, or she would no longer be able to do so—that the pathway to the portal would close, and she would be trapped within his brain.

But in an instant, her exit was blocked, and it was now too late. His negative emotions had depolarized the circuits leading to the portal making escape impossible. And the same negativity was now attempting to quench her own signal which was all that remained of her. If it succeeded, her essence—her soul and her mind—would be destroyed, and her motionless body lying helplessly on a stretcher just six feet away would wither away and die.

Part 1

The Mission

As he entered the Oval Office, John Braxton thought the people in the room resembled the pieces on a half-played chessboard.

The President sat at his desk, gazing downwards and appearing decidedly forlorn, far different from the optimistic image portrayed to the public through the media. Braxton’s boss, Nathan Miller, Director of the National Security Agency, stared out of a window as if poised to leap from its ledge. The others in the room were cabinet members Braxton recognized but did not know personally.

Meeting the President at the White House was almost unprecedented for an associate director, yet there he was. Braxton stood at attention in front of his commander in chief but said nothing. The conversation would only begin when the President was ready.

As Miller turned around and walked to join them, Braxton noticed the wrinkles and recesses that had appeared on his boss’s face since he recruited Braxton to the agency eleven years ago. The job had taken its toll on Miller, and Braxton wondered if the same thing would happen to him.

“Please sit down, John.”

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

“May I offer you coffee, tea or a bottle of water?”

“No thank you, sir. I’m fine.”

“John, our country is about to implode. Four of our government agencies, and thirteen of our largest corporations have been hacked by foreign nationals in the last six months. Of course, we have the usual suspects, but we can’t prove anything. Public sentiment and support are lower than at any time since the Nixon impeachment hearings and I fear are about to sink even lower. We suspect that our stock markets have also been hacked which could precipitate a major crash. We’ve managed to suppress it so far, but a leak is inevitable.

Braxton continued standing at attention, an old military habit.

“The one bright spot on the horizon is a project with the potential of completely preventing computer hacking, rendering it a thing of the past. It’s called Impenetris, and its inventors are Charles Evans, who is considered the dean of cybersecurity in America, and Chris Dalton, a brilliant young man with very little formal education.”

“I’ve heard of both of them.”

“To keep it brief, we need you to drop whatever else you’re doing and devote all of your time and effort into making sure that this project—Impenetris—stays on track. I’ve asked Nathan to email you all of the pertinent background information. Any questions?”

Braxton shook his head and the President continued, “I understand that you were in Delta?”

Braxton nodded, looking the President squarely in the eyes.

Miller joined in the conversation. “It’s not like it was in the old days, is it, John?”

“You’re right about that, Nathan.” He remembered a much younger man, his boss and friend, a newly-minted captain who had led him on so many missions in Iraq. Braxton had been a young soldier at the time and was impressed by the man’s optimism and confidence, two qualities necessary to inspire leadership in battle.

Miller closed his eyes, and Braxton knew he was reliving one of their previous battles. It was sad to see this old warrior looking like a once-proud lion, pacing the remaining days of his life in an undersized cage.

The President added, “You may have to draw from those skills again.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes to get the job done, sir.”

“I know you will. Thank you, John.”

When the President stood up and offered him a thin smile, Braxton knew the meeting was over. Questions were not encouraged; all he would need to know would be communicated in the email.

John Braxton was 53 years old and had never desired his current position, Associate Director of the National Security Agency. Born in Long Island, New York, he attended the State University of New York at Farmingdale for a year on a lacrosse scholarship before dropping out to join the Army. Among his other assignments, he worked his way through Ranger training, at which he excelled and where he had met Miller. Both were selected to join the Special Forces unit, Delta, where they served for the remainder of their military careers.

By the time he was 35, Braxton found himself taking, as so many older soldiers do, increasing amounts of Motrin for the aches and pains of that demanding lifestyle, which prompted him to quit Delta and return to college. With his military background, he took a special interest in cybersecurity.

While working as an adjunct professor in the Department of Computer Studies at the State University of New York at Stony Brook, he wrote a series of papers foreseeing the burgeoning security threat posed by the emerging internet which were noticed by several government agencies. Braxton was soon consulting for all of them. Consultation led to part-time assignments and eventually full-time employment at the National Security Agency (NSA). He was at first utilized only in the background, but as his knowledge and proficiency grew so too did his purview. Soon, he was one of the top agents in his division. Promotions quickly followed until he was named Associate Director. A confirmed bachelor, he devoted his life to his career.

I Think, But I’m Not

Chief Bob Sherrod finally dozed off at midnight, having spent the better part of the evening on his front porch, watching a brilliant lightning storm and making good use of his last six-pack. The phone call jerked him away from a pleasant dream, causing him to curse the day he had ever gotten married. Going through a bitter divorce, his soon-to-be ex-wife did everything possible to make his life miserable, including calling him at odd hours of the night on his departmental phone, the one he had to answer. Despite the warnings from her lawyers and even the judge, the calls persisted.

He was about to give her hell when he heard his deputy’s voice on the other end.

“What’s up, Mackey?”

“Big accident on Route 66, near 495. An SUV jumped the divider and hit a Porsche. A couple of tourists were in the SUV and were probably texting, according to the preliminary report from the phone company. We’re also checking for substance abuse but haven’t gotten anything back yet. The SUV hit the front of the Porsche at about 75, flipped, and burst into flames. Both of the SUV’s occupants died instantly. The Porsche driver’s head impacted the airbag pretty hard. He was alive but unconscious when we found him. The EMTs are loading him into the ambulance now and are about to take him to Memorial.”

“Sounds like you guys have everything under control, so why in hell did you call me?”

“I guess I forgot to mention there’s a federal agent here who wants to talk to you. Won’t talk to me or anyone else.”

Reluctantly, Sherrod joined his officers already present at the scene. With its proximity to several major thoroughfares, the Tysons, Virginia, Police Department saw its fair share of accidents. Mackey pointed out the federal agent.

Sherrod was already annoyed at having to be there, and he had little tolerance for other agencies trespassing on his turf. However, working this close to the nation’s capital made occasional interactions with federal agents inevitable. “Okay, let’s see what he wants.”

As he approached the federal agent, what he first noticed and what he would remember years later was the intensity of the man’s stare, which was now focused on him. “How can I help you?” Sherrod asked the agent, who was standing with two of Sherrod’s officers.

The man said nothing but presented his credentials, which indicated a top position in the National Security Agency, with the highest level of clearance, and identified him as John Braxton.

“I’ll need your complete cooperation, Chief Sherrod. Let’s start with the victim’s car.”

“Sure thing.” In all of his previous dealings with the Feds, Sherrod had never seen credentials quite as impressive as Braxton’s. One of the victims must be a VIP.

“So why is the NSA getting involved with this accident, Mr. Braxton?”

“What do you know about the crash?” Braxton asked, ignoring Sherrod’s question. “Have you received the phone records and toxicology reports?” Sherrod dropped his question and provided Braxton with what they already knew.

After examining the vehicles, Braxton thanked Sherrod for his time and drove to the local hospital where he showed the ER physician his same impressive credentials.

“What’s the status of the accident victim?” Braxton asked.

“He was admitted with the diagnosis of post-traumatic coma. However, the neurologist has broached a few other possibilities, such as total locked-in syndrome and paralytic mutism, based on his EEG, the device that measures the brain’s electrical activity.”

“Can you explain those to me, Doctor?”

“Of course. In both of these conditions, the patient is aware of everything around them, but is unable to speak or move any part of their body, including their eyes. The only difference is the location of the injury. The bottom line is that we don’t have a definitive diagnosis yet and we don’t know for how long he’ll be out.”

Three weeks later, the patient was still nonreactive, with a score of 5 on the Glasgow Coma Scale, which rates the level of consciousness following traumatic brain injury. A score of 3 is the most severe, and 15 the most mild. His doctors offered a dismal prognosis.

Braxton looked down and saw a fixed, open-eyed gaze on the patient’s face. Although he was convinced that the man on the hospital bed was aware of everything around him, every attempt to communicate had been unsuccessful. Making sure he had eye to eye contact, Braxton said, “If you can understand me, we need your help.”

But Chris Dalton remained both motionless and a diagnostic dilemma.

I Don’t Think, But I Am

Days later and hundreds of miles away, Braxton found himself asking similar questions about a very different patient, one who sat staring into space.

“What is Charles Evan’s prognosis, Dr. Privet?”

“There’s still so much that we don’t understand about Alzheimer’s disease,” Privet replied, obviously trying to formulate a more complete answer. “I’ve reviewed all of his medical records, and it appears that he had been deteriorating slowly until he developed pneumonia, which precipitated a more rapid decline. And his years of smoking and emphysema didn’t help either.” Privet paused with a sigh before continuing, “I believe it is most unlikely that he will ever be a functional computer scientist again.”

Looking at the wall behind the doctor, Braxton noted diplomas from several of the most prestigious institutions and two others that were less familiar to him: Michael Privet was a Rhodes Scholar, who not only excelled academically, but who was on his varsity tennis, swimming and basketball teams. His year at Oxford University had been spent studying neuropathology.

As a world-class neurologist and leading expert on Alzheimer’s disease, Dr. Privet was always eager to consult with others in their own pursuits and whose expertise was much in demand. Braxton was satisfied that he would not need a second opinion.

Charles Evans sat in the room with the two men, but was oblivious to their conversation. His gaze was anything but intense, and although his eyes were open, he could have been anywhere.

Sharing

His presentation at the International Society of Neuropsychiatry conference in Toronto was much anticipated as his research was considered a major breakthrough in our understanding of the brain and the mind. Dr. Alan Jurgens took the stage to present his revolutionary work to the world.

Born in a suburb of Graz, Austria, Jurgens had been a precocious child with two older sisters. From an early age, he demonstrated a strong interest in computers, disassembling them and putting them back together again, usually with improved performance.

But when one of his sisters developed epilepsy, he quickly focused his computer skills on trying to help her and the millions of others like her afflicted with the disease. He started cataloging hundreds of EEGs from both epileptics and non-epileptics in an attempt to determine which of the subtle patterns could help doctors predict those patients most likely to develop a seizure in the near future. His algorithms were moderately successful and became the basis for his master’s thesis.

Jurgens found his advancement possibilities to be limited in Austria, so he emigrated to the United States, where he obtained his PhD from Stanford and completed his post-doctoral training at Johns Hopkins.

An avid jogger, he met his wife, Anna, when they literally bumped into each other while running in a Baltimore park where she was visiting her sister. Anna apologized, first in heavily accented English and then in German, for the collision as well as for not speaking better English. Jurgens was immediately smitten, pursuing her both on and off the track. Starting their romance relatively late in life—he was 40 and she, 35—they had a short courtship, were married at the German Embassy where Anna worked as a secretary, and immediately started a family. Gretchen, named after his beloved grandmother, was three, and Anna was now pregnant with their second child, whom they thought to name Hans. Alan Jurgens was a devoted husband and father and put his family above all else.

After his training, he took a position at Vanderbilt University, where he has remained to the present. His English was impeccable and he now considered the United States home.

Encapsulating a decade of research, he presented his results: two live laboratory rats, one mentally intact (known as the guest) and the other rendered brain-dead (known as the host) were connected through a modified supercomputer called Nexus. The guest had been taught to press a lever when it heard a specific tone. But surprisingly, both animals pressed their levers, suggesting that the guest could control the actions of its host.

What was even more unexpected was when just the brain-dead host heard the correct tone, it responded correctly. Jurgens postulated that the guest gained access to the host’s sensorium (that part of the brain which receives and processes incoming sensory information). Then, ascertaining that it was the correct tone, it utilized the host’s musculature to press the lever. But he emphasized that much more research was necessary.

When he opened the presentation up for questions, a fellow scientist, someone Jurgens recognized from Cornell University, asked what program the supercomputer was running. Jurgens smiled and said, “The secret is in the sauce and that, ladies and gentlemen, is why I’m here.”

Some of the audience chuckled.

“We believe the mechanism of thought to be circuits increasing or decreasing the amperages of other circuits within the brain, bringing one or another into our realm of awareness. The set of peak amperages—which we call the electrical signature—appears to be what transfers out of the guest and into the host during a connection with Nexus.”

Following the talk, which included a dynamic demonstration with two lab rats, Jurgens received a standing ovation. It was widely rumored that he was a likely candidate for the Nobel Prize.

During the applause, Braxton quietly left the room.

Mapping

One hour later and several hundred feet away, Dr. Elizabeth B. Sayler presented her research on brain mapping to a slightly smaller, but no less enthusiastic, audience.

Considered brilliant by her peers and known for her ability to think outside of the box, she was, at heart, a small-town girl. Born in Florence, Alabama, she received her BS from the University of North Alabama with dual majors in biology and dance followed by an MD-PhD from Vanderbilt University. New to academia, she was a slightly nervous speaker, but managed to captivate her audience with a charm and sense of humor which they found appealing.

“Earlier attempts to localize a single brain location corresponding to a word or concept were unsuccessful. However, by utilizing newer brain imaging techniques, consistent patterns of activity are beginning to emerge. Some are nearly identical across species lines. For example, a picture of a flower will produce similar activity within the brains of a rhesus monkey, a chimpanzee and a human being. Others are species specific, such as a picture of a city. Those involved with more complicated ideas and opinions appear unique to an individual. And the most complex patterns of all are those associated with consciousness and identity.”

Someone in the audience asked her which imaging techniques she was using.

“A full description of that technology is a bit complicated and may not be interesting to all of you, so as not to risk putting three hundred scientists to sleep, I’ll present an abbreviated version of it now. And for those of you who want a more detailed explanation, you’ll find it in Appendix 1, at the end of this book.

“We use magnetic resonance imaging (MRI) to map the brain and its larger pathways. The relative amounts of oxygenated and de-oxygenated blood can be demonstrated by both MRI and positron emission tomography (PET). The last technique we use, called magnetoencephalography (MEG), locates the tiny magnetic fields produced by the brain. All three techniques work on the premise that the most active neurons and circuits are also producing the most electrical current and consuming the most oxygen.

“So, getting back to the neurons and circuits of the brain producing words, images, and concepts . . . if the 52 cards in a deck of playing cards can produce 2,598,960 five-card poker hands, imagine how many combinations could be produced by the 100 billion neurons in a brain.

“But at the same time, each concept appears to have a central location within the brain which displays greater activity than the others and that behaves as if it were the epicenter of a spoked wheel, both influencing and being influenced by the more peripheral locations. Stimulation of this central focus initiates a cascade of events which are then mediated by the more peripheral sites to produce a thought.

“As an aside, I like to think of a brain, human or otherwise, as a micro-internet with potentially billions of interconnected networks modifying each other in such a way as to produce our thoughts, emotions, and consciousness. We should be thankful that this internet does not, as of yet, have any hackers.”

The audience laughed.

“The more complex functions of our brain will likely be reduced to simple interactions between neural circuits, such that when the electrical activity within one circuit is amplified above that of the others, its content enters our zone of awareness.

“Applying these concepts, we’ve been able to construct a crude brain map and gain insight into the transformation of neural conduction into thought and brain into mind. We’ve even established those parts of the brain that are associated with self-awareness—the claustra and the medial posterior parietal cortex—which has been our major contribution to the Human Connectome Project.”

One of the many reporters attending the conference asked her to explain the Human Connectome Project.

“Yes briefly, the Human Connectome Project is a group of scientists from several institutions who are attempting to map the many connections of the human brain, but because of the vast number, it’s a daunting task. We believe that we’ve mapped many of the major pathways but have also discovered that, due to the available technology, smaller pathways may be obscured. I’ve included additional information about this project in Appendix 2, also located at the end of this book.”

People drifted into and out of her presentation, but Braxton remained, transfixed.

Collision

Theirs was a most unlikely partnership. Yet once it began, it seemed quite natural.

Charles Evans was a true Southern patrician, born into a family whose roots could be traced back to colonial Georgia. The family still owned a working antebellum plantation and was involved with farming, business and the arts. He had been a shy boy, with a mild stutter and was, by nature, a loner. He did not excel in sports, as did his two older brothers, and was awkward socially, thus further alienating him from his classmates. But he was a whiz in math and breezed through his years at Georgia Tech, obtaining a BS followed by a PhD in Information and Computer Sciences.

He met his wife, Sarah, while he was a graduate student tutoring her introductory computer class. She was, by contrast, gregarious in nature with a take-charge personality and they blended well together. She managed their lives, allowing him to do what he enjoyed most: developing and refining the intricacies of cybersecurity. Together, they raised two boys who were now successful in their own careers and starting families of their own.

Charles was an early pioneer in his field and often collaborated with another computer scientist, Bill Ruskin, from Caltech. The two became fast friends, and before the rest of the world had ever heard of computer hacking or viruses, Charles and Bill were matching wits, each trying to break into the other’s systems. It began with visits to their respective facilities where they worked with programs on mainframe computers. By the 1980s, their friendly competition had evolved into developing software which was placed on exchangeable media and sent to the other to test security. Finally, they attempted to hack into each other’s programs via the internet when it became available. What started as a game between friends evolved into the recognized specialty of cybersecurity, with Charles Evans considered one of its superstars. But the competition came to a grinding halt ten years ago when Bill collapsed from a catastrophic stroke, which seemed ironic as Charles was a chain smoker who enjoyed his junk food while Bill was a vegetarian and a jogger.

Having occasionally consulted for the president prior to the election, Charles was actively involved in the new administration’s war against cyberterrorism.

***

Chris Dalton was anything but a Southern patrician. The son of drug dealers, he was abandoned by his mother when he was thirteen months old and his father all but ignored him. Chris would have been left to wallow in his own waste if his grandparents, Amos and Beth Dalton, had not intervened. They rescued the baby and coerced the parents into signing adoption papers in which they relinquished their parental rights as well as their duty to pay child support. The next five years were the happiest in young Chris’ life. Both grandparents were warm and affectionate, and Chris and Amos shared a love of numbers and puzzles. Sadly, when Chris turned six, Beth died of breast cancer. His grandfather struggled to provide a good home, but after three more peaceful and productive years together, Amos suffered a fatal heart attack and Chris was placed in the foster care system, where his treatment varied from the indifferent to the cruel.

At the age of sixteen he left the system as an emancipated minor, supporting himself by repairing computers. Along the way, he taught himself to write code and discovered an aptitude for hacking. Jobs included “breaking” into bank computers to find the hidden accounts of delinquent husbands and manipulating university databases to raise the grades of wealthy students from a C to an A. By eighteen, with the benefit of this new, nefarious income, he was living comfortably on six figures.

Now almost thirty, he lived in a spacious condo in the Georgetown section of DC and drove a Porsche, both of which were paid for in cash. He had a few close friends and a girlfriend, Lauren, although it was becoming increasingly clear that she was into him more for what he could buy her than for who he was. For the moment though, he tolerated their relationship. But something inside of him craved more; he yearned for the affection he saw in some of the young families living in his neighborhood, the love he had known from his grandparents.

***

Evans and Dalton met serendipitously at Def Con, the world’s largest hackers’ convention, held once a year in Las Vegas. During a lunch break, Charles asked Chris if he could share his table at an overcrowded snack bar. Chris nodded and went on with his work, jotting down a few equations on the back of his placemat, with a textbook of Complexity Theory opened beside him.

Charles looked on in amusement, smiled and finally said, “That’s the classic P versus NP problem, that has stumped academic researchers for over 50 years. Do you really think you can solve it?”

Chris ignored the question but asked a few of his own. Charles’ answers prompted Chris to take out a notebook and show more of his work.

Charles stopped in mid-sentence. Taking the notebook from Chris, he looked back and forth between the notebook and the placemat and weakly volunteered, “Son, you may be on your way to winning yourself a million dollars. It’ll take some time to review all of this, but the Clay Foundation is offering one million dollars for a correct solution, and you may have something here.”

The dialogue continued, and neither returned to Def Con for the rest of the day. Their relationship blossomed, with Charles ever the teacher and Chris his apt pupil. Most impressive to Charles was that Chris was largely self-taught. In Charles, Chris found a surrogate grandfather, and in Chris, Charles found a worthy replacement for Bill Ruskin. Working together, they soon developed a dedicated cryptography system.

Called Impenetris, the system featured both hardware and software components. While some were refinements of already existing technology, others were revolutionary and of their own design. But the heart of the system was a quantum artificial intelligence component which continually modified itself, making it progressively more difficult to breach with each unsuccessful attempt.