QUANTUM SEED

CHAPTER 1

THE GLIMMER

London

Spending a few hours with caustic gel-soaked electrodes searing into my scalp wasn’t the worst way to celebrate my birthday. I could have been home with Albert contemplating the meaning of life. He wouldn’t remember the date, and I didn’t expect him to; after all, Albert was a cat.

The electrodes are burning into my skull. What adhesive are you using? I winced. Something you concocted yourself?

The eminent Scottish neuroscientist paused his preparations and squinted at me as if gauging how bad the pain was. Reaching into his green tweed jacket pocket, he pulled out what looked like a tube of toothpaste. Now, now, no need to be offensive. It’s a new one, but not of my making.

A wave of stings rushed over my scalp, causing my forehead to crinkle involuntarily.

We’ll go back to one o’ the usual glues next time. For now, block oot the pain well enough to give us a productive session. It’s aw in the name of science. His accent always got thicker when I riled him up.

We were in the twenty-first century, and I had to endure pain from glue. I searched his unshaven face for softness but found a singular focus, not on me but on the multicolored wavy lines produced by the Quantitative Electroencephalograph. The qEEG was old school, but his method of choice because he could fine-tune it to get a detailed visual map of my brain. There was also the important fact that it didn’t need to be hooked up to a network. Privacy was ensured.

Uuhhh … I’ll try. The words escaped me like I was a trained ventriloquist as I dared not move a muscle. During the preparation phase, I had to stay still until he confirmed that the electrodes were attached and functioning properly.

Perhaps his lack of empathy was payback. I had canceled our last two sessions. As a cognitive neuroscientist pursuing a doctorate, I worked long hours. The past two months had seen an influx of new studies, which meant sixty-hour work weeks for me and no time for the monthly session with my experiments partner and friend, Dr. Malcolm George. We were opposite sides of the same coin. I chose to spend most of my professional life shuttered up in a lab, analyzing data and interacting with a select few. Whereas Malcolm was one of the world’s most reputable neuroscientists, sought after by universities, health institutions, the media, and professional organizations for appearances and advice. Surprisingly, he had never canceled any of our sessions. A sense of inferiority struck me. But he was proud of my work, having acted as a close mentor to me over the years.

Satisfied with each connection, he shifted his eyes away from the displays and over to me. March 7. Don’t think I’ve forgotten. Happy birthday, Victoria. His eyes twinkled as he smiled warmly. I have a joke for you.

You know I don’t like jokes; most simply aren’t funny. Dilemma … should I have pretended to like his joke, considering my vulnerability?

Right. A man—he squinted at me—about your age receives a Lego set for a birthday gift. After many months of work on it, he proudly proclaims to his friends that he’s completed the set in record time. His friends look at him, puzzled. To prove his point, he shows them the box. ‘See, it says here 10-14 years.’

That’s a good one. I genuinely laughed. It’s nice to be here with you. The seventh of March was not my actual birth date—it was the day Aunt Judy found me, an abandoned baby, in her hospital.

Squinting at me, he said, I can’t tell if ye’re bein’ facetious. Jist be happy we’re not bloody celebratin’ with experimental electrical currents to yer brain coupled wi’ targeted nootropics. A spray of saliva accompanied his words.

I grinned at his passionate retort.

People worldwide were stimulating or suppressing brainwaves with electrical currents or powerful magnets thanks to a competition to reach an elusive brainwave pattern considered to be optimization. Uncertified neurodevices and thousands of nootropics had flooded the market and were available for anyone to purchase. All promised incredible results but had yet to deliver anything extraordinary.

Whereas my experiments were limited to reading brainwaves using a standard qEEG. Our hour-long sessions contained two experiments of Malcolm’s choosing and two of mine—all scientifically designed to test brain phenomena and abilities. Contrary to popular interpretations, there was nothing mystical or magical about it. After hooking me up, he’d leave the room and return minutes before the end of my odyssey. With the session fresh in my mind, we would compare the hard data to my subjective experience.

By slowing down my brainwaves, I could access a more fluid and dynamic dimension, one normally inaccessible, even with the most potent nootropic drug. More importantly, I was in control, unlike those using external stimuli. From that brainwave state, so much more was possible, yet not always accepted by others. And I had limitations. I could only see the future up to twenty-one days ahead. As the event approached, my sight or sense would become stronger and clearer.

Three years ago, I had advised a colleague to see a doctor about a malignant tumor. She grimaced, recoiled from me, and accused me of witchcraft. The imagery of a witch standing over a blackened cauldron tending to her brew ran through my mind. Despite her reaction, she went to her doctor nineteen days later and into the operating theater the next day for a lifesaving procedure.

In the first year of our experiments, I repeatedly read Malcolm’s mind, glimpsed future events, disrupted technology in the room, and remotely checked on Aunt Judy. With each exhibition of my abilities, I waited—waited to see if he would retreat, engulfed in fear, like all others had done before. Thankfully, that day had never come. Malcolm was one of the most grounded, unshakable people I’d ever met.

Malcolm dimmed the lights and placed a glass of water and a call button within my reach on an antique wood side table. I alternated between watching him and noting my surroundings to distract myself from the pain. Nothing had changed since we had started working together twelve years ago, from the damaged floor planks covered in frayed and faded area rugs to the cracked brown leather recliners. The mahogany bookcases held hundreds of worn books and journals that looked like they were as overworked as their owner. The lower shelves were different—they were reserved for double-stacked boxes of electrode glue formulations. Juxtaposed against the antiquated furniture was ultra-modern equipment—lots of it. Some of his latest collectibles were neurodevices, still in their boxes, requiring beta testing. This was what dedication looked like.

You don’t have to do all this. I broke into his obsessive-compulsive preparations. If I need you, I will call you directly from my CDi. The Communications and Diagnostics interface on my arm was like a second skin and could be activated by touch or voice command. It replaced the phones of a decade ago and provided data on everything from metabolic rate to blood pressure.

He checked the call button twice and placed the pulse oximeter on my left middle finger. I’m doing my part to ensure you have a good session. You know what they say …

I recited his favorite saying on cue. Fail to prepare, prepare to fail.

He smiled with the left side of his face. Indeed.

"In all these years, I’ve never taken a sip of water during my experiments or used the panic … I mean call button to wake you from your slumber in the other room."

I’ll give ye slumber. He took the bait and shook his fist in my direction. Ye’d do well to remember who connects ye. It could slip my mind to change the bloomin’ glue next time. Oh… and fer safety, I like yer to have the button as a backup.

Having successfully irked him again, I smiled so big it felt like some of the electrodes would pop off.

Which reminds me, I’ll be upstairs in the recording room doing some clips for the BBC.

Of course you will. I held my lips together to avoid another full-on smirk.

Right. Ready, Victoria? He raised his right index finger but kept his eyes on the three displays arranged like a mission control center.

Yes, I said, desperate to numb the scores of pain receptors.

Right, close your eyes and begin.

His finger went down—the signal I’d been waiting for. I was free to plunge into the depths of consciousness, returning to the safety of home.

Within twenty-five seconds, I reached a monk-level meditative state. Such a quick descent was not typical, according to Malcolm, who believed my keen ability to control brainwaves was innate. Personally, I thought it was nurture. If one must log ten thousand hours to become an expert at something, then I was a master meditator by age twelve. My preference to experience the world from the inside out had probably shaped my brain and mind.

Deeper and deeper I went with every second. I began with my favorite visualization—an island beach.

Waves ripple over my feet and hug my ankles, while the sun’s warmth helps relax me to a point just above sleeping. I walk along the serene shoreline, noticing the individuality yet connectedness of the sand grains as they support each step. Salty ocean gusts permeate my body, removing all stress. The scene is effortless. Stillness and vitality exist together with solitude and connection. I call for my guide. Not with a name—he doesn’t have one—but with my mind and heart.

Every cell in my body responds with heightened expectation of him. Sometimes he is there waiting, but most times he arrives when I am well into my explorations. I can’t remember when I met him. It is as if he has always been there, waiting, guiding—a constant presence in my meditations. Today, it seems he will come later. I continue my walk alone.

All is as it should be … until my island vanishes.

What the—I’m being pulled away. I can’t control …

Out in the world of matter, my brain tried to break free from its skull. Ten short seizure-like twitches were followed by a reprieve of two calm seconds before the violent tremors repeated. An electrical short? No, Malcolm would have seen a malfunction in the initial readings. The jolts twisted time and my ability to figure out the next step. Years of smooth and carefully orchestrated sessions had left me unprepared for such a drastic deviation. After round three, I tried to give a verbal command to my CDi. No sounds came out. Unable to speak, I lifted my arm to reach for the call button. Before I could press it, a frightening cracking sound emanated from my head. I drew my hands to either side of my skull and pressed to prevent it from splitting open. At the pinnacle of the emergency, my brain settled, but there was a price to pay for tranquility.

My beach scene is replaced by darkness. Someone or something has taken over. Don’t panic. He will be there. Suddenly, a brilliant bright light appears. I go towards it and stop ten feet away. Three entities, each about twelve feet high and six feet wide, hover in midair. The one on my left is glowing blue. The green one in the center is the biggest and brightest, almost dwarfing the yellow one on the right. They are made of light, and although they are spaced out, collages of prisms form where their energies overlap. At this distance, I am warmed by the heat they radiate and smell a distinct odor, like after a thunderstorm.

The scene has an eerie feeling of destiny. Where is my guide?

The green energy dims and speaks. As the lead in this review, I will present the findings from our assessment of Earth’s civilization.

I hear the words not with my ears, but with my mind. The voice, neither male nor female, is not speaking to me but to an audience listening in. I have so many questions, but I hope they can’t hear my thoughts. Where are they from? Why are they reviewing us? Are they hiding somewhere within the bright light, or are they the light?

You are the sole Earth representative in these proceedings. It’s a direct communication from the lead to me.

These beings, or Reviewers, have clearly made a mistake. I can’t be the defender of Earth’s humanity. I spend most days working on my own, trawling through data, designing future studies, and assessing brain images. I avoid most individuals whenever possible, except in a clinical setting. In my opinion, many people are overly emotional and illogical, and they tend to overcomplicate things. I rub my abdomen to calm a lurching stomach. What are they expecting from me? My heart races like I’m about to take a final examination I haven’t studied for.

The green light says, We are in agreement. There is irrefutable evidence of a grave development on Earth.

Before I can respond, a superfast display of life on Earth swirls around us, from jungles filled with primates, beetles, and frogs, to savannahs bursting with gazelle, elephants, rhinos, and tigers, to oceans inhabited by millions of fish, majestic whales, and dolphins. Ten types of early humans whirl by like horses on a carousel. One by one they vanish, leaving the last surviving branch—homo sapiens.

The lead Reviewer continues, Every time a female gives birth on Earth, we glimpse human potential. A picture of a mother with her newborn baby boy zooms forwards from the montage. For a while, the glimmer fights to stay alive. The new toddler hands another child a flower. As the days wear on, it weakens against the bombarding norms, values, and behaviors of a malformed civilization. The teenager at school walks with his head hung low as fellow students bully him. The glimmer is stamped out in the deep darkness of a broken civilization. This cycle repeats across your planet and leads to devastating consequences for its people.

My perspective drifts up to a point where I am looking down at myself. The tale of doom freezes me in shock. Even in an altered state of consciousness, I expect a stronger reaction, unless the reviewers of our planet are controlling my brain’s responses.

You create false narratives in a quest to belong and to assign meaning where none exists. Walls are built, lines drawn, and minds narrowed as you cling hard to your arbitrary groups and ideas.

A procession of Persian, Greek, Roman, and Chinese warriors appears for a moment before it is replaced by warring modern soldiers from around the globe. Humans with over-dominant primal brains built your society’s foundation. When uncontrolled or stressed, you are closer to savage animals than sophisticated beings. Craving attention, those with an unquenchable thirst for power rise using aggression, paranoia, and fear. Their numbers grow at a rate not dissimilar to a rampaging plague, asserting itself over others and showing no mercy. Unrestrained, a ravaged humanity consumes Earth.

My blood runs cold as past horrors are reviewed by the advanced beings. It’s true; dysfunctional or overstressed parts of the limbic and endocrine systems can evoke primitive behaviors. If we developed from that, then we are not in good shape. But is it fatal? I need to know where this is headed.

Their portrayal of us sucks the air out of my lungs. I hold my breath to prevent the last traces from escaping. Silence follows. The verdict is coming … I feel it. Why has my guide left me stranded in a desert of despair?

After a long, dark pause, the lead says, Humankind on Earth has developed well in some areas; unfortunately, it will not be enough. An expanded image of a ravaged world gives way to scenes of melting glaciers and disappearing ozone. You have steered your world off-course over many millennia and do not have the means to correct it. We accept the imbalanced state of the planet as it is. In 314 days, Earth will be uninhabitable.

What? 314 days? With my role still unclear, I push the boundary of a passive witness. My voice trembles as I, the token Earthling, dare to speak audibly for the first time. Surely we won’t let it go so far. How can you deliver that verdict with such certainty and detachment?

Victoria, like you, we can see into others’ timelines. The Reviewer communicates directly to my mind. Perhaps they can’t speak as we can. My eyes dart from one individual to the next as I try to figure out who they are and how they know about me.

We can see Earth’s future from our vantage point in the multiverse. There are gaps, but catastrophic events are approaching.

What happens to us? I ask, knowing that having the answer doesn’t mean we can change it.

As you know from living with your abilities, we cannot reveal detailed timeline information, merely the date of the event.

The lead is referring to creating a self-fulfilling prophecy. I learned about it in my twenties when I told a friend he would be in an accident. Six days later, he got in a crash. Although he was fine, he blamed me for planting the seed in his head. It’s tricky business, seeing the future, whether destiny or possibility.

Desperate to put two and two together, I say, But if Earth has veered off course because of our primitive foundation, how does this one disaster fit in?

Even if you could prevent the coming disaster, you will create others because of how your civilization and brains have evolved. It is who you are.

The Reviewer’s last statement leaves no room for growth or learning. And there’s no suggestion of intervention or correction from them.

I can’t let this be the end. We may be guilty of all the things you’ve said, but we’re also known for our resilience. Can you help us correct our direction? I pause to consider my tactics. We’ve never seen a healthy civilization that could have acted as a guide or blueprint. Isn’t there a way for us to learn from a more balanced society? In a Hail Mary move, I say, Show us how we were intended to evolve. My voice cracks as I suggest what is probably a wildly impossible option. Help us this once.

I dangle in the abyss, awaiting an answer. Without faces or body language to read, I can’t use my honed observation skills. My heart skips out of sync as Earth heads for its end. What if … How can we … Isn’t there …

Quiet. Emptiness. My avalanche of questions and emotions vanishes.

The lead says, We are here to help Earth’s people avert the coming disaster. We cannot do it for you, but we can assist your people in gaining critical skills and knowledge.

The relief is so powerful that my body shakes like I’m standing naked in below-freezing temperatures. I wish they had started with that. You will? How?

You and others will have six planetary rotations to get to the chosen location.

Others … how many? I don’t work well with others. There would need to be thousands helping to save Earth. In six days? The news stuns me like I’ve been dropped into an ice bath. Where’s this location of yours? It must be on Earth, which will trigger ufologists and alien- takeover theorists.

You are the only one we can communicate with in this way. Others will have a recurring dream, which they will feel compelled to follow. You will be away for 121 days.

A sudden flash of information appears so vividly in my mind that I reach out to touch it.

Dollsteinen – Sandsøya Island, Norway

Coordinates: 62.2577, 5.3984

Arrive by 11:00 local time (24-hour clock)

How will you select people? Did I dare ask how many again? They didn’t answer me the first time.

Before they answer my questions, I am catapulted back to the beach scene.

In unbearable pain from the electrodes, I repeatedly struck the panic button.

Victoria! Malcolm rushed downstairs like a fireman into a burning house. What’s wrong?

The electrodes—get them off me. My eyes popped open like popcorn kernels. In desperation, I tore off two electrodes and many strands of hair.

I need a bag … I’m going to be sick.

Oh, bloody hell. Hang on, hang on. He flung open his desk drawer, emptied the contents of a plastic shopping bag, and threw it over to me. There ye go.

As I vomited, Malcolm plucked the fiery circles off my scalp. Between rounds of spewing, I stared down at the worn wooden floor and dull, tattered rugs. The familiar surroundings comforted me.

"Was he there?" Malcolm said as he tried to remove every trace of the nefarious glue. We both had expected my guide to be present, if for no other reason than to help me control the pain from the electrodes.

I didn’t answer. Why wouldn’t he have shown up? He was a key element in verifying the contents of a session. Did his absence mean today’s experience wasn’t credible? It was more than just whether he showed up to help me with the Reviewers. He was more, in ways I couldn’t fully understand. So, why had he abandoned me?

Malcolm removed the last electrode. Are ye okay?

My nod felt more like a tremble.

He pulled his chair in front of me, and our eyes locked. Was your guide there? Malcolm would see the answer for himself. There was always a specific pattern in the qEEG when my guide was present, a signature of sorts. This time it would be absent.

No, I whispered, toggling between panic and abandonment. Overwhelmed for the first time in twelve years, I cracked. I clenched my jaw to maintain some semblance of stoicism, but the tears flowed down my cheeks like an avalanche that gave no warning.

Malcolm handed me his hankie from his trouser pocket. I haven’t used it, he said.

I covered my face with it and patted away the tears. When I lowered the handkerchief, he was still fixed on me, still waiting for answers.

I’ll review the readouts, but I need to know what the blazes happened.

When I didn’t answer his plea, he took the glue tube out of his pocket again, mumbled something indistinct, and turned to the bank of displays.

I was relieved to have a bit more time to process things. How could I explain that all humankind on Earth might cease to exist in 314 days? Was it true? I felt fragile. I dreaded having to talk about it. It wouldn’t take much for Malcolm to peel away the thin layer disguising my terror and despair, though.

You were only under for twenty-eight minutes, he said as his head snapped my way and back so quickly he risked whiplash.

Only twenty-eight min— I’d never had a session under an hour. It felt like hours. They were the worst minutes of …

With a perplexed expression, he continued to scroll through the session’s log. How do you feel? He turned to another device that had compiled the data differently.

Heavy. I resurfaced too quickly because of the pain. It would help me to go back … back under, I said in a quivering, fading voice. I was out of sync. Part of me wanted to stay with Malcolm and figure things out, but a bigger part needed to go back.

As with divers, one needed to slowly work their way back to a more alert state when surveying the depths of consciousness. Ignoring the slow ascent protocol meant risking being out of step with reality for hours or, in some cases, days.

Hmm, I see, he said not taking his attention away from the data. Your readings are remarkable and … no sign of him.

The strong pull to go under became irresistible. My open eyes hid my dropping consciousness as I plunged back into a lower brainwave pattern.

Right. Hmm … back in? No, wait, Victoria. Malcolm had registered my words too late. He rushed over to me, tilted back my head, and inspected my eyes. No … no, no. Where are yer goin’?

In defiance, my eyes drew shut.

Ye have to stay with me. Without electrodes, I’ll be blind if ye go under again.

I didn’t need to be hooked up to go where I wanted—that was only for observational and documentation purposes. Having detached from Malcolm’s reality, I couldn’t reassure him. I dove deep enough to search for my guide.

I asked for him. Then I pleaded. Please don’t abandon me now.

After mere moments, a gentle slapping on my face pulled me back up.

Come on, I’ve given you twelve long minutes. Show me you’re in there. Otherwise, I’m going to reconnect those bloody electrodes or call emergency services. Hearing Malcolm’s baritone voice was like seeing a lighthouse on a dark night. I followed him back to the outside world and lifted my left hand.

His reaction would have seemed over the top, but with all the experimenting going on, the governing neuroscience associations had tightened protocols for helping subjects come out of deep states. A doctor could lose their license if found negligent. There was also the fact that he knew I could put myself in a self-induced, coma-like state. It had been a helpful ability when I was stricken with kidney stones a few years ago. No painkillers required, but I was unresponsive to paramedics, who assumed I had overdosed on drugs. Although disconnected from my body and unable to respond to anyone, I was fully conscious.

Okay, good. Now, follow my instructions. I heard him pull his chair closer to mine. Focus on my voice and raise your level of awareness, Malcolm said softly as he held my right hand. I am going to count down from ten. When I reach one, you open your eyes.

He counted, intermittently reminding me to focus.

Finishing, he said, Victoria, open your eyes.

I followed his instructions and found Malcolm’s face two inches from mine.

He looked at me like a scolding teacher. "Now,