Ever-Life the Two Book Set: The C.P.T Incident and Time Trust (9 page)

Jack giggled. “Al
l right; just listen to me. When I’m done; then, you can do what you do.”

He couldn’t help rolling his eyes.

“I’ve been playing with my pet on a regular basis all these years, you know.

“Very funny…”

“My notion has always been that the human personality is a single chemical cocktail, derived from the ‘some total’ of impulses triggered, and shared by the various areas of the brain.”

Rachel made a quirky look. She cocked her head and tweaked one eye.

“Impressive if I wanted psycho babble.”

“Rachel,
be serious; if you want me to tell you this.”

“Fine, I’m with you. Our personality is one great chemical cocktail.”

“Yes; I am trying to summarize, Honey. This sum total of memories, our personality, is stored as a chemical cocktail in our brain. Any inkling can be recalled at anytime by the mind, at any instant; just like a computer stores a primary operating system, for example, and then calls upon it to run a program. Our separate traits are some programs, and the demands our cells make, reactions to stimuli, are other programs. As these demands are satisfied, they are learned and stored as genetic information; but in the end, they are stored as chemistry, understand.”

“If that’s true, then I’m a glass containing one hell of a mixed drink.” Rachel giggled.

“Yes sort of, but where is it? And what’s the drink? Are you a screwdriver or bloody Mary? They taste very different. Listen Rach; I think I can define which drink you are, and extract the mix, so to speak. Then, I can move the mix to a different glass.”

“Okay Dr. Bartender Frankenstein, ooh.” Rachel
composed herself, and then said, “Jack; Honey, are you serious about this; I mean…?”

“Listen to me,” he insisted. “The brain is a mechanism that does nothing more than send and receive electrical or chemical impulses. Whether it’s a body functi
on, choice behavior, or thought; every action requires a synaptic signal. That signal is an instruction, directed by our memory; and, our memory is a record-a library, of knowledge, stored in the physical brain, as a chemical cocktail. As we add learning, the mixture changes, yes; but it is always there, in the same place. The challenge is to define the mix; and, if we can, we can, theoretically, extract it and move it.”

“Jack;
Sweetie, let’s say I play along. How do you define the mix?”

“Well, first, fundamentally by reading and studying the electrical and chemical signals-the synaptic exchanges. I had to create or establish one synaptic alphabet. Frankly, I started with something like the old Morse code; and then
, it evolved from neurology, to physics and back to chemistry. Anyway, I did create the new language. Finally, I translated that synaptic language into understandable chemistry.”

“
‘Morse code’; that was used in the 1800’s; a very long time ago, they were telegraph taps-dots and dashes, SOS. I don’t think so. But, let’s say you did this. Where exactly is the language stored? And, even if you found it-our personality, how do you obtain it, extract it? How do you know you got it all and not just a portion. For Christ’s sake, Jack; Honey, come on?”

Jack had been trying to explain in the simplest of terms, but it wasn’t going well. So, while he listened to Rachel’s comments, he walked to his desk, pulled out a two-inch thick manuscript
, from the bottom drawer, and handed it to her. Rachel raised her eyebrows and opened it to the first page.

              “‘C.P.T.-Chemical Personality Transfer’; you wrote this?”

              “You know me, Baby. My presentations are not stage worthy, all the time, so read. That is my journal and findings, the complete text of theory, hypothesis, equations and final formulas. It’s everything. I believe that it speaks to all your microbiologic questions. Just read a little; and then, tell me what you think.”

Rachel opened it to the middle and read a page. Then after a minute, she looked at Jack and flipped to the front of the book agai
n. She sat down at his desk; and, after five minutes, she said, “Honey, can you get me some coffee and a donut, please? Then, get lost for a while, okay?”

              Jack smiled and did as instructed. He went back to his microscope and writing, at the lab table. Rachel was mesmerized. After a half hour or so, Jack mumbled to himself, “I haven’t heard her ever say nothing this long, since I met her.”

Finally, she called to him, “You found where it is? Jack, okay; you write here, ‘any bodily function, whether cellular or
thought, requires an impulse-a synaptic signal, to and from the brain. The mind instantaneously sends a directive to the hypothalamus, our brain factory that makes peptides’… Okay; then you say, ‘these peptides are manufactured, as cells or thoughts demand’…Okay, reading on…‘Then, they are instantly sent to direct or instruct behavior. At the same time, our mind imprints that directive, and the resulting behavior in a library of the brain for reference.’”

Rachel stopped and looked at Jack. “…Here…Yes…‘The library is constantly in a state of
change from learning, but it stores the memory of the directive, and the result, in the same place. Our behavior, our memory is our personality in total. Although ever evolving, it is that record-that library, of repetitive impulses’…and then you say…”

“Jeez,” Jack interrupted, “it sounds exactly like what I told you before, hmm.”

Rachel continued. “To quote you, Jack, ‘I have located the primary personality vial to be 3.33 by 1.25 centimeters, and positioned .134 millimeters around the hypothalamus partially covering the hippocampus gland, tangent to the Pons…’”

“Pretty technical, huh?”

“…You further say, ‘It’s such an integral part of the cerebral cortex and cerebellum, it can’t be defined until one hour after death.’ …Jack, you sound like Descartes in old college philosophy. Are you trying to physically define the soul?”

“I suppose
you could take it that way; but there is no physical limit to the personality, only to the chemistry. I’m not a philosopher, talking about ‘singular self-awareness. Don‘t be confused, Babe; chemistry is tangible, but how big is an idea, remember.  It’s the link between quantum physics and microbiology that enables us to define this chemistry. Honey, it’s 9:30; time for a good meal.”

Rachel thought for a second. Then, with her head still in the book, she replied, “So what? You started this. It’s Friday
, and we can do whatever I want, you said.”

She fell into silent concentration again. After a while, she suddenly blurted out, “Jack, look at me!”

Jack jerked up from his lab chair across the room.

“I can’t believe this. Your equations and calculations-the physics, and the biology are solid. Are you
serious? The implications are staggering. Even the results you have so far mean that, if you are right, we could define, isolate and contain a person’s personality chemistry. If we do that; and, considering medical breakthroughs; am I right; we could transfer a terminally ill person, into a healthy body?”

Jack grinned and walked across the room, around the desk and sat on it
, facing her.

“That’s why I Love you so
, babe; you are way ahead of me sometimes. Of course, it is a bit more complicated; but, summarily, it only took you two hours to get what it took me years to understand. And you haven’t read it all. Look at you.”

Rachel looked up at Jack with love, so excited.

“I see most of the proofs are good and solid. Others, yes, they could use some work; but, yes, I think…huh, I agree.”

Jack nudged her, and their eyes locked.

“I love you Rachel. I did from the first minute, the first argument. I can’t picture doing this, or anything else, in my life, without you, Honey.”

With those words and a tear, Jack reached down and opened the top drawer of his desk. There, glistening starkly at Rachel was a radiant 1.5-carat
, diamond ring. Jack took the ring out and held her left hand gently. As he moved off the desk to her side, he knelt down positioning himself slightly between her legs.

“Rachel Anne Thomas, will you marry me? I love you so. Please be mine through all the good, bad, happy and hard times?”

Rachel’s eyes filled with tears, as Jack put the ring on her finger.

“Who knows
, Rach; maybe together we can make everyone else’s time here better too, forever?”

“Oh my Jack;
oh yes, my Love, my only; forever.

Jack brought her close; and, as he rose, they embraced and kissed, holding each other in a oneness that would last beyond their understanding at that moment.

**********

Then, the moment was now again, and Rachel was at home, in the lab, remembering her night of horror. She looked at Jack’s manuscript on her lap, opened it and flipped through it…
This is so much thicker…
She turned to the newer pages. “Holy shit, Jack, we never discussed any of this.”

She read feverishly and then looked up. “There’s got to be some results here, some proof.” 

Then it hit her…
I’ve got to see Jack…

With another blink, she said to herself, “Brian, my God, Brian. I haven’t talked to Brian about anything.”

Rachel picked up her cell phone and dialed her son. The call automatically forwarded to the Brock building, in Bethesda Maryland, just west of Washington D.C. Marion Brock had one rule above all others-speak person to person. There were no message services anywhere through his multibillion-dollar organization; rather, a secretary always answered every incoming number.

“Good morning, Brock building, may I help you?”

“Yes, my name is Rachel Sheldon. I’m Brian Sheldon’s mother. I am trying to reach him. It’s a family emergency. I must speak to him right away.”

“Just a moment, Mrs. Sheldon…”

Rachel sat exhausted, teary eyed, waiting for some word.

“Hello Mrs. Sheldon. Thank you for waiting. Mr.
Brian Sheldon is out of town on a security matter with Mr. Brock. I will contact Mr. Brock and have your son call you as soon as possible. Can you give me time to do that? I will call you back, if that‘s okay with you?”

“That‘s fine. I appreciate it.”

Rachel hung up the phone.

Chapter 9

Brock’s Visit

Back in ‘focus
ward’, room 309; after Nurse Angie’s exit; Jack Sheldon sat aching, confused and unwashed. Unbeknownst to him, it was the odor of his own death that left him nauseated. He had massive memory loss; and, in many ways he was, literally, a grown child. Moving slowly off the gurney, with baby steps, he finally reached the bathroom shaking. Slowly he sat down on the toilet and looked, with welcome, at the shower in front of him. It hurt, relieving himself; but, then he stood up, naked, and stepped into the glass stall, examining his bloody body. There were no scars, sutures, cuts or bruises anywhere. Shockingly, when he turned on the water, he exploded in pain. There was a deafening, stinging high pitch, from the faucet knobs squeaking. The next second, the first rush of water out of the nozzle only magnified his sense that someone was stabbing into his ears with ice picks. He screamed and grabbed his ears. The sensation only lasted a few seconds. Then, he went limp. He felt so weak: he grabbed the handicap support rod to keep from falling. Standing rigid, he tried to clear his thoughts. He tried to hold his balance and took soap and a washcloth and began, slowly, to clean off the stench and dried blood.

My mind…What the hell has happened to me?
Jack grabbed his head and tried to think.
Rachel; Rachel…We were home. I left…I was going to nightshift-special duty…No…It was a meeting with Bruke…No…Brock…and Brian…BRIAN, my son…My God, Brian.

Then he clenched his ears
again and screamed, “The pain, the pain, Christ I can’t think. What the hell is that
?”

He concentrated as best he could. The sound was coming from
the corridor outside his room. Strange too, because room-309, itself, was lead lined and locked, to prevent any security breach.

“Voices, Christ; am I going mad? That sounds like a woman’s voice.”

In fact, a single voice was speaking from far down the ward hallway. But Jack heard it, as if she were in the shower with him, yelling into both of his ears.

It was Barb Sawyer
, whispering to herself, “Angie, what were you talking about? There has got to be a reasonable explanation?”

After Bellos ordered her reassignment, Barb decided to visit ‘focus ward’
, to see if anything Angie said made sense. She was roughly fifty-feet away from Jack’s room, when, down the hall, out of Angie’s office came two men. Both were wearing tailored suits, so Barb shifted to automatic manners. The older of the two looked in his mid 50s and he commanded a second look from any woman. The other, a much younger college looking man, walked a half step behind.

“Good evening, Barb Sawyer. I am Marion Brock. This is Brian Sheldon, Jack Sheldon’s son. I hope we haven’t arrived
, at too inconvenient a time?”