. . . ?”
“Was. I was a millionaire. I plowed it all into my own research, every dime and then some. I have maybe five grand in cash.”
I felt punched in the stomach—again.
“Besides,” he said, handing the paper back. “PREMIND’s more sizzle than steak. I hate to be the one to tell you that, but I’ve read the data. I’m not impressed with the promises they’re making. They’re attempting to mimic the hippocampus’s neural signal processing via nonlinear transformations of multisignal input dynamics into output signals translatable to storable code.”
“In English, please.”
“They’re creating a prosthetic that receives sensory data then processes, encodes, and stores it as a memory. Nothing more. Despite the progress they’ve made, their prosthetic can’t heal the biological mind.”
I lowered my head. “It’s the best program I’ve found. Maybe the only one that can help Mom.”
“The best program, yes, but an ineffective one at the moment. Generally speaking, I agree with one aspect of their thesis, that the physical brain is merely biological hardware running software programmed into us through nature and nurture. The PREMIND project is focused on patching the hardware so the software can run more efficiently. Seems straightforward and, for what it’s worth, logical. But that’s only half of the equation. They’re attempting to resolve a nonlinear problem by linear means.”
I scrunched a brow at him. “I don’t understand.”
“Brain prosthetics hold limited promise in the near term, but there’s another way that bypasses the very need for them altogether.”
“What way?”
“By hacking the brain just like you would any other computer. Hacking it and modifying the operating system itself in a way that changes the hardware. They won’t figure that out, though, until they’re willing to take bigger risks, and I don’t see that happening any time soon.”
“Wait . . . what? Hack your brain? Like retraining it, the way they do with stroke victims?”
“No.” A smile bent his lips. “Not retraining, rewiring .”
“The brain? Physically? That’s . . . not possible.”
He reached up and peeled back the knit cap from his head. Underneath, his scalp was a dome of shiny hairlessness. He looked like a chemotherapy patient or a crash-test dummy.
“Actually, I know it’s possible because I’ve done it.”
1.8
“ A USTIN , WHAT have you done?” I raised my hand to touch his scalp, but he leaned away. It was then that I noticed the small, gleaming steel studs. They looked like tiny thumbtacks that had been pushed into his skull. “Did you drill holes in your head?”
“I had help, of course.” He said it matter-of-factly. “It’s amazing what surgical technicians will do for an extra five grand in cash.”
“Why would you . . .” I stared at the studs on his scalp and covered my mouth. “Why would you do that?”
“It was the best way to insert fiber optics through my skull.”
I leaned closer to examine the shining dots. There were four: each one was embedded almost flush with his skin and had a pinhole, nearly imperceptible, in the center. If the top of his head were a clock, they would’ve been at two, four, eight, and ten o’clock.
My mind was reeling. He really had gone over the edge. I watched his eyes jitter about, his gaze catching me, then flittering away.
“This is crazy,” I said.
“Neurosurgeons have been using this technology for decades. I’ve simply modified it for my purposes,” he said.
“What purpose would that be? ”
“Hacking.” A faint smile crossed his face.
“That’s what you call it? Is that what all of this is?” I waved my hand toward the lab equipment. “You’re trying to hack your own brain? That’s why you stopped going to Dr. Benton?”
“I stopped going because there was nothing else he could do for me. He’s limited to what he was taught in med school, to the same inside-the-box thinking to which
“Was. I was a millionaire. I plowed it all into my own research, every dime and then some. I have maybe five grand in cash.”
I felt punched in the stomach—again.
“Besides,” he said, handing the paper back. “PREMIND’s more sizzle than steak. I hate to be the one to tell you that, but I’ve read the data. I’m not impressed with the promises they’re making. They’re attempting to mimic the hippocampus’s neural signal processing via nonlinear transformations of multisignal input dynamics into output signals translatable to storable code.”
“In English, please.”
“They’re creating a prosthetic that receives sensory data then processes, encodes, and stores it as a memory. Nothing more. Despite the progress they’ve made, their prosthetic can’t heal the biological mind.”
I lowered my head. “It’s the best program I’ve found. Maybe the only one that can help Mom.”
“The best program, yes, but an ineffective one at the moment. Generally speaking, I agree with one aspect of their thesis, that the physical brain is merely biological hardware running software programmed into us through nature and nurture. The PREMIND project is focused on patching the hardware so the software can run more efficiently. Seems straightforward and, for what it’s worth, logical. But that’s only half of the equation. They’re attempting to resolve a nonlinear problem by linear means.”
I scrunched a brow at him. “I don’t understand.”
“Brain prosthetics hold limited promise in the near term, but there’s another way that bypasses the very need for them altogether.”
“What way?”
“By hacking the brain just like you would any other computer. Hacking it and modifying the operating system itself in a way that changes the hardware. They won’t figure that out, though, until they’re willing to take bigger risks, and I don’t see that happening any time soon.”
“Wait . . . what? Hack your brain? Like retraining it, the way they do with stroke victims?”
“No.” A smile bent his lips. “Not retraining, rewiring .”
“The brain? Physically? That’s . . . not possible.”
He reached up and peeled back the knit cap from his head. Underneath, his scalp was a dome of shiny hairlessness. He looked like a chemotherapy patient or a crash-test dummy.
“Actually, I know it’s possible because I’ve done it.”
1.8
“ A USTIN , WHAT have you done?” I raised my hand to touch his scalp, but he leaned away. It was then that I noticed the small, gleaming steel studs. They looked like tiny thumbtacks that had been pushed into his skull. “Did you drill holes in your head?”
“I had help, of course.” He said it matter-of-factly. “It’s amazing what surgical technicians will do for an extra five grand in cash.”
“Why would you . . .” I stared at the studs on his scalp and covered my mouth. “Why would you do that?”
“It was the best way to insert fiber optics through my skull.”
I leaned closer to examine the shining dots. There were four: each one was embedded almost flush with his skin and had a pinhole, nearly imperceptible, in the center. If the top of his head were a clock, they would’ve been at two, four, eight, and ten o’clock.
My mind was reeling. He really had gone over the edge. I watched his eyes jitter about, his gaze catching me, then flittering away.
“This is crazy,” I said.
“Neurosurgeons have been using this technology for decades. I’ve simply modified it for my purposes,” he said.
“What purpose would that be? ”
“Hacking.” A faint smile crossed his face.
“That’s what you call it? Is that what all of this is?” I waved my hand toward the lab equipment. “You’re trying to hack your own brain? That’s why you stopped going to Dr. Benton?”
“I stopped going because there was nothing else he could do for me. He’s limited to what he was taught in med school, to the same inside-the-box thinking to which
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