Free Hacker: The Outlaw Chronicles by Ted Dekker Page A

it—”
    “I’m not sure I want to.”
    What I didn’t know is whether I believed everything, or anything, he’d told me. And if it were all just the delusional fantasy of a dying man, did I want to go into that fantasy myself? Did I want to follow him down that path of madness?
    “I could use an extra hand, and you’re the best programmer I know,” he said. “You can start by just observing. Everything is automated with a program I developed so I could self-experiment. If you like what you see, then you can be more hands-on. You could optimize the software as I compile more data. It’ll save me days, maybe weeks.”
    “I don’t know . . .”
    “Wait,” he said, patting the air between us with his hand. “Before you say no, let me show you.” He disappeared into another room.
    “Show me what?” I stood staring at the door through which he’d disappeared. “Austin?”
    After a minute, he returned, shirtless and wearing black shorts. He gestured with his head. “Follow me.” He went through a large white door into what I had assumed was a sound booth.
    “Uh, okay.”
    I followed him inside. The room was small, maybe twelve feet square, dimly lit and much warmer than the rest of the apartment. In the middle of the floor sat two white pods the size of queen beds. They looked like misshapen eggs with thick black cables snaking out of the sides. The faint odor of saltwater and incense hung on the air.
    “This is where you work?” I said.
    “Every day. I’ve conducted hundreds of hacks,” he said, “all focused on replicating the experience I had during my stroke. I’ve worked with dozens of variables that induce altered states of consciousness. It wasn’t until I began integrating specific catalysts into coordinated procedures that I began seeing results that I could replicate. Now it’s a matter of optimizing the catalysts.”
    Austin reached down and gripped the edge of one pod. He hinged open the top portion like a clamshell, revealing water inside, illuminated by ethereal blue light.
    “My first breakthrough came with this tank,” he said. “Over time I discovered that transcending the mind requires three integrated elements: sensory deprivation, neural wave optimization, and a synchronicity ‘kick’ at the peak moment.”
    “What is this thing?” I asked, circling the tank.
    “A sensory deprivation tank. Modified, of course. It’s filled with saltwater, which has a higher density than fresh, allowing the human body to float effortlessly. I keep the water temperature at precisely ninety-three point five degrees Fahrenheit so that it’s skin-receptor neutral. It substantially minimizes body awareness and sensory stimuli. It feels like floating in space, and you literally forget your body because nothing is touching it or giving you a spatial point of reference.”
    He walked to a nearby table. On top of it sat a dozen clear mannequin heads, each fitted with a web of white cords that were tipped with round nodes of some kind—sensors?—that attached the cord to the head.
    “I prototyped this design several months ago. It’s iteration twenty. I call the entire system the TAP—Theta Access Protocol.”
    From one of the glass heads, Austin carefully lifted the collection of cords and, one by one, with practiced ease, began attaching them to the metal ports in his skull. He adjusted the wires and opened a drawer in the table. He pulled out a pair of hearing aid type devices and put one in each ear.
    “The headgear integrates multiple functions. Once I’m inside the tank and have attached a breathing tube everything runs automatically. The system first activates the sensors and fiber optic implants.”
    The skin on my forearms and the back of my neck tingled.
    He continued: “When I’ve reached optimized brain-wave frequency, the system releases the ‘Kick,’ a vaporized neurocompound, which is delivered through the breathing mask, a simple nasal cannula. Then—”
    “Wait, wait,