Theta Head is a neuroscience thriller.
Stark naked consciousness is exposed like a raw nerve as Georgia’s search for her missing boyfriend, Ben, takes her from London through Asia.
On route she discovers that Ben has been using a neuroscience technology – one that offers the potential of complete liberation to anyone who uses it. It is a technology Georgia must embrace if she is to find Ben, but one that is such an intimate catalyst for change Georgia isn’t sure she can handle the side of herself it uncovers.
It is only her desire to find Ben which drives her on; a force which leads her to the Theta Heads and a choice: continue using the technology to hack away at her layers of mental static and find the real reason he disappeared, or let go and face a future without him.
Theta Head – technology doesn’t need a mind of its own, it can have ours.
Free mini-ebook of my novel Theta Head
I've just uploaded a few FREE sample chapter of my book Theta Head. These include 7 Chapters from the novel.
Would love some feedback. cheers! Greg
Author of Theta Head - a neuroscience thriller
Theta Head, Chapter 1 – B6
Escalating down into the musty warmth of the London underground’s brutal machinery, shaken and ignored as she then shudders through its sooty wormholes, Georgia catches sight of her dark under-eye semicircles. They smile back at her from the opposite window in the darkness between stations and they are, she whispers to herself, ‘Evidence.’ Of too many late nights scanning flight and phone records, missing persons’ sites, lists of router histories and addresses. All percolating like TV static in her head. All too much until subdued with an ice pack and 250 mils of vodka.
Georgia looks in her bag, but the sunglasses she needs to cover her eyes with are not there; summer isn’t due for another six months. She’d never really liked them anyway. With their cheap plastic frames and scratched lenses they were functional but unbecoming. Maybe, she thinks, she could borrow Ben’s. They were there for the taking. She’d left them where he’d left them: perched on top of his music equipment, untouched for the past fifteen months. She’s sure he wouldn’t mind, wherever he might be, and they were so much larger than hers; the perfect disguise for under-eye darkness.
Escalating up now and Georgia is soon out into a tight scrum of black cabs and red buses. They are busy spewing office and shop workers onto a freshly scrubbed Oxford Street, a road she would have walked in its entirety if it wasn’t for the clang of titanium shop shutters. Ringing in the new trading day they startle her, forcing her to take a long-cut up into thinner veins, full of fashion houses and Greek cafés, couriers blasting by on old Yamahas. And Georgia, breathing deeply as she walks, trying hard to stem the babble of inner dialogue that has crept up on her and which now hangs over her head like a swarm—the mindless questions and stray song lines, the anxieties and what ifs, nevers, maybes. It’s her daily shot of irrelevance and inner chaos and it’s all starting to worm in and dice together—a constant, internal head chatter that forms a barrier against clarity and which stops her in her tracks, forcing an admission: her hole has arrived. She can feel it opening up like a fresh wound somewhere on the street nearby, a dark, draining, familiar gravity.