Entanglement

by Gregg Braden

  ENTANGLEMENT

  ALSO BY GREGG BRADEN

  BOOKS

  Deep Truth

  The Divine Matrix

  Fractal Time

  The God Code

  The Isaiah Effect*

  Secrets of the Lost Mode of Prayer

  The Spontaneous Healing of Belief

  CD PROGRAMS

  An Ancient Magical Prayer (with Deepak Chopra)

  Awakening the Power of a Modern God

  Deep Truth (abridged audio book)

  The Divine Matrix (abridged audio book)

  The Divine Name (with Jonathan Goldman)

  Fractal Time (abridged audio book)

  The Gregg Braden Audio Collection*

  Speaking the Lost Language of God

  The Spontaneous Healing of Belief (abridged audio book)

  Unleashing the Power of the God Code

  *All the above are available from Hay House

  except items marked with an asterisk.

  Please visit Hay House USA: www.hayhouse.com®

  Hay House Australia: www.hayhouse.com.au

  Hay House UK: www.hayhouse.co.uk

  Hay House South Africa: www.hayhouse.co.za

  Hay House India: www.hayhouse.co.in

  Copyright © 2012 by Gregg Braden

  Published and distributed in the United States by: Hay House, Inc.: www.hayhouse.com® • Published and distributed in Australia by: Hay House Australia Pty. Ltd.: www.hayhouse.com.au • Published and distributed in the United Kingdom by: Hay House UK, Ltd.: www.hayhouse.co.uk • Published and distributed in the Republic of South Africa by: Hay House SA (Pty), Ltd.: www.hayhouse.co.za • Distributed in Canada by: Raincoast: www.raincoast.com • Published in India by: Hay House Publishers India: www.hayhouse.co.in

  Cover design: Mario San Miguel • Interior design: Julie Davison

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced by any mechanical, photographic, or electronic process, or in the form of a phonographic recording; nor may it be stored in a retrieval system, transmitted, or otherwise be copied for public or private use—other than for “fair use” as brief quotations embodied in articles and reviews—without prior written permission of the publisher.

  The authors of this book do not dispense medical advice or prescribe the use of any technique as a form of treatment for physical, emotional, or medical problems without the advice of a physician, either directly or indirectly. The intent of the authors is only to offer information of a general nature to help you in your quest for emotional and spiritual well-being. In the event you use any of the information in this book for yourself, which is your constitutional right, the authors and the publisher assume no responsibility for your actions.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the authors’ imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales, or persons living or deceased, is strictly coincidental.

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2012937084

  Tradepaper ISBN: 978-1-4019-3783-6

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-4019-3784-3

  15 14 13 12 4 3 2 1

  1st edition, June 2012

  Printed in the United States of America

  “Science cannot

  solve the ultimate

  mystery of nature.

  And that is because,

  in the last analysis,

  we ourselves are a part

  of the mystery …”

  — MAX PLANCK

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER 1

  CHAPTER 2

  CHAPTER 3

  CHAPTER 4

  CHAPTER 5

  CHAPTER 6

  CHAPTER 7

  CHAPTER 8

  CHAPTER 9

  ABOUT THE AUTHORS

  CHAPTER 1

  * * *

  Whistling, a janitor wielded an old-fashioned string mop in front of him as he worked his way down a silent high school hallway. He was slender and in his 60s, grateful to have a steady job, unlike so many others in his family. He came from western Jamaica, where work was scarce. As he worked, he daydreamed about the mists of the Blue Mountains near where he was born.

  Out the windows bloomed another San Francisco April—cloudless, mild, the trees a tender green. The janitor passed the administrative offices, busy with the soft clicking of computer keyboards, then the empty lobby—a long, silent stretch of glass cases. These were filled with trophies from the school’s students that had accumulated over the 50 years of its existence; basketball and football awards were the most common.

  The rest of the cases held photographs of students and faculty now gone. They began with the bright Kodachromes of the early ’60s—yellow-haired cheerleaders with pink lips and red outfits—and ended with digital photos, printed on streaked paper. Along the way, every style of the last half century seemed to be represented—country western, hippie, punk rock, goth, and every variant in between.

  Several faces stood out from the hundreds showcased. One female graduate from 1969 had an Afro so massive that it exceeded the photograph’s frame. A blond boy from the ’70s was a dead ringer for John Denver, with a moptop haircut and granny glasses. A more recent photo was of a fresh-faced boy with high cheekbones, a pierced nose, and a face both handsome and sensitive, his flowing tresses tucked behind his ears. Beside this was a photo with the same face, unpierced, with shorter hair and a more intense expression. These images had stopped many visitors who did double takes of these young men—the only identical twins in the 2005 graduating class.

  As the janitor moved on, he passed by the science classrooms on the first floor. In the first, Mr. Hadley, a dinosaur of a teacher with thick black-framed glasses and a droning voice, was putting another class to sleep with his explanation of the Pleistocene epoch. Most of the students had their heads down on their desks; others sent texts from their laps.

  In the next room, a new teacher in her 20s, prim and Southern, tried to control a class of boisterous older students as she discussed the intricacies of cross-pollination. A diagram of a stamen and pistil were on the front board, but no one was paying attention. Several students near the doorway were occupied with fast-food breakfasts; one poured syrup over a stack of pancakes in a Styrofoam container. Cell phones buzzed and beeped.

  The last classroom in the hallway was different; it seemed to be stopped in time. A Bunsen burner flamed in a corner. A diagram of an atom hung on the wall; a chart of the solar system covered the ceiling. The chalkboard was covered with a long, complex formula. The only items that revealed the current era were a row of personal computers lined up against the wall, but no one was using them today.

  Instead a dozen students of various shapes and sizes were listening raptly to their teacher, Peter Keller. At 42, his salt-and-pepper hair was tousled, his eyes were a light blue-green, and his white dress shirt was rolled up at the sleeves. There was a rumpled, weary look to his face that did not diminish his vitality. He seemed lit by some passionate inner glow, as he held forth with the grace and nimbleness of an actor.

  Keller’s students listened to him intently as he measured two ounces of water and poured them into an empty soda can. Using tongs, he carefully lowered the can into place over a heated Bunsen burner. Year after year, his introductory physics class was the school’s most popular, often with a waiting list in case someone dropped out, though that rarely happened. He had a reputation for kindling in students a new respect for and interest in science. Perhaps because of this, many of them developed long-term secret crushes on him, though he barely noticed and never encouraged them. In fact, outside the classroom, Keller was quiet, shy, and somewhat mysterious.

  Standing behind a lab table, he now turned to his students.
<
br />   “Let me ask you a question. Why does a man float when you throw him into the water, but a book sinks?”

  A husky boy named Eddie Campos, who sported a blond mohawk and was the class clown, said, “I don’t float. I tried swimming once. I’m telling you, I sank like a stone.”

  The students laughed.

  “Mr. Campos, let me put it this way, then: why does everybody except you float, while a book sinks?”

  “Density,” Eddie answered.

  “Thank you. Clearly you’re not so dense. So I have no idea why you don’t float.”

  The students chuckled again. There was an intimate, congenial feeling in the classroom.

  Eddie asked, “Isn’t density also why fancy drinks with layers work?”

  “Yes. But unfortunately, fancy drinks with layers won’t be on the final. Any other random questions while we wait?”

  A slight, green-eyed boy wearing a hooded sweatshirt raised his hand.

  “Yes, Colin?”

  “When do we get to quantum physics?”

  “After we finish with standard physics . . . which, at the rate we’re going, should be sometime around 2017.”

  “I hear that quantum physics makes time travel possible. I’d be into that.”

  Peter smiled. “Right, so did you want to go to the future or the past?”

  “I think the past—when things were more simple.”

  “Really?” Keller said. “So you’d like to read by candlelight; warm yourself by a fire, assuming you had enough wood or coal; and travel by foot or horse, so you’d essentially remain in the same area all your life. Oh, also hunt for your own food—in other words, shoot it or fish for it—or go hungry. You’re pining for that?”

  Colin smiled sheepishly and shook his head. “Not when you put it that way.”

  “Well, that, my friend, isn’t the way I’d put it; that’s the way life has been in most places until the last hundred years or so, and some places even now.” The teacher looked out the window for a moment, in contemplation. “Actually, Einstein’s theories do suggest that time travel is possible; however, there are a few glitches to work out, so not anytime soon. Next question?”

  Colin continued, “But isn’t it true that there’s so much space inside an atom that we should be able to walk through walls?”

  “Theoretically, yes. But the probability is so absurdly infinitesimal that you’d have to try for an extremely long time. You’re welcome to give it a shot. There’s a wall right back there, Mr. Morley.”

  Peter gestured to a wall at the back of the room, inviting Colin to try.

  Colin smiled and shook his head.

  Monica Bennett, a nervous, soft-voiced brunette, raised her hand. Mr. Keller pointed to her.

  “What happened before the Big Bang?”

  The alpha girl in class—the tall, angular, dark-haired Jane Sinclair—snickered. “That’s a stupid question,” she scoffed.

  Keller gave her a narrow look. “Is it a question you know the answer to, Ms. Sinclair?”

  “Well …” She blushed to the roots of her hair and lowered her eyes, indicating that she didn’t.

  “Well, neither do I,” Keller said. “If anyone figures it out, they win the Nobel Prize, and the winner has to take me to Stockholm.”

  John Segal, a jock with an impish face, leaned back in his chair.

  “My older brother had you, and he said that you used to work for the government building bombs or something. Is that true?”

  “Who’s your brother?”

  “David Segal.”

  “The David Segal who got caught smoking pot behind the portables?”

  “Uh, yeah.”

  There was general laughter.

  “I think your brother confused the building of bongs with the building of bombs, somehow,” Peter mused, widening his eyes for effect. The students chuckled.

  “Next question.”

  Monica Bennett raised her hand.

  “Yes?” Peter asked.

  “I think the water’s boiling.”

  Peter looked at the soda can. “So it is. Okay! Everybody put on your goggles and gather round.”

  The students put on their goggles and moved forward until they were in a circle around Peter, who pulled on his own goggles.

  “Where’s the bucket?”

  Colin got a white plastic bucket filled with cold water. He set it on the floor beside the lab table.

  “Everybody ready?” Peter asked. “Eddie, where are your goggles?”

  Eddie Campos found them and pulled them on.

  “Okay,” Keller said. “What do you think’s going to happen?”

  Campos said, “Water’s gonna squirt all over us.”

  Peter looked around. “Anyone else?”

  “The tab’ll pop off, and hot water will come out,” Colin ventured.

  Josh Segal said, “I don’t think anything will happen.”

  Peter said, “Okay, let’s see.” He carefully removed the soda can from over the Bunsen burner with a pair of tongs, then in one swift, sure motion turned it over and plunged it into the bucket of cold water—where it collapsed. A wave of approval swept over the class.

  “That was awesome,” Eddie Campos said. “Good one, Mr. Keller.”

  The bell rang, and the students bolted for their chairs, grabbed their books and bags, and yanked off their goggles. Peter turned off the Bunsen burner and pulled off his goggles as well.

  “On Monday, I want a paper from each of you on the physics behind the collapsing soda can!”

  As the students scrambled for the exit, Peter glanced out the window; a heavy rain had started falling. Then he crossed to the front of the room, where a large projection screen hung down in front of the chalkboard. He stared at the screen with a contemplative expression as the last student left the room.

  The door closed and Peter was alone. He rubbed his eyes, then turned to a filing cabinet at the side of his desk and, using a key, unlocked it. He dug inside, searching, and in the process pulled out a black-and-white photo—a beautiful young woman, olive-skinned, her almond-shaped eyes peering into the camera. He retrieved a book and a meditation pillow.

  He placed the photo on top of a large stack of papers on his desk, then leafed through the book. Finally he turned to the projection screen at the front of the room and began to raise it.

  “Peter?”

  Startled, he quickly pulled the screen back down again, covering what was on the chalkboard. Standing in the open door was Dori Morgan, the school’s honors French teacher. Blonde and gray-eyed, with a warm smile and gentle laugh, Dori had asked him out for coffee several times, but he’d never followed up.

  “Hey, Peter. I was curious, are you attending the district board meeting tonight?” she asked. “Maybe we could drive together.”

  Peter fiddled with some papers and turned away. “Mmm, no. I’ve got so much grading to do.”

  Dori laughed. “It’s Friday, Peter.”

  She leaned against the door frame expectantly. He could smell her perfume. The scientist in him tried to break it down: it smelled like equal parts citrus oil and something else, maybe jasmine.

  She was getting too near—for a number of reasons. Peter was afraid that she’d see a paper of hers that he’d promised to edit months ago that was now part of the large neglected pile on his desk, including much of his own work that he simply had to gather and submit to various journals. Somehow, he hadn’t been able to muster the effort. The pile also included several more photos of the same woman. Manuela. Peter moved his body slightly in an effort to shield all of this from Dori’s gaze.

  “Sorry I haven’t looked at your paper yet,” he said. A preemptive strike was best, he decided.

  “Oh, that’s okay. No worries.” She smiled good-naturedly. “Are you sure you don’t want to come?”

  “Next time,” he said.

  “Well, I don’t want to bother you.” She turned to leave, but hesitated, giving him a chance to change his mind.
“Have a good weekend.”

  “You, too,” he said without looking up, moving papers around on his desk.

  “See you Monday, then.”

  “Monday. Definitely. Enjoy that meeting,” he replied.

  He turned and watched her walk away with feelings so mixed that he couldn’t begin to sort them out.

  With her thick flaxen hair and beautifully placid face, she was as attractive as the Swedish film stars he’d loved as a youth. Given time, he’d hoped that some bond would develop between them, but it hadn’t happened yet.

  In many ways, they were perfectly suited for each other. She was divorced and without children. Her life was centered on school, where she worked the same long hours he did. They were close in age, unlike some of the women Peter had met, who’d never even heard of Motown.

  Dori listened to him talk with a grave and evident interest. There was even a spark between them when they brushed hands. But he stomped out any feeling. It made him feel guilty.

  The last time he’d talked to her was when she’d left the paper that he’d placed on the pile with all the other things he meant to do—manuscripts he wanted to publish, photos he meant to sort through and frame, or put in albums. And there it sat still.

  This all had to do with the woman in the photo. Manuela.

  CHAPTER 2

  * * *

  Peter had met Manuela when he worked at Fermilab, one of the country’s leading research laboratories. He’d just graduated from MIT, approaching the height of his scientific career, well on his way to becoming a star.

  She was the only woman he’d ever been involved with who hadn’t been overly impressed by him, who hadn’t put him on a pedestal. Only once, when he’d talked to her about a theory called quantum entanglement, had she seem intrigued.

  “Quantum entanglement suggests that once particles are connected, they remain connected on an energetic level, even when they are physically separated from one another. And the really interesting thing is that whether the separation is only a few millimeters or an entire galaxy, the distance doesn’t appear to affect the connection. Quantum entanglement exists in the real world, but we can’t see it. We can feel it, however, once that filament of connection is forged.”