Free The Reborn (The Day Eight Series Part 1) by Ray Mazza Page A

forehead.
    Trevor nodded. “Wow. That’s... invasive. So, is my brain screwed up, or did I pass?”
    “Well, I can’t tell you if your brain is screwed up, but I can tell you that none of your recognitions or feelings set off any alarm bells.”
    Damon walked over and patted him on the back, buddy-buddy like. “I apologize for the invasiveness. I had to be thorough, and we didn’t have the luxury of time to truly get to know each other.”
    Damon kept his hand on Trevor’s back, and started walking, guiding Trevor out of the room. “Your brain didn’t register much activity on the phrase ‘paradigm shift,’” said Damon, as they turned into the hallway, still side-by-side. “But, my friend, your understanding of things – of life, of computers, of nature... even of God – is about to undergo a major one. A paradigm shift so dramatic, you won’t be able to comprehend its significance.
    “But first,” said Damon, “Breakfast.”

Chapter 13         
     
    Paradigm Shift
     
     
     
     
     
     
    T revor sat in the kitchen of Damon’s mansion where he finished off his second plate of eggs Benedict prepared by the house chef, while Damon made some business calls in his office.
    Damon walked in just as Trevor was finishing his side dish of freshly prepared fruit salad.
    “How did you enjoy the breakfast?” asked Damon.
    “Delicious. The fruit tasted so fresh.”
    “Ah, yes, that’s because it is. I grow my own pineapple plants in the greenhouse. It’s one of the easier fruits to grow – though you wouldn’t believe some of the things I’m able to keep alive,” said Damon, chuckling. “And Fredo is an amazing chef.”
    Fredo turned away from the cutting board to give a big smile and nod, then returned to chopping vegetables.
    “Now,” said Damon, “it’s a nice day out, let’s take a walk.”
    Damon’s back yard was expansive and well-tended. A series of slate walkways wound away from a full stone patio adorned with Greco sculptures. They passed a life-size statue of a woman bearing an urn as they made their way to a bench that looked upon the vast yard. The area was home to towering maple trees, their leaves a late autumn quilt of reds, yellows, and oranges.
    They sat, and for a moment just stared while listening to rustling foliage.
    “I’m going to get right to the point,” said Damon. “The letter you found, written by someone claiming to be my daughter Allison, was real.”
    It was not what Trevor expected. “What? From when? I thought she...” Trevor turned to face Damon, sidling toward his edge of the bench.
    “Hold on. Allison did pass away, just as the article I sent you described.” Damon closed his eyes. “It was and will forever be the worst moment of my life.” He removed an inhaler from his pocket, turned away from Trevor, took a drag, then stashed it again. He returned his gaze into the distance, and sighed. “The letter was written by a different Allison on the day of the internet surge. An Allison that is in many ways the same as the daughter I lost, yet fundamentally different.”
    There were twins? He adopted another girl named Allison? Or he’s been driven to insanity since the death of his daughter? None of this sounded good. “I don’t follow – you only have… er, had one daughter.”
    “What I’m getting at,” said Damon, “is that this Allison is a replica of my daughter in the form of a computer program. We developed her under an objective called Project Eileithyia – Eileithyia is the Greek Goddess of birth.”
    “Oh! That’s what all this is about?” said Trevor. He felt the tension leaving his limbs. It was just some computer program.
    Trevor had toyed with such things. Usually they were programs that operated with some stereotypical personality and “understood” a narrow set of natural language, and could estimate the most likely “correct” response to any given input. In the most typical interface, you would type in a sentence at