Emily threw her head back and laughed sardonically, her mass of curls cushioning her head as it smacked the stone wall. “You're in amazing shape, a little too amazing if you ask me.”
Deanna glowered at Emily. “What is that supposed to mean?”
Emily hesitated a moment before going for broke. “Who are you, and what are you really doing down here?”
Deanna looked away and smiled knowingly. “You have it all figured out?”
“Well, I don't have it all figured out, but I'm not an idiot. The dark beings that led me into this place vanish moments before you appear? You could have been a little more subtle about it.”
The smile widened. “Very good.”
The form of Deanna's doppelganger darkened, every detail fading into shadow. A silhouette of Deanna's form stood before her. The silhouette morphed into another humanoid silhouette. Emily recognized this silhouette as one of the dark beings that led her into the building. The silhouette began to separate, multiply, other silhouettes emerging from the first silhouette. The group of dark beings that led her into the building stood before her.
“Why the charade?” she asked nonchalantly. “I willingly followed you into the city, into the building. I wasn't afraid. I wasn't going to run. Why was it necessary to deceive me?”
“We can't answer that question,” the dark beings whispered in unison. “Only The Designer can answer that question.”
As if clearing the way for her, the dark beings stepped back. Emily took that to mean that she was to go on―alone. She had the distinct feeling that she didn't have far to go.
She picked up her flashlight and pointed it past the dark beings, revealing an entrance a few yards away. She couldn't see anything beyond the entrance.
“The Designer is waiting for you,” the dark beings whispered.
The butterflies that Emily hadn't experienced for over a thousand years were doing a mad dance in her stomach as she stood.
She took a deep breath. Moment of truth.
She took a slow, deliberate step and stopped. Her heart was thumping. She took another slow, deliberate step. Her heart was pounding. It reached into her throat. It reached into her wrists, her pulse hammering against the barrel of the flashlight that she was now gripping firmly with both hands in a futile effort to keep it steady. The flashlight's quivering beam had the effect of making the scene before her all the more surreal, all the more frightening.
She stopped and turned slightly, pointing the flashlight in the direction from which she had come. The dark beings were gone.
She was on her own.
Moment of truth.
She turned back toward the darkened entrance and took her next terrifying step. Her knee trembled as her foot touched the stone floor. She lifted her back leg, felt it shaking mid-stride before planting her foot next to the other. Her legs shook so violently that she wasn't sure if they would support her much longer. She wanted to collapse where she stood.
That would be easier. Just lie down and let the darkness take her. No food, no water. She was already extremely dehydrated. She could just lie down and wait for it to all be over.
She was tired. She was fed up. She didn't want to do this anymore. She didn't want to be a part of this quest. She was sick of trying to figure out who the hell she really was. She thought she had it figured out when she joined the Great Community, but her separation from the Great Community had only taught her that she was more lost than she had ever been.
What if she walked into this room and met this Designer? What if this Designer told her who she really was? What if she didn't like what this Designer had to tell her? What then?
She took a deep breath and noticed that her legs had steadied. There was never really any doubt in her mind about which direction she would go in. How could she turn down such an opportunity? To meet The Designer of...everything. Opportunities like this come along...well, never for most people. And here she was on the precipice of it all. The big time. The most profound mystery of all time: the beginning of it all.
The potential of what she was about to discover was almost too intense for her to handle.
But there was something else that frightened her, something she couldn't, or didn't want to, put her finger on, something that she knew but didn't know, something that she had known at one time but had forgotten. It was right there, a memory being blocked―or a truth she wasn't ready to acknowledge.
She took a tentative step forward.
She thought she knew it all in that Great Community of hers.
She took a confident step forward.
She had only scratched the surface in the Great Community. She had only known as much as the others had known. The truth that had been kept from her, the truth she had been keeping from herself, was directly ahead of her. She was about to meet The Designer and open the door that had been closed to her even in The Great Community when she believed she had all the answers.
She took a determined step forward. Then another. She picked up the pace. One determined step after another until she was right on top of it.
She stopped. One step away from The Designer, one step away from the ultimate discovery. She wasn't afraid. She just wanted to bask in the moment.
She peered through the entrance but couldn't see anything. The flashlight's beam seemed to end at the entrance, as if consumed by the darkness beyond. Another step and she would be consumed by it as well. She was perfectly fine with that.
One more step.
She had been in a similar position before.
One more step.
But that had only been the first step on a much longer journey. This next step would be the big one.
She took one more step and was consumed by the darkness.
The beam of her flashlight was extinguished.
Standing in the impenetrable darkness, she felt a presence, a familiar presence, but one she could not identify. It was just ahead of her. It was moving toward her. She was just barely able to make out an outline in the darkness, blurry and indistinct, but it was there. It was separating from the darkness that surrounded it. The darkness was lifting from its form. It was humanoid, no doubt about it. The outline of the form began to sharpen, and Emily shuddered at the all-too-familiar shape. She couldn't make out a single feature, but this being had a thick mane of hair and a frumpy physique.
It was just her imagination, wasn't it?
The form's darkness continued to lift as it approached. Features were becoming visible―all-too-familiar features. A familiar jaw-line, familiar lips, a familiar nose with a familiar pair of glasses resting upon the bridge of that familiar nose, a familiar mane of raven black, curly locks and a familiar scar that ran from the right corner of its mouth to its right ear. It was even wearing the same clothes she was wearing.
She thought she was looking in a mirror, but the image didn't move when she moved. It didn't tilt its head when she tilted hers. It didn't gasp when she gasped. The image just smiled.
“Hello, Emily,” her doppelganger said. “Allow me to introduce myself. I'm The Designer.”
The truth is more shocking than Emily can possibly imagine! Click here to get The Perfect Moment Beyond (The Perfect Moment Trilogy, Book 3)!
Sneak Preview of The Perfect Moment Beyond (The Perfect Moment Trilogy, Book 3)
Richard didn't have the heart to tell her that Deanna wasn't going to make it. He wasn't even sure he was ready to tell himself that she wasn't going to make it. But he was a scientist and a pragmatist. Pragmatism told him that she was losing too much blood to hope for anything other than the worst possible outcome. If he had something more to work with, something akin to a first aid kit, he could hope to put off the inevitable a little longer. But he didn't have that. He had the curtains that Elexa had torn from the windows pressed against the gaping wound in a valiant but futile attempt to stop the bleeding. But it wouldn't stop. It just kept seeping up through the fabric, pooling up between his fingers before running over his hands to j
oin the growing pool of blood on the floor.
Nope. She wasn't going to make it. The pragmatist that made up a huge percentage of his persona told him that she just didn't stand a chance, and he was already devastated, the tears welling in his eyes forcing him to turn his head away from the already distraught Elexa standing a few feet away for fear that telling her that Deanna wasn't going to make it wouldn't be necessary.
He felt a tear slip down his cheek and quickly wiped it away with the sleeve of his shirt, knowing that the cat was probably already out of the bag. His body language had already told Elexa the entire story.
"She's going to make," Elexa sobbed. "She has to make it." Richard knew exactly where she was going with this. It wasn't just desire on Elexa's part. She was reasoning. "She was on the other Encounter, the inbound Encounter, the future Encounter. She has to survive if she came back through the wormhole."
Richard nodded frantically. "You're right," he lied. "She's going to make it."
He wanted it to be true. He even allowed himself a second to entertain the plausibility of Elexa's reasoning. But once again, pragmatism reared its ugly head. Elexa's faulty logic was based on the assumption that nothing in the timeline would change, but as they had already discussed, the timeline had been polluted when the past and future Encounters rendezvoused. The moment they laid eyes on their future counterparts, their own paths had been altered. The knowledge that they would come back through the wormhole would force them to question every decision going forward which would, in turn, force them to make different decisions than their future counterparts had made. Despite witnessing their own ship heading back to Earth, that event could very well not happen based on the choices they had made after the two ships rendezvoused. The best evidence that he could provide to Elexa and himself that the timeline had already been drastically altered was Deanna. She was on the inbound Encounter, but the chances of survival for the very same person lying before him were slim to non-existent.
He was suddenly ashamed of himself. He was so ashamed that if he weren't using both hands to smother the wound, he would have punched himself. Who the hell did he think he was?! Sure, he was a pragmatist, but Deanna was his surrogate daughter. Oh, to hell with this surrogate nonsense! Deanna was his daughter. Period. She deserved better than the pragmatist. She deserved the optimist who clung to hope when hope was the only thing left to cling to. He had that. He had hope. And he wasn't about to let it go, not without a fight.
His composure be damned, he turned his tear-slicked eyes back to his blood-drenched hands, lifted his body and brought everything he had left in his body and soul down on the wound, actually visualized the flowing blood cut off, the current halted like a river stalled by a freshly constructed dam.
"Is she even alive?" Elexa's quivering voice sounded, cutting into his resolve. He was surprised that she'd asked the question. She'd been the more optimistic of the two. He wished she hadn't asked it, because it forced him to consider the possibility that he was attempting to save somebody who was long past saving. He hadn't checked her vitals, as he was putting every ounce of energy into stopping the bleeding. He couldn't tell if her torso was rising and falling, as his vision was blurred by a combination of tears and the sweat running from his forehead. He couldn't feel if her torso was rising and falling, because he was putting so much pressure on the wound. Of course, there was always the possibility that he couldn't feel her body rising and falling, because she wasn't breathing.
She suddenly gasped, a breath drawn in through her mouth so quickly that she craned her neck, tilting her head back before bringing it to rest in its original position. Richard was hopeful enough to focus on her torso, and his hope was rewarded with the sight of her torso rising and falling ever so slightly.
He allowed himself the briefest of smiles and said, "She's alive."
He heard the long sigh of relief escape Elexa's mouth. The pragmatist was tempted to tell him that there was nothing to be relieved about, but he knew he wouldn't be kidding anybody. He certainly wasn't kidding himself. The pragmatist was sitting in the back seat. The optimist was behind the wheel, and the optimist was every bit as relieved as Elexa was.
The optimist bit his lower lip to keep from smiling prematurely when it appeared that his resolve to stop the bleeding was paying off. The blood was no longer pooling between his fingers.
"The bleeding has stopped," Elexa said hopefully, giving his own sense of hope a healthy dose of adrenaline. She was far from out of the woods. She was smack-dab right in the middle of the woods on the coldest winter night, but there was no denying that her situation had improved ever so slightly.
He studied the gaps between his fingers a moment longer before nodding vigorously. "It has," he confirmed. He allowed himself his very own much-needed sigh of relief.
"Why did he do this?" Elexa asked, as if Deanna was already on the short road to recovery and the time was appropriate to discuss George's motive for burying a dagger in Deanna's chest.
Appropriate or not, Richard said, "He clearly wasn't in control of his actions, neither of them were. They were clearly being manipulated or controlled in some way."
"They," Elexa muttered cynically, as if it had just occurred to her that Deanna had tried to stab George.
Richard knew that Elexa had seen the dagger in Deanna's hand, but he felt the need to remind her: "She was holding a dagger as well." He nodded toward the clean dagger lying a few feet from Deanna's outstretched hand. "George didn't do this to Deanna. Deanna didn't try to stab George. Someone or something got into their heads."
As if on cue, the man who called himself "Sebastian Díaz" entered the room, a forlorn George following on his heels.
"What the hell happened here?!" Richard barked.
George shook his head. "I don't know," he sobbed. He shifted his tear-filled eyes to the blood-soaked fabric in Richard's hands before wincing, snapping his eyes shut and turning his head, the tears spilling out from under his closed eyelids.
"Not you," Richard clarified. He nodded at Sebastian. "You!"
Sebastian shrugged, palms up, an expression of mock innocence tempting Richard to release Deanna's wound and knock the expression from his face. "I didn't stab her," he taunted.
"'Guilty as charged,'" Richard reminded him, as if he needed reminding. "Those were your words. 'Guilty as charged.' You said you had something to do with this, that this was an exercise. What does that mean? What did you do?!"
"Well, as I explained to your husband here, this was an exercise to demonstrate―successfully, I might add―that free will is an illusion. We successfully convinced these two caring, loving individuals to attack one another against there will; hence free will is an illusion."
Richard leered at Sebastian. "What in God's name are you talking about? You sound like a raving lunatic."
Sebastian looked at George. "Would you care to do the honors and explain to your husband what I'm talking about and why I'm not a raving lunatic?"
"Well, I don't know if he's a raving lunatic or not, but I do know what he's talking about. Long story short, raving lunatic or not, this man believes that he's a fully sentient human being born from the unconscious mind of Emily. He says that he's an independent being but is still connect to Emily's unconscious mind. Emily is on her way to meet The Designer. When she meets with The Designer, she will merge with it, become one with it. What Sebastian witnessed, this demonstration that he believes proves that free will is an illusion, will travel through him, through Emily and into The Designer and infect The Designer like a virus. The very basis of The Designer's existence is individuality and free will, but this free will is an illusion virus will destroy The Designer or disable it or overthrow it or something along those lines." He looked at Sebastian. "Does that about sum it up?"
Sebastian nodded. "Just about―with one little clarification." He turned his full attention to Richard. "Emily is not on her way to meet The Designer; she's there, standing face to face with it. Everything is going accordi
ng to plan. She is merging with The Designer as we speak."
Also by Kenneth Preston
The Passing of Each Perfect Moment (The Perfect Moment Trilogy, Book 1)
The Perfect Moment Beyond (The Perfect Moment Trilogy, Book 3)
About the Author
Kenneth Preston was born and raised on Long Island. He studied English at the State University of New York at Stony Brook where he received his bachelor’s degree. From literature to television to film, the myriad of tales that painted his cultural landscape inspired him to begin writing his own stories. His first novel, The Passing of Each Perfect Moment (The Perfect Moment Trilogy, Book 1), was published in 2015.
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