The Eternal World

by Christopher Farnsworth

  Muscle tone and skin elasticity were improved as well—Mueller appeared to have the flesh of a man twenty years younger. Gum recession had been reversed. And David hadn’t been imagining it—Mueller now had white, cavity-free replacements for his missing teeth.

  Jesus Christ, he grew new teeth.

  The only way this could be possible was if they’d switched patients on him. But he’d never turned his back on Mueller, not for a second, and even the best magician would need a momentary distraction to pull that off.

  What’s more, he’d seen it happen. And it kept happening. The man’s arterial blockage shrank by twenty percent between two different tests. Capillary circulation improved, and kept improving every time David measured it. David suspected stimulants, or adrenaline, so he rechecked the old man’s reflexes. Motor response improved, hour over hour. He put Mueller on a treadmill and the patient’s cardiovascular function improved each time. Liver, kidneys, colon, all healing from years of abuse and neglect. Mueller was getting healthier—no, go ahead, say it, younger—as David watched.

  David’s hangover was gone, his fatigue burned away as he worked. Every now and then, he checked the window, but Simon was there only some of the time. Apparently, he felt so sure of his trick that he didn’t feel the need to stick around and monitor the whole ordeal.

  Surreptitiously, David checked his own blood for the presence of hallucinogens or other drugs. Maybe there was something in that coffee that Simon gave him.

  Nothing. Not a thing.

  David was at a loss. It was simply impossible.

  But the evidence was all in front of him. In charts, computer readouts, and chemical analysis. Not to mention the living, breathing man sitting nearby.

  Whatever they’d injected Mueller with, it had stripped at least twenty years of aging away.

  David felt numb. It sounded odd, echoing around in his skull. He found he was having trouble saying the obvious.

  But there it was, right in front of him.

  He was looking at something that made people younger.

  An honest-to-God fountain of youth.

  “Well?” The angry voice of Mr. Mueller woke David from his reverie.

  “I’m sorry, sir,” David said. “You’re in perfect health for a man your age.” David was aware of the irony in his words, even as he said them.

  “Does that mean I can go?”

  David nodded dumbly.

  “About damn time,” he said. The nurse, who had been nothing but quiet and helpful throughout the whole day, took Mueller’s arm and led him into another room.

  David heard the seal on the outer door hiss. He didn’t look up until Simon, freshly dressed in new clothes, came into the lab and sat down across the steel table from him.

  Once again, he brought coffee. David didn’t care if it was drugged. He might even prefer it that way. He gulped it gratefully.

  They sat together in silence for a moment.

  “I don’t understand,” David finally said.

  “Give yourself a little more credit,” Simon replied. “Sure you do. You just don’t want to believe it.”

  “How did you do it?”

  Simon smiled. “Ah. Well. That is the trillion-dollar question, isn’t it?”

  For a moment, David again felt like punching Simon. He was in no mood for riddles.

  “That man was dying of Alzheimer’s when he came in here,” David said. “You cannot fake that kind of late-stage deterioration. And in two minutes, he was twenty years younger. Now you tell me how the hell that was possible.”

  “That’s just the problem,” Simon said. “I can’t.”

  David stood up. Now he was pretty sure he was going to punch Simon.

  “I’m not playing around, David,” Simon said. “We have, for lack of a better word, a compound. This compound can do everything you just saw. And more. That was a diluted sample. At full strength, it can reverse the aging process altogether, not just stop it or slow it down. It can grant years of life to terminal patients. This compound is exactly what you saw. It’s the answer to all our prayers. It is eternal life in a bottle.”

  David sat down again. It was ludicrous. But he believed Simon. He trusted his own intellect, and his own instincts, that much. There were ways he could be fooled, sure. But not inside a lab. And not like this.

  There was only one answer. Simon was telling the truth.

  “So why do you need me?” he asked.

  “Because we can’t duplicate it,” Simon said. “We know it works. But we don’t know how. We’ve got the cure for aging, the cure for almost every disease, right at our fingertips—but we’re not smart enough to crack the code.”

  “And you think I can?”

  “I know you can. Not just because of your credentials. Or all the letters behind your name. But because you have to. This is your chance. Your whole life, you’ve wished you could save your sister. And I swear to God, I wish I had found you then so that this would have been available for her. But it’s too late for her. It will always be too late for her.”

  David winced a little, hearing it said so baldly like that.

  Simon grabbed his arm, forced him to meet his gaze again.

  “But that’s why we need you. Without that loss, you wouldn’t be able to do this. Because you know what’s at stake, you can save others. You can spare them the pain that she endured. We need you to figure out how it works. So together, we can save everyone.”

  The relentlessly logical side of David’s brain argued that it was too good to be true. The world did not dispense candy and free beer in response to wishes. There was always a hidden cost.

  “What is it?” he asked, almost to himself.

  Simon raised his eyebrows.

  “The catch,” David said. “What’s the catch?”

  Simon smiled. “Ah. Well. Here’s the part you’re not going to like. You cannot test the compound itself. You may have access to every one of our subjects, every bit of data we’ve got, every page of our research. You get bloodwork, DNA, MRIs, chemical analysis, every possible test we’ve ever run. But the compound itself is off-limits.”

  The logical part of David said, There it is. The catch.

  Out loud, he asked, “Why?”

  “Think it through. This is the greatest discovery in history, and the supply is limited. I’m not going to give you a chance to waste any or, worse, steal a sample. It’s not just my ass on the line here, David. I have responsibilities to other people as well. I will not lose so much as a single drop. This isn’t a negotiating tactic. This is the one hard-and-fast rule. Take it or leave it.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “I found it under a four-leaf clover.”

  “Seriously.”

  “Oh, seriously?” Simon smiled. “In that case, I got it from an alien who needed new parts for his flying saucer after he crashed at Roswell. No, seriously, I got it from a gnome after I guessed his name. No, wait, actually—”

  “I get your point. But without the original sample, what you’re asking is impossible.”

  “Not for you,” Simon said. “I have faith in you. If anyone can do it, it’s you. And you know it.”

  David sat there for what seemed like a long, long time. It was probably only a few moments. But it felt like hours.

  He had always felt his sister’s death was like a guiding star, pulling him in the direction of what was right. And now here was this person—this kid, really—telling him that it was all possible. That he could really do it. Save everyone.

  But what he had seen was impossible. The fact that Simon would not share the actual compound—that sounded all kinds of alarms in David’s head. That was the gimmick: the part of the magic trick that the performer never reveals.

  There was no way this was genuine. It was all much too good to be true.

/>   That’s what the cautious, careful voice in his head told him.

  But for the first time in his life, David stopped listening to that side of himself. He didn’t care.

  He had to know what was in that vial. No matter what.

  He looked back at Simon, who was waiting.

  “I’ll take the job,” he said.

  “Thank you,” Simon said. He leaned over the table and dragged David into an awkward hug, releasing him only after a long moment.

  “Thank you,” he said again. “Together, we are going to save the world.”

  David pulled away, slightly embarrassed. “I should get back to the hotel. Get some sleep before my flight.”

  “Oh no,” Simon said, suddenly clownish again. “You are going to shower and get dressed and then we are going out.”

  “I appreciate it, really. But I am exhausted.”

  Simon’s grin turned mean. “Hey, you better have some fun tonight. Because on Monday, I am your boss, and you are not going to see anything but the inside of a lab until you get me what I want.”

  David laughed.

  “I’m not joking,” Simon said. “You’re going to earn that two million a year. Never thought you would have such solid negotiating skills.”

  David was momentarily confused. “Really? I thought you sent that woman to give me that advice last night.”

  Now it was Simon’s turn to look confused. “Tiffani told you to hold out for two million? Wow. Smarter than she looks.”

  David was about to correct Simon, to tell him about the woman in the club. Then he stopped himself. He realized that Simon did not know about the woman, even if the woman did say she knew about Simon.

  That was interesting. He didn’t know what it meant. But he was smart enough to keep it to himself.

  Simon had been holding on to all the secrets. It wouldn’t hurt to have a few of his own, David decided.

  ON THEIR WAY OUT of the building, Simon ducked into a side office. “Just wait a second,” he told David. “Got to sign a couple things, then you and me, we’re going to tear this town a new one.”

  David smiled at him wearily. “Sure. Whatever.”

  Simon’s expression changed as soon as he was through the door. David was exhausted. Simon was grateful. David was smarter than he’d guessed, and having him tired and off-balance made it easier to fix the little details around the edges.

  He walked through another door, into what looked like a medical exam room.

  Mueller was there, dressed in a new set of clothes, fresh from the men’s section of the local Target.

  “Mr. Mueller,” Simon said. “You look like a new man.”

  “Yeah, well,” Mueller said. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you.”

  “That’s what I was told. How can I help you?”

  “Seems to me you might have taken advantage of me when I came into this place.”

  Simon closed his eyes. Unbelievable. You give someone the gift. The most precious gift possible. And they immediately want more.

  “You believe we cheated you?”

  “Look, I’m not stupid,” Mueller said. “What you did to me. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t legal. Now, if you don’t want me to bring the cops around, it’s going to cost you.”

  Simon didn’t respond. He let the silence linger. Mueller shifted from foot to foot. Just before Mueller opened his mouth again, Simon spoke.

  “I was prepared to let you go with my blessing,” Simon said. “I assumed you would spend the limited time we’d given you as you did before we found you: drinking paint thinner, facedown in a gutter. You might tell someone what happened to you, but who’d believe a waste of flesh like yourself?”

  “Hey, now,” Mueller said, trying to work up the nerve to be insulted.

  “But as you’ve shown, we can’t trust you for even that. I apologize, Mr. Mueller. I apologize for thinking you might rise above your sorry, pathetic excuse for an existence.”

  Mueller had no response to that. Probably because he was choking to death on his own blood.

  From inside his pocket, Simon had drawn a short-handled dagger and shoved it deep into the old man’s chest. He’d driven it through the left lung on its way to the heart. It was a completely silent death stroke, expertly delivered.

  Simon had many, many years of practice.

  He withdrew the blade. Mueller dropped to the floor. Simon pressed an intercom button, and the nurse reappeared a moment later.

  “Put this thing in the incinerator,” Simon ordered her. He gestured for her to step closer. She hesitated but complied. He wiped the blade on the hem of her scrubs, carefully checking to make sure he’d gotten all the blood. He’d had this dagger for years. He’d actually lost count of all the times he’d replaced the handle, then the blade, then the handle again. It raised the old question: was it really the same knife anymore?

  He liked to think so. It was reliable. Faithful. That was why he always kept it by his side.

  When the dagger was clean, he put it back inside his pocket.

  Simon was smiling again when he rejoined David in the hall.

  “What was that about?” David asked.

  “Just the usual,” Simon said. “There’s always someone who thinks he’s more important than anyone else. And he’s always wrong.”

  CHAPTER 5

  TAMPA, FLORIDA

  SIMON ARRIVED AT the board meeting last. It was his prerogative as chairman and CEO, but it was also in keeping with his character. He slouched into the boardroom twenty minutes late, sunglasses on, head bopping to the music blaring through his earbuds.

  The door closed behind him, sealing the room like a vault. It had been constructed to demanding specifications. Completely soundproofed, it was a reinforced steel box wrapped in concrete and framed inside the girders on the top floor of Conquest’s office tower. It was impervious to any kind of radio wave, and used sophisticated jamming and baffling devices to prevent electronic eavesdropping. No one was going to get interrupted by a call on their cell phone while inside the boardroom. The only signal coming in or out was over a broadband cable with military-grade encryption.

  The boardroom also served as a panic room, with storage tanks under the floor containing its own air and water supply, if it ever became necessary to lock out the entire outside world.

  As soon as the door was shut, Simon stood straighter and yanked the earbuds out of his ears. Of all the tiresome requirements of his public face, the music was the worst. Call him old-fashioned, but he did not find repetitive shouting of obscenities at all entertaining or restful.

  The other members were already at the table. There were four of them. Conquest’s board had more members than that, of course. Twenty-six at last count, not including the various subcommittees and part-time advisers. But that was the public board. They met in a different room.

  This was the place where the real owners met. This was the Council.

  Max was in his place, immediately to the left of Simon’s chair. Sebastian and Peter flanked him. Antonio sat alone on the other side of the table.

  Each of them had a glass. In front of Simon’s empty chair was a crystal pitcher, filled with water, next to his own glass.

  “Gentlemen,” Simon said, signaling that it was all right for the others to speak. In these meetings, they always used formal, Castilian Spanish. Despite everything, they held fast to some traditions.

  “Simon,” Antonio said. “You look well.” He was currently stuck in his midforties, and they all knew he hated it.

  They learned they aged faster the more time passed, if they didn’t have the Water. None of them knew how long they might last without a regular drink.

  But they had to get older, just a little, or the world would discover what they were. They had to perform a balancing act. So Simon and the others had been succeedin
g themselves as father to son for generations now.

  It was, frankly, exhausting. And painful. The interim period was the hardest. Carefully measuring the dosage, waiting for the change to be complete, and handling the physical pain as one advanced and retreated over several decades in the space of a few hours. Simon no longer remembered what real aging was like. Every time he was cut off from the Water—even willingly, even to advance the deception—a piece of his mind worried that he would never get his youth back, that this would be the time the miracle didn’t work.

  It lasted for only a few seconds, but it was still terrifying. Simon suspected that they would all dry up and blow away if they tried to live like normal men again. The accumulated weight of centuries would crush them to dust.

  In earlier times, even thirty or forty years before, it was easier. The press didn’t care as much about the private lives of the rich, and there was a certain distance enforced by wealth. The last time Simon had succeeded himself—gone from Simon Oliver II to Simon Oliver III—there had been a discreet funeral notice and a few faked pictures. These days, he had to contend with amateur paparazzi hunting for cell-phone videos, demands for childhood photos from supposedly respectable publications, and coroners and authorities who were increasingly difficult to bribe. He’d been forced to create a whole separate identity for himself, a celebrity image shiny enough to distract attention away from the fact that the supposed father and son were never seen in the same time zone, let alone the same room.

  On the West Coast, he played the idiot boy, spending money, wrecking cars, chasing whores. On the East Coast, he’d played the disapproving father, managing the day-to-day affairs of Conquest—which grew only more challenging over time—and letting himself age.

  The others didn’t have to be quite as careful, or take such elaborate measures. They weren’t the public faces of the company. The last time they had “died” had been in a faked plane crash during a corporate retreat in the Bahamas.

  Antonio had been in Europe at the time, and felt left out. He couldn’t act as part of the group in public anymore. It would have looked too suspicious—and foolish—for the boys to be out partying with a friend of their fathers’. “I wish we could find some way to make the change all at the same time,” he said. “This sort of imbalance breeds division, and we cannot afford that, with our numbers so few.”