The Eternal World

by Christopher Farnsworth

  But first, by God, he could kill the Uzita witch. He had a knife. She was unarmed. He could spare the time for that.

  He charged, slashing with the knife, missing by wide margins. She was too fast. But she was on the defensive. And she did not seem to want to let him leave the room. Perhaps she thought to protect all the little dying boys and girls nearby.

  That would kill her. He could corner her and drive the blade into her, again and again and again . . .

  He lunged once more, she dodged again, and suddenly, she had the large, plate-glass window at her back. She had no place to run.

  “Long time coming, salvaje,” he said, his breath coming in ragged gulps now, more from excitement than effort.

  “Too long,” Shako said back, her teeth gleaming white in the semidarkness. “No more children, Aznar. No more little girls.”

  Aznar had just enough time to wonder, Why was she smiling?

  Then he realized: He had not maneuvered her. She had maneuvered him. There was nothing behind her but the window.

  And they were on the seventh floor.

  It was too late to check his lunge. He was off-balance and leaning forward.

  She came up underneath him, and picked him off the floor bodily, grunting under the sudden strain.

  He slashed at her arms, but he wasn’t in them for long.

  There was a brief moment of uninterrupted flight.

  The glass shattered at his back and parted like a curtain.

  Then he was falling, flailing, trying to swim in midair, his arms and legs pinwheeling around him.

  He bounced off the lip of the roof of the parking garage, and again off the edge of a stairwell.

  But when he hit the ground, he didn’t move at all.

  CHAPTER 17

  IN HER CONDO, Shako trembled a little as she picked up the necklace to loop it around her neck. Then she put it back down, angry at herself.

  With minimal effort, she willed her hands to be calm again.

  How long had it been since her body had betrayed her like that? When was the last time she had ever shown a genuine, unplanned emotion or gesture?

  But tonight was different. Tonight it would end. Probably for her. Definitely for Simon.

  David might survive. He might not.

  She’d tried to warn him, but not seriously. To be honest, she had not wanted him to stop his work. If he did, she’d likely never get inside Conquest, or close enough to Simon to finally finish this.

  Simon would have to be careless. He would have to believe he was invulnerable again. He would have to think he could not lose. She’d known Simon a long time, and she knew he was most careless right when he believed he had won everything that mattered.

  Those were the times when he was almost human again, too.

  Shako did the clasp on the necklace. It was worth roughly half what she’d paid for the condo, and it was stunning. If anyone doubted what a woman of her color was doing at the party, one glance at her jewelry should prove she at least belonged in the same tax bracket.

  Or perhaps they’d just assume she was a very well-paid whore.

  Over the years, her gender and her skin color had been Simon’s greatest allies in keeping her away. Not too long ago—less than fifty years, so, for her, not very long ago at all—she could not have walked some of the streets of this city without someone questioning her. While Simon and his friends could stroll into any building or boardroom and work their influence directly, she had to be much craftier. For years, her money had been hidden in the names of fictitious fathers, brothers, and husbands. She’d dressed as a maid or cook or waitress more times than she could count, because someone like her was never supposed to be anything but a servant. In secret, she’d seduced politicians and bankers and real-estate barons and moved them like chess pieces, always playing the long game. Simon moved across the world, across the years, in bold strokes, smashing opposition and braying his name loudly to anyone who’d listen.

  She had hidden her true self and worked in the shadows. She wondered if Simon had any idea that she was the source of his current woes with his Chinese bankers, or the sudden pressure from the FDA. Of course not. A good spy never lets anyone knows she exists.

  And she was sick to death of it. All of it. The lying, the mewing and bowing and faking, the necessity of standing behind men to accomplish her goals.

  Men like David.

  No, not like him. David was, to his credit, kind and decent, intelligent and driven. He had a natural arrogance, but, truth be told, she’d always liked that in a man. First in Simon, all that time ago, then in Drake, and then in perhaps a half dozen other lovers she’d taken. There had been a precious few like that, the ones she truly mourned now. They were the ones she allowed to touch her heart, not just her body.

  She left them all behind, of course. Because she would not make any more monsters like Simon. None of them, no matter how good they seemed, could be trusted with her greatest secret.

  Everyone had to die. Eventually.

  Even David. If his time came tonight, then all it meant was that he was no exception to the rule.

  She had done him one last favor with the girl, Elizabeth. And she’d managed to remove that tick Aznar from her hide once and for all. She supposed she owed David for that, at least. But either way, it would not change what she had to do tonight.

  Some people died too soon. And others had already lived too damned long.

  Her hands were shaking again.

  That was all right, Shako told herself. It was only natural. She’d waited a long, long time for this. She could be a little nervous—a little human—before it happened. It was a reminder of how much she wanted this, how long and how hard the journey had been to reach this point.

  Her hands would be steady when it counted.

  PARKER WESTON SMILED POLITELY and waved the woman through the metal detector, then instructed her to leave her rings in the tray when it squawked at her. She scowled but complied.

  Her husband—or boyfriend or whoever—in a tux, waited impatiently on the other side of the gate that OpSec had set up in front of the hotel’s grand ballroom. He’d clearly had a few pregame drinks. “I didn’t realize we’d have to deal with the goddamn TSA tonight,” he muttered, just loud enough.

  Weston kept the polite smile. “We apologize for the inconvenience,” he said, as he’d been trained.

  “You think Al Qaeda’s going to attack us tonight?” the woman asked sharply as she retrieved her rings. The jewels were huge, and her dress looked to be worth more than Parker’s car, but her accent was pure Florida trailer park.

  “Just a precaution,” Weston said.

  She snorted and walked into the ballroom with her husband, both of them radiating indignation.

  It had been like that all night, one well-dressed asshole after another, complaining about being made to walk through a security line like some shoplifter trying to sneak a couple of DVDs out of Best Buy.

  In truth, Weston sort of agreed with them. He had no idea why Conquest had hired OpSec for what looked like a staggeringly boring gathering of rich people.

  But he’d learned back in the army that orders didn’t have to make sense; they just had to be orders. Whoever was running this gig wanted to make sure that only the right people were inside the room.

  Weston could handle that. He’d had three tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan, had managed not to get himself blown up, and was even decorated for bravery when his armored column was attacked after hitting an IED. Back home in Florida, however, he had a hard time finding a job where courage was one of the requirements listed in the ads. Fortunately, OpSec needed guys exactly like him, and he joined the private security business. Most of the time, he wore a suit instead of Kevlar as he protected men who had more money than real enemies. It paid much better than dodging bullets in downtown Sadr
City.

  The party tonight was a celebration of some new advance in medicine, if Weston read the signs outside the ballroom right. There was only one special request from Conquest: an artist’s sketch of a woman, done up with several different hairstyles and looks, with explicit instructions to stop her and detain her if she showed up anywhere near the hotel.

  The head of Conquest’s internal security detail handed out the photocopies to Weston and his fellow guards personally. Weston had studied the pics carefully, memorized the face, and then folded the paper and put it in his inside pocket. She didn’t look especially dangerous to him, but OpSec also did a lot of industrial espionage work. Maybe she was a spy for a rival company. Or a journalist looking for a story to embarrass the company. Or maybe she was a process server or she was the angry ex-wife of one of the directors on the board.

  Didn’t matter, really. She wasn’t going to get past him.

  Just then, a couple came through the line, drawing more than their share of attention.

  The guy was young—about the same age as Weston—and escorted an incredibly beautiful woman wearing a gown that seemed to have been poured over her. People were stepping out of line for them, stopping him to shake his hand, and simply gawking at her.

  The guy didn’t look famous to Weston, but even if he was, he put them through the same routine as the other celebrities who’d already shown up: he put her clutch on the conveyor belt and had them step through the metal detector.

  Without his phone, the guy went through clean.

  The woman, however, set the detector off. She removed a pair of earrings and went through a second time. Another squawk from the detector. She smiled prettily at Weston—he felt it all the way down to his groin—and leaned in close to him.

  “This is embarrassing,” she said. “It might be the underwire on my bra.”

  Weston was no expert on lingerie, but he’d call himself an enthusiastic amateur when it came to breasts. And he had a hard time believing hers were contained by any bra at all.

  But he didn’t think staring down her cleavage was the way to advance his career. All he said was “Not a problem, ma’am.” He directed her over to the side, pulled out the handheld scanner, and passed it over her.

  It didn’t beep near her chest. He continued down her legs—again, trying not to leer—and got a beep at her thighs.

  Weston gave her a questioning look.

  “Sorry,” she said. “I have a little secret.”

  She opened her gown where it was slit nearly to her waist, and showed him. Around her upper thigh was a garter with a slim silver flask tucked snugly beneath it. “I keep a little something close by. Just for emergencies,” she said in a stage whisper, like she was letting him in on a personal joke.

  Decision time: pat her down and look like a pervert or send her away entirely. The guy was clearly important, but Weston had his instructions. In fact, now that he thought of it, she did look a little like the sketch of the woman he’d been given.

  Pickford came over. He’d been lurking around the entrance all night. He usually let his people do their jobs without interference. But not now, for some reason.

  He stepped neatly between Weston and the couple, as if shielding them, and smiled at them. “Dr. Robinton. A pleasure to see you and your guest.”

  The guy looked a little confused. He’d never met Pickford before, Weston could tell. But he was obviously used to VIP treatment, which meant a lot of strangers greeting you as if you were an old friend.

  “Sorry, we didn’t mean to hold up the line,” the guy said.

  “Not at all,” Pickford said. He turned to Weston, face suddenly cold: “Let them through.”

  “She set off the detector, sir.”

  Pickford gave him the boss voice. “This is Dr. David Robinton. He’s the guest of honor. I don’t want him delayed any longer. Are we clear?”

  Weston felt the need to defend himself. “Sir, I was just looking at this message from Conquest—” Weston said as he held up the paper for Pickford to see.

  Pickford snatched it from his hand and crumpled it into a ball.

  “Why are you still talking? Let them through.”

  The other guests in line were starting to make noise. Some of them were enjoying the show of the employee being chewed out by his boss.

  Weston screwed his polite smile into place and waved Robinton and his date through. “My apologies, Doctor. Miss.”

  Robinton, to his credit, looked embarrassed. “No worries,” he said. “You’re just doing your job.” The woman gave him another radiant smile that made him forget how pissed his boss was at that moment.

  They walked off, and Pickford, with another glare at Weston, went after them.

  Weston took a last look at Robinton and the woman before they entered the room. They walked hand in hand, and unlike some of the couples he’d seen that night, seemed genuinely happy.

  Screw it, Weston decided. After all, it wasn’t like she was going to cause any trouble.

  “Next in line,” he said, and the slow march into the ballroom continued.

  PEOPLE SWARMED AROUND DAVID and Shy, smiling at them, shaking his hand, complimenting her on her dress, congratulating him. There were wealthy shareholders and politicians and celebrities in the crowd. And they all wanted to talk to him, to get a little bit of his attention.

  They don’t even know what I’ve done yet, David thought, but they’re ready to celebrate it anyway. Simon had kept a tight lid on the actual reason for the party tonight. All the guests knew was that Conquest was about to announce another breakthrough, and that its star employee, David Robinton, was the reason.

  He had not been sure Shy would want to come with him. “I didn’t think you approved of my research,” he told her. She’d smiled and kissed him and said, “I’d never miss your big moment.”

  He had not told her what he’d learned about Simon. He didn’t know how. It was too strange, and too big. What would she have to say about that? What would she think if she learned that his discovery wasn’t even the first time someone was breaking the rules of nature?

  It felt like an actual weight in his gut. It took him a while to realize that was guilt. He did not want to have secrets from Shy. He wanted her to share everything.

  Until now, he’d had the excuse of work to put off these feelings. But that excuse was dead. This party was where they would bury it. Starting tomorrow, he would have to find a way to tell her how he felt. There was a good chance she might leave him over it. He might lose her, and that caused another, almost physical pain for him. But he couldn’t keep anything from her anymore, he’d decided. Not if he really wanted them to be together. Starting tomorrow, he’d have to put all secrets behind them.

  Starting tomorrow. Tonight, he wanted her here, and wanted to believe she was proud of him.

  One of the guests, an older man with white hair, stumbled into them, nearly spilling his drink.

  With a start, David recognized him. Antonio Ortega, one of the board members. They’d met, only a few months before. But he seemed to have aged years. His hair was white, and his face was lined with wrinkles. He looked confused.

  “I know you,” he said. “Don’t I?”

  Drunk. Or stoned on some kind of prescription meds, David guessed. “We’ve met, Mr. Ortega,” he said. “I’m David Robinton. I was hired by Simon, remember?”

  Ortega still looked confused. David realized he was staring at Shy, not at him. “No,” he said. “I know you. We’ve met, I’m sure of it.”

  Shy gave him a radiant smile. “I’ve done some consulting for the company in the past. Maybe that’s it.”

  Ortega’s face screwed up with frustration. “No,” he insisted. “It was something else. Someone else. I know it.”

  He tried to grab her arm. She caught his hand and returned it gently but firmly to his sid
e before David could even move.

  “I’m sure you’re right,” she said. “It’s nice to see you again.”

  Ortega’s determination fled just as quickly as his anger had arrived. He looked as if he was about to weep. “Sorry,” he said. “So much to remember. So many things.”

  He wandered back to the bar, still muttering.

  David laughed, more out of discomfort than anything else. “Someone needs to cut him off,” he said.

  Shy made a face at him. “Relax,” she said. “It’s a party. Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow we may die.”

  “Not tomorrow,” David said. “Not for a long, long time. Not anymore.”

  She laughed. “Yes, David. We all know you’re very smart. You’ve cured all our ills and saved the world. That’s why we’re celebrating.”

  “No,” he said, holding her hand tighter, looking into her eyes. He wanted her to understand this. “That’s why I did it. I know you don’t approve, I know you’ve got . . . misgivings, you think it’s all mad science and bullshit, but this is why: because I want more tomorrows. For me and you. And for everyone else. I want more people to have a chance to feel this.”

  It all came out in a rush. And then he felt deeply embarrassed.

  She looked at him for a long moment. Something crossed her face. A look almost like pain.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing.” She kissed him then, so intensely that some of the onlookers made comments.

  When she broke away, she looked him in the eyes again. “You are a remarkable man, David Robinton,” she said.

  He didn’t know what to say to that. She stepped back, as if embarrassed herself.

  More people came from the bar at that moment, putting themselves between Shy and David. They were all talking at once.

  Shy shrugged at him and smiled. “I have to powder my nose. I’ll be right back.”

  David watched her go before he could say anything else, and in moments, she was swallowed by the crowd.