Departure(82)

“None taken,” I say, smiling. I scan the profile. Harper Lane. Harper Lane. I don’t know the name, but . . . I know the face. For a moment, my mind flickers between memories, places I think I’ve seen her. On a plane. Her captivating eyes looking up at mine. The plane shaking. No. That’s not right. A guy behind me, long blond hair. Jerk. Me turning to him. Then . . . I get her bag out of the overhead and set it in the aisle for her, pausing a second to hold the handle, afraid it will topple over.

Oliver pauses, registering the look on my face. “You know her?”

“I . . . think I was on a flight with her to London.”

“She lives there. She was probably headed home after our meeting. She’s a big part of this, Nick. We won’t have a lot to show for years, maybe decades. We’ll be selling the sizzle for a long time, the promise of what’s to come. There’s only so much you can accomplish sitting in a room, telling these people firsthand. This biography will lay out my vision, where I’m coming from. I want it to inspire and explain. I want it to be a call to arms—written by an outsider. She’s the one. I hope she takes the job.”

“How’s it looking?”

“Doubtful.”

He scrolls down, revealing Harper Lane’s latest post.

Harper: Can’t bloody sleep for two days. Losing it. The Decision. The Decision is crushing me :( Remedies anyone?

The comments section is a mix of wisecracks from guys and actionable advice from women, everything from Ambien to chamomile tea, with several recommendations to hide all snacks if she opts for the Ambien route.

So she’s undecided. I can’t tear my eyes away from her. There’s something about her, maybe—

“Sir, your three o’clock is here.”

Oliver’s assistant retreats, returning quickly with a woman about my age, perhaps slightly older, late thirties or early forties. She’s fit, and her eyes are intense, unblinking. Her hair is black, about shoulder length. She strides in mechanically.

“Nick Stone, this is Dr. Sabrina Schr?der.”

She extends her hand and I take it without thinking, an automatic reaction.

When her skin touches mine, the study disappears, and I’m no longer standing. I’m lying on my back on a cold metal surface, blinding lights shining down on me. I can barely see her standing above me, holding my hand in a different way, squeezing as the table I’m on slides away.

Her hand slips from mine as the lights fade, and I’m once again standing in Oliver’s study, her hand still in mine, as if we had never left this place.

I open my mouth to speak but stop, not sure what to say. What’s happening to me?

For a brief moment, I think Sabrina might have seen it too. She blinks, searches my face, then turns toward Harper Lane’s Facebook profile on the screen, looking confused.

“Do you two . . . know each other?” Oliver asks, glancing between us.

A pause.

If she says yes—

“No,” Sabrina answers curtly, releasing my hand.

And then the woman who walked in is back, the unblinking eyes and expressionless mask. She takes the seat opposite Oliver and me on the couch and begins without any prompting.

“Mr. Shaw asked me here to describe my research, which relates to progeria syndrome . . .”





Incredible. After Sabrina leaves, Oliver and I sit in his private study, reflecting on the day’s conversations, him sipping tea, me drinking water, pacing occasionally.

The scale and genius of his plan is finally gripping me. Immortality is the key, the linchpin that will ensure that what we build is never destroyed. I’ve bought in. Completely. I know it now. This is the change. What I must do. What’s been missing. Excitement. Energy. I feel inspired again, curious about what tomorrow holds. There’s so much to do.

I imagine our cabal, a hundred people marching across time together, the world’s best and brightest, carrying the torch for a better tomorrow.

The Titan Foundation isn’t about a handful of innovations—Q-net, Podway, Orbital Dynamics, or the Gibraltar Dam. It’s about an endless flow of projects on the same scale, generation after generation. An endless human renaissance.

We’re not talking about feeding a single starving village for a year, providing clean water for a war-torn region in ruins, or curing a plague in the Third World. We’re talking about an end to all humanity’s problems, any that come, in any age. A group to guide us, watch over the world. Continuity. I feel as though I’m standing at a turning point in human history.

Oliver’s phone rings. He apologizes for taking the call, which he says is urgent. I insist he take it and get up to leave, but he gestures for me to stay.

He picks up and listens attentively, shaking his head every few seconds. Whatever the caller says disturbs him deeply. He seems to deflate with every word, slumping back into the brown leather chair behind the desk. Finally he starts asking questions quickly. He’s out of his element, that’s clear. The talk is of the British court process, gag orders, whether he can sue for conspiracy to libel before anything has been published.

After he hangs up, he stares at the bookshelf beside his desk for a long moment.

“We’re all going to have to make sacrifices for this foundation, Nick.”

I nod, sensing that he wants to say more.

“My son’s very upset about my decision. He’s throwing a selfish, irrational fit, the type a child might throw when you take his toys away, which is essentially what’s happening. And it’s my fault. His mother died twenty years ago, of cancer, far too young. Broke my heart. She’s the only thing I ever loved, besides my company. That company was all I had left, and it never would have grown into what it is if she hadn’t passed away.