47
When I return to Oliver’s home, his assistant doesn’t lead me to the master-of-the universe study where we met before. Rather, she leaves me in a much smaller space, an office with a simple, worn desk, two chairs, and a couch. The shelves are filled not with collector’s editions of books or conversation-spawning antiques from around the world, but with personal photographs and popular nonfiction books, mostly history and science—books the masses read.
This is Shaw’s personal study, and its simplicity and humility reflect the man I met earlier today, the person the public has never seen. He sits on the couch, a keyboard and trackpad on the coffee table in front of him. “Hi,” he says, pushing up from the couch to greet me.
“Hi.” I hold a hand up, urging him to keep his seat. It’s strange. I only met him this morning, but I feel like I’ve known Oliver Norton Shaw for a hundred years or more.
He returns his focus to the screen on the wall opposite, a high-resolution panel that must have cost a small fortune.
To my surprise, Facebook is pulled up: the profile of a girl in her late twenties or early thirties. Blond hair. A twinkle in her eyes and a slightly mischievous smile on her lips, as if the picture was taken just before she laughed out loud at a prank pulled on a friend.
He studies the screen intently, reading the latest posts.
“Didn’t figure you for a Facebook user.” I pause, then shrug. “No offense.”
“None taken. I’m not. My assistant’s idea. Apparently it’s become somewhat acceptable to stalk people on the Internet.”
I take a seat on the couch beside him. “Just some harmless stalking, huh? Glad it’s not anything weird.”
He chuckles as he works the keyboard.
“She’s a biographer, a really talented young lady. I met with her recently. I want her to write my story, but I haven’t been able to get an answer from her. My assistant suggested looking her up to see if she’d posted any clues as to what she might do. This new generation . . . they revel in putting it all out there, dirty laundry and all.” He gives me a sly sidelong glance. “No offense.”
“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.
“I was a sorry father. I doted on Grayson. Coddled him. Never said no. The worst thing you can do for a child is give him everything he wants. Humans should grow up a little hungry, struggle a little, be made to strive for something. That’s what builds character. Struggle reveals who we really are. That journey shows us what we want from this world. Now Grayson wants what he’s always taken for granted: my money.”
“What do you want to do?”
“He says if I give him a little money now, that’ll be the end of it. If not, he promises he’ll extract his inheritance by other means, and it will cost me a lot more. He thinks he knows me, thinks I’ll figure up the dollar amounts and pay out the lesser: cash to keep him quiet, hush money that will keep my reputation intact. That reputation is essential to building this foundation.”
I don’t envy Oliver’s situation. He walks over and stares at a picture on the wall: a young man in his twenties with long, flowing blond hair, the smile on his face just a little too self-confident. I’ve seen that face, slightly older, but wearing the same smirk. On a plane. Then outside it. Him shoving me. My fist connecting with that face.
No. That’s wrong. We were on the plane, shoving. He walked away muttering obscenities.
It’s like there are two memories.
I reach up, touching my temple. The migraine is back. It’s nearly blinding. I close my eyes, hoping it will pass.
I can barely hear Oliver’s words.
“If there’s one thing I’ve learned in business, it’s that giving a tyrant what he wants doesn’t solve your problem. It only makes it worse. My son has to grow up some time. This is as good a time as any.”