Indefinite Renewal Read online

  “You are not an evil man,” she told him, and it was as if a weight had been released by her words. “You are a good man, trying to survive. The fates have given you a difficult path to walk, and you must handle it as best you can, but the rewards are also great. As long as you do only what you must, and do not take pleasure from it, you are not at fault.”

  He squeezed her hand tightly then. “Thank you.”

  She nodded slightly, and the smile slipped from her still face, to be replaced by a sense of waiting. “Now is the time—do it now.”

  He nodded and started to say something, then shut his mouth and closed his own eyes, plunging himself into darkness. He could feel her cool skin against his, and could almost sense the energy that flowed through her, pulsing with life. Reaching out with his mind, he touched that current, and then turned it, channeling it into himself and trying to hasten it so that she felt as little pain as possible.

  The woman—I never even learned her name, Nick realized suddenly—stiffened, but didn’t make a sound, and Nick was sure that if he opened his eyes he would see her biting her lip, blood dripping down her chin as she struggled not to cry out.

  And he felt the now-familiar quickening of his senses, as her energy joined with his own, racing through his body and setting his skin a-tingle with life and warmth

  and her hand jerked in his own, the cool skin growing warmer and dryer as her life passed through it

  and Nick squeezed his eyes shut more tightly, until he saw bright flashes across his eyelids, flickering in and out of existence

  and a sound finally escaped her, a long sigh that stretched out and then faded into the air, a low moan that touched him to his soul

  and her hand shriveled as the current slowed, the last trickles of energy passing from her in a rush

  and Nick reversed the flow and concentrated on her skin, the skin that he was touching, now the consistency of old cracked leather, and thought of it the way it had last appeared, still young and fresh and unwrinkled even in middle-age, and felt the energy return to her and swarm about her, enveloping her in a glow that he could almost feel against his face

  and the glow slowed and then faded, and he finally opened his eyes. The woman still sat next to him, her hand still clenched in his, and for a moment he thought she was still alive, and that any minute her chest would rise and fall and her own eyes would flicker open. But the moment stretched on, and passed into another, and she still sat there, unmoving, and at last he let her hand slip away from his own, and stood up, resisting the sudden urge to place a handful of crumpled bills in her hand.

  She had certainly lived up to her claim, he thought as he stepped to the door and risked a quick glance back. She still rested on the couch, as if sleeping, and he watched her for a second before shaking his head and opening the door, letting the warm air and the sound of other people rush in.

  Well, she had been right about that too, he reminded himself wryly as he stepped out onto the old staircase, and headed down. He hadn’t left disappointed.

  The lettering above the front door read “Hanson and Harrop, Brokerage Firm” and Nick studied it for a second before squaring his shoulders and pushing through the circular door and into the air-conditioned lobby. An older man in a doorman’s uniform looked up expectantly from behind his desk, but Nick only nodded to him and continued on, past him and down the hall to where he had spotted the glimmer of steel doors. Sure enough they turned out to belong to a row of elevators, and he pressed the UP button, smiling pleasantly at the woman who was already waiting there.

  Just get this over with quickly, he cautioned himself, clutching the strap of his backpack more tightly and resisting the urge to open it and make sure the folder was still there. He hadn’t done anything else yesterday, after getting home from Chinatown, but flop down on his couch and spend the night alone with the TV and some old pizza, but he couldn’t afford to put this off any longer.

  The next step was to undergo Alexander’s process to unlock his potential, and that was supposed to take two full months to complete. Admittedly he might be able to manage more quickly, since he had the experience of the process’ creator to go by, and could devote more time to it once finals were over, but it would still be at least a month-and-a-half from start to finish—any faster and he risked overlooking some crucial point, or not finishing a step completely, and then he would have to start all over again.

  The time wasn’t a problem—with classes done and out of the way, he had no real commitments, and he had enough money saved up from the year to support himself until next fall, so he could just work on this and hang out a bit. He had already mentioned to Gordo that he was thinking of working on a book on genetics and potential, which provided the perfect cover—he actually intended to chronicle the experience, and use that, with Alexander’s knowledge and some additional research of his own, to write a book on the subject, as he had promised he would. His mother would be upset that he wasn’t coming to visit yet, but she’d understand. And he would drop in on the club occasionally, to say hi and let everyone know he was still around.

  That only left one thing.

  He still had Daniel’s list of stock purchases, and he had to get that taken care of before he could focus on anything else. Otherwise Daniel would wonder what was taking so long, and come looking for him—he might get suspicious, too, and Nick wanted to avoid that until he was ready to deal with it. So he had gotten up early this morning, gone to campus to make sure everything was in order for his students’ exam tomorrow afternoon, and now found himself riding up to see Thomas Lansford on the tenth floor about a list he had in his backpack. As soon as that was taken care of, he had promised Chris a hand moving a new desk into her apartment and getting rid of the old one, and then he was going to go home and try to assimilate Chi’en Lee’s abilities into his own—he had gleaned enough from her memories to know her name now, at least. But first things first.

  The lights on the upper wall flashed on and off, subdued against the rich wood paneling all around, and neither Nick nor the woman spoke. After a moment the lights blinked eight, the elevator slowed, and the doors slid silently open—for a moment Nick half-expected to see Klein standing there in his orderly’s uniform, cart in tow, ready to enlist him to help with some new medical task, and he turned away to hide the sudden giggle as the woman stepped out and down the long hall that opened before them. Then the doors slid shut, the thrum and shudder of motion started up again, and Nick allowed himself to laugh long and hard at the absurdity that his life had become—false hospital orderlies, strange Chinese fortunetellers, high-powered stock-brokers, immortal prophets. His laughter rang out in the small paneled chamber, echoing off the walls and coming back to him as a twisted reflection.

  It felt good to laugh, to admit to himself just how strange things were getting, and accept that they would probably only get worse, while acknowledging that he was at least still in control of his own mind, and after a moment he felt the tinge of hysteria fade away, replaced by something that approached a slightly uneasy acceptance. By the time the doors slid open on the tenth floor, he had controlled his outburst and was back to himself, with only a faint smile to betray this new attitude toward his life.

  The space that the elevator deposited him in was short and square, little more than a fancy lobby, with carpeting, plants in the corners, and subdued lighting. A wall of glass separated the elevator bank and its lobby from the long wide hallway beyond, and Nick took a deep breath before tugging the door open and stepping through. The air here seemed even cooler, and there was an odd quiet as the shutting door cut off the constant thrum of the elevators—and yet there was sound all around, in the form of low voices, feet pounding down soft carpet, doors clicking open and shut. He could even pick out the tap-tap of a keyboard somewhere, and somewhere else the faint whine and hiss of a printer, but even so everything seemed strangely hushed, and he found himself taking deep slow breaths, so as not to disturb anything with heavy breathing.r />
  This is silly, he finally decided, and set off down the row, examining the closed doors on his left side for the names they bore engraved into shining metal plaques, and yet he still found himself being careful not to step too loudly or brush against anything. He didn’t see anyone, and all of the doors were shut, tightened blinds revealing only an occasional flash of light and flicker of movement as he passed them by; on his other side six-foot partitions of rich wood separated the walkway he was trapped on from whatever lurked in the center of the room.

  He continued down the hall, finally reaching the corner and turning with it, eyes immediately squinting to skip down the new row of doors that stretched before him—the partitions still prevented him from inspecting the middle of the room, and for a brief moment he had a paranoid image of people lurking just out of sight on the other side, laughing at his discomfort and preparing some lethal little trap for him to blunder into. With a shudder he forced himself not to think about such things, and continued stolidly down the hall, concentrating on the task in hand and ignoring what his fevered imagination told him were hushed whispers and the clatter of something heavy and metallic being moved into place.

  At last, just as he was starting to allow himself the fear that he was on the wrong floor, or maybe even in the wrong building, he found the door he was looking for, lurking in the back corner like a trapped predator at the rear of a cave. It was a heavy wooden affair with a tasteful nameplate at eye-level, polished surface catching the light overhead, and the engraving read “Thomas Lansford” in elegant cursive. The shades were down over the window, but there was a faint bit of light leaking in around the edges, and he thought he could detect a flurry of movement behind them.

  Right, Nick confirmed mentally, and dismissed the possible horrors lurking around the corner with a smug wave good-bye. Then, raising a hand, he shattered the silence around him with two short, quick raps on the door.

  There was a pause, and he rapped again, listening to the clear sharp sound that the door gave off, repeated in the light clank as it shook against its frame. Then the door moved aside, so silently that he didn’t notice until it was almost halfway-open, and he had to catch himself from knocking again, this time against the forehead of the man in front of him.

  “Yes?” The individual in question had a heavy build, short graying-blond hair, and a steely glance that was now directed at Nick in a look of impatience and some disdain. An expensive gray suit hung loosely on the man, stifling in the heat outside but apparently comfortable in the Arctic clime that wafted out from his office. Nick shivered slightly in his T-shirt and shorts, but took a deep breath and met the other man’s eyes squarely, trying to dredge a smile up from somewhere.

  “Hi.” That got no response, and he plunged ahead before his nerve failed. “Thomas Lansford?”

  The man nodded tersely. “That’s right.” He shifted slightly, and his right hand tensed on the door knob, as if aching to yank it shut again. “What is it?”

  Lansford’s eyes were boring small holes through the back of Nick’s head, and he gulped, wishing he could just get the hell out and back into the real world of heat and smiles—but he was here for a reason, and he forced himself to continue. “My name is Nick Gordon—I’m here on behalf of Daniel Sinclair.”

  The sound of that name was like a spell from a fairy tale—Lansford’s eyes immediately lost their threatening aspect, his stiffness faded, and his heavy features actually creased into a smile.

  “Oh, right,” he breathed, the last of the tension seeming to leak out of him with those words. “Daniel mentioned that you would be by at some point. Please, come in.” He stepped back and to the side, holding the door open, and Nick stepped gratefully inside, trying to control his shivers as the cold air hit his exposed skin and raised goose bumps up and down his arms and legs.

  “Thanks,” he offered as the broker shut the door softly and moved to the other side of the large, windowed room in long, determined strides. There was a wide oak desk there, with its back to a picture window, and the man resumed a seat behind it, gesturing Nick to one of the two comfortable upholstered chairs in front of him. Nodding, Nick quickly closed the distance and sank into the chair on the right, trying to gain some warmth from plush material and some shielding from the circulating air.

  “So Daniel sent you, eh?” Lansford asked casually, leaning back in his chair and eyeing Nick critically. “To be honest, I had expected someone older, more . . . business-like, if you know what I mean.” He frowned, the expression threatening to crack his granite composure. “I hope you don’t mind if I ask you for the identification number.”

  Nick shook his head, a faint smile coming to his own lips. “Not at all—I would probably wonder about someone dressed like this, too.” Lansford nodded his agreement but didn’t say anything, and the firm expression remained on his features. “It’s three-one-seven, nine-four-eight, five-five-eight-three.”

  The man in front of him unlocked a drawer, pulled it open, and took out a small piece of paper, then studied it briefly. Finally he returned the slip to its hiding place and relocked the drawer, then turned back to Nick. All traces of the grimness were gone, and he was smiling again, a little more easily than before.

  “Right you are,” he confirmed cheerfully, and Nick let out a small sigh of relief—the idea had crossed his mind that Daniel might try and set him up for something here, but apparently he was playing straight for once. “Sorry about all that,” the big man continued, swiveling his chair back and forth lazily, “but we can’t afford to take any chances, especially with a client as important as Mr. Sinclair.” Gray eyes studied Nick, but there wasn’t any anger behind them, only interest and perhaps mild curiosity. “So, how can I help you?”

  “Well, Daniel wants certain stocks sold, and a few others purchased,” Nick explained, and stopped when he realized how obvious that was. Why else would one come to a stockbroker but to buy and sell stocks? Great start, Nick, he chastised himself, and busied himself for a moment in unzipping his backpack and rifling through it. For a heart-stopping moment he thought the folder wasn’t there, but then he found it sandwiched between his genetics text and a copy of yesterday’s Tribune, and pulled it out carefully, reaching in to extract the list he needed. Lansford watched him quietly, expectantly.

  “May I see that?” the big man inquired, and Nick wordlessly handed the page over to him—this was the second sheet of the batch, and all it contained was the actual list of which stocks and how much of each. Daniel had mentioned at the bottom of the previous page that Nick could let Lansford have the sheet, but only that one.

  “That’s for you,” he explained as the older man scanned the contents quickly, nodding and occasionally frowning over what he saw. Finally he finished and looked up again.

  “All right—some of these seem odd, but Mr. Sinclair seems to know what he’s doing, so I’ll take care of it. I wouldn’t buy some of these myself, though, or advise for it normally—like this DFA Aeronautics firm. They’re new, and haven’t put out anything solid so far, so I doubt they’ll be worth much, unless Daniel knows something I don’t.” The sheet went to the center of the desk then, and he leaned toward Nick, voice lowered in a tone of secrecy that seemed wasted in the otherwise empty office. “How about it, Nick? What’s your boss heard about them? Have they snagged a government contract or something? Is there a new product they’ve just completed? What?” The man’s eyes had a predatory gleam to them, and his hands clenched the sides of his chair tightly, fingers tightening around the smooth leather.

  Nick leaned back a little, surprised at the man’s aggressive interest, but had to stifle a laugh as a note from Daniel’s instructions came to mind. “Lansford is no worse than any other of his profession,” the footnote had read, “and better than some, but he is still a stockbroker, and that means certain things. Namely, that he is greedy and not to be trusted. He will undoubtedly ask about why I am purchasing certain of these stocks, because he wants to warn his other
clients—which include himself—of any big possibilities for profit. When he asks, don’t tell him anything—make up some excuse, the easiest of which will be the truth.” Nick tried that now, meeting Lansford’s gaze and trying not to shudder at the naked desire imprinted there.

  “I really don’t know,” he confessed, still pressed into his chair before this man’s violent interest. “Daniel didn’t tell me what was going on, only that he wanted those things done.” The broker slumped back then, apparently convinced that he wouldn’t get any useful tips from this boy, and Nick felt his courage returning with the other man’s increasing distance. “I think he just buys some of them for the name,” he lied, and was gratified to see the look of confusion on his audience’s face. “You know, if it sounds good or reminds him of someone he knows, or something—he’s got enough solid ones that he can afford to play around a little.”

  “Well, that’s certainly true,” Lansford agreed with a frown. “I guess if he wants to take a few risks he’s entitled—I had just hoped he was doing it for a better reason than mere whimsy.” He straightened up then and glanced at Nick, all business now. “Well, is that it?”

  “Yeah.” Nick levered himself out of his seat and turned back toward the door, but Lansford beat him there with his long strides, and held it open. “Thanks for your time.”

  “Not at all,” the other man replied as he stepped out into the slightly warmer air of the passageway. “Any time you have any further purchases or instructions, or just want to see how the stocks are doing, come by—I’m here from eight to five, Monday through Friday, and you can reach me at home after that.” He extracted a business card from his vest pocket and passed it to Nick, who took it wordlessly, as well as the square hand that followed it. “Nice to finally have met you, Nick,” Lansford told him, pumping hard, and Nick nodded back politely before detaching his hand.