Forbidden Life

Immortality might seem like a gift. But what if it is, instead, extortion?

Vienna was made for burglers.

Roma Lev eased herself down the slope of the roof, careful not to press too hard on the old verdigrised copper sheeting. It was startlingly at body temperature under her hands; the Western sky was still striped in pale peach and mauve from the August sunset.

There were plenty of people out on other roofs, and no wonder. The top floors of the interconnected residences that formed Vienna's old town had once been too hot for habitation in the summer. They stuck the maids up here. Now that air conditioning existed, it was the rich who wanted these dormer rooms with their fantastical oval windows gazing out over the mystery of the city. But she could stroll between the smokestacks as if the roofscape were a public plaza, only occasionally crouching to avoid the slightline of some lounging local.

She'd never done anything like this, in this life—but in others? Lots of examples came to mind, and she trusted her muscle memory. There was no tremor to her hand or hesitation as she trotted along the lead-lined gutter, a sixty-foot fall on her left.

She glanced down and smiled as she recognized the street. This was just up from the Mozarthaus. She'd never been in, but remembered walking past it a few times when she'd lived here in the 1890s. Mahler had been conducting here, Klimt was painting and Freud formulating his theories; she'd been unaware of any of them. This, she'd learned, was the pathos of immortality: to be on-hand for every historical moment but recognize few of them nor their players at the time. Who knew what world-changing people lived here now, whom she would also miss?

The rounded dormer window was just ahead. It shone a moon of amber into the night. That would make breaking in easier, as she would only present a silhouette from the outside. She adjusted her satchel and reached in for the pry-bar. Her fingers brushed the pistol and twitched away.

Slowing to a crawl, she peered around the edge of the window. Her target was standing in the center of the attic space, facing away, and staring at her phone. She posed in an unconscious store-dummy stance, feet planted wide, head tilted, all her attention on the little screen in her hand.

Roma eased across the window, found that it was already unlocked and ajar, and swung it open. She hopped lightly inside and drew out the pistol. This was going to be easy.

She had a perfect bead on the back of Tamara Dunne's head. There was no way she would miss and, after all, she'd had centuries of practice at this.

Dunne gave a little chuckle, flicked a finger across the screen of the phone.

Roma rolled her shoulders, took a deep breath, and aimed again.

Dunne nodded very faintly, flicked.

Roma adjusted her stance to something more professional and braced her right hand with her left.

Dunne scratched her nose, flicked the screen.

Roma's hands began to shake.

Dunne looked back.  "Christ!" The phone flipped away and when it landed Roma stepped on it. She thrust the pistol in Dunne's face.

There must be something to say at a moment like this, but all she managed was, "Well."

"Wh-who are you? What do you want?" Dunne's hands were in the air as she backed against the attic's armoir. "Please, I have nothing."

"It's not what you have." The dam had broken and now Roma was able to say, "It's what you're doing. This is nothing personal."

"Wait, what? You're here to—" Dunne looked at the window, then back to Roma. The expression on her face shifted slightly. "You had a perfect shot. Why didn't you—?"

Roma hit her on the side of the head.

This story was first published in the summer of 2020 as part of Jo Walton’s Decameron Project. I present it here in keeping with my promise to provide more value to my paid subscribers.

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