by Dan Wells
Larry gestured to her, beckoning her to the hallway, and her eyes widened in surprise.
“A trip outside my room? What’s the special occasion?”
“Hurry, please.”
“You’re talkative today.” Susan slid off the bed and walked to the door. “Is this exercise time, or something? Take me out in the yard, let me lift some weights, maybe get a prison tattoo?”
“Meeting,” said the thug. “That way.” He pointed down the hall, and Susan stifled her disappointment.
The thug led her into a large room, filled with couches and chairs and little tables with vases on them. It was also filled with people, and Susan instantly recognized some of them: there was Cynthia Mummer, the CFO at NewYew; there was Sun-He the lawyer, and Jeffrey the president, and … there was Cynthia again, and … there she was again, and …
“What on earth?” said Susan.
“Ah,” said one of the Cynthias, “our final guest has arrived. Please, Ms. Howell, have a seat.”
Susan looked around the room in shock, counting in her head: Three, four, five … five Cynthias. Four Sun-Hes. Two, three, four Jeffreys. Most of them look as shocked as I am. What’s going on?
And where’s Lyle?
“Please,” said the same Cynthia who had spoken before. She didn’t look frightened like the others; she looked calm and cool and in charge. “Have a seat, Ms. Howell, and I’ll explain everything.”
Susan stared at the woman, weighing the risks of punching her in the face, but decided it wasn’t worth it—all five of the thick-necked thugs were here, and it looked like they’d brought a few friends.… Wait. She looked at the thugs again, suddenly aware of similarities she’d never noticed before: Larry the thug wasn’t just a twin, he was an octuplet. What was going on?
Susan opened her mouth, shut it, and took a step toward the nearest sofa. One of the other Cynthia Mummers was sitting on it, and Susan stopped, balking at the idea of sitting next to her. Who are they? What’s going on? The thug who’d brought her shoved Susan down onto the sofa, and she shivered at the close proximity to the unsettling doppelgänger.
“Sure,” said the Cynthia on the sofa, “you get the hottie and I get this. I can barely stand to look at myself.”
Susan stared at her. “Ms. Mummer?”
“Is that her name?” The Cynthia raised an eyebrow. “Interesting. No, my name’s Tony. Tony Hicks.” She stuck out her hand. “Nice to meet you. I hope you’re making good use of that body.”
“All right,” said First Cynthia, standing in the middle of the room. She was definitely the one in charge. “Let’s get started.”
Susan looked around the room and noted all the exits: two large windows, two hallways, and a door in the back. All were being guarded by thugs.
“For many of you,” said First Cynthia, “this is the first time you’ve seen the others. It may come as a shock, though presumably not as shocking as the first time you realized your body was changing into someone else. I’m here to explain what that change means, and to make you an offer.” She held up a small plastic bottle; Susan recognized it from the lab at work. “How many of you have seen this before?”
Some of the people tentatively raised their hands, including the Tony/Cynthia on the sofa next to her. Susan didn’t move, refusing to play along, but she identified the bottle immediately as Lyle’s new antiaging lotion.
And Tony Hicks…, she thought. I know that name.… He was one of the men in the lotion test.
Is that what this is about?
“This is a bottle of ReBirth,” said First Cynthia, “NewYew’s newest product and, to be frank, a technological wonder the likes of which the world has never seen before. Through various circumstances, some accidental and some not, each of you has been exposed to ReBirth, and it has altered your DNA to turn you into somebody else. The exception, of course, is Ms. Susan Howell, who started turning into someone else and was instead turned back into herself.”
“That’s your real body?” asked Tony/Cynthia. “Wow.” She scooted closer. “You, uh … busy later?”
Susan grimaced and scooted away.
“On July third,” First Cynthia continued, “just a few weeks away, NewYew will be launching ReBirth as part of a massive global event. It’s going to revolutionize the beauty industry and, as I’m sure you can guess from personal experience, the entire world. It can replace a person’s entire body with a new one—one that’s younger, healthier, more attractive. Age and illness will be a thing of the past. ReBirth will usher in a world where race and appearance are no longer barriers but a means of personal expression. Imagine a world where biological prejudice is not only absent but completely meaningless. How many of you would like to help that world become a reality?”
One of the Sun-Hes raised his hand. “Are you going to let us go or not?”
“Straight to the point,” said First Cynthia, flashing a practiced smile. “Let’s say we did let you go: where would you go to? Back to your family, to try in vain to convince them you’re you instead of me? Back to your jobs, which you can’t prove are actually yours? You’re not yourselves anymore; letting you go would be, perhaps, the cruelest thing we could do.”
Susan exhaled sharply. “So you’re locking us up because you’re nice? Listen, lady, we’re not that stupid—we know when we’re being screwed, and right now you are definitely screwing us. Let’s drop the act, okay?”
First Cynthia studied her, frowning, then raised an eyebrow and nodded. “All right then, let’s put this in very simple terms. You look like us because you are our insurance policy. ReBirth is a revolution, and revolutions are rarely peaceful, and while many of our executives have moved overseas some of us will be required to stay behind and oversee the launch event. There’s a strong chance that in doing so we will be arrested.”
Susan’s jaw dropped. “You want us to go to jail in your place?”
“Exactly the opposite,” said First Cynthia. “If you choose to help us, and follow our plan, none of us will go to jail at all.”
“Why would we help you, though?” asked Susan. “You’ve kidnapped us, you’ve locked us up here, you’ve … done some kind of crazy crap to our bodies. I’m the only one here who’s still me, and I hate you—I can’t imagine what the unwilling post-op Tony must be feeling. We should be throwing you in jail, not helping you stay out of it.”
“Valid points,” said First Cynthia. “And I suppose it is possible that some of you might actually want to hurt us instead of help us. But that’s only because you haven’t heard my offer yet.” She held up the bottle again and looked around the room. “Let’s start with a dose of ReBirth, completely pure. You’ve seen what it can do—it changes your entire body, from the inside out, into anyone you imprint it with. Give us the help we need, and you’ll have your very own sample to imprint on any body you want.”
Tony/Cynthia leaned forward, suddenly interested; Susan glanced to the side and saw several more of the clones perk up to attention.
One of the Jeffreys shook his head. “Are you kidding? You think you can just reset us back to the way we were and pretend this never happened?”
“I’m not talking about resetting you,” said First Cynthia. “The unfortunate truth is that getting your old body back is probably impossible at this stage—though the presence of Ms. Howell is, of course, proof that it can be done.”
“Wait,” said Susan, finally sorting through the confusion. “Is that how you cured my leprosy? You turned me into a … clone of myself?”
“Technically, yes,” said First Cynthia. “We even turned you into a younger clone of yourself. That body is only nineteen years old.”
Tony/Cynthia gave her an appraising look, and smiled lecherously. Susan gagged and scooted farther away.
“Think of it,” said First Cynthia, turning back to the main group. “With this lotion you can turn yourself into anyone you want—anyone at all. Tall, short, black, white, male, female, there’s literally no limit. You want
to play for the NBA? You want to be a supermodel? You can do it—you can do anything you want.”
“No,” said Susan. “This is wrong.”
First Cynthia laughed coldly. “You’re a lot more like Lyle than I expected. Did he rub off on you, or did you rub off on him?” She smiled harshly. “Or was it just general rubbing?”
Tony/Cynthia snickered, and Susan felt her face grow hot. “You can’t do this to people,” she said. “You can’t take them away and lock them in a prison and then bribe them with their own bodies to help you do something even worse.”
“That’s easy for you to say,” said Cynthia, “but like you said, you’re the only one here who’s still herself. What about the guy next to you?” She pointed at Tony/Cynthia. “You think he likes being a bony old witch like me? You think he likes being a woman at all? Ask him how much he wants to change—ask him what he’d do for a chance to start over.”
Susan looked at Tony/Cynthia; he/she fidgeted in the sofa, frowning.
“This is wrong,” Susan told him/her. “No matter what you get out of it, it’s wrong.”
“Don’t decide yet,” said First Cynthia, “because I’m about to sweeten the deal.” She reached in her jacket pocket and pulled out a stack of cash. “In addition to your new body and the new life that comes with it, each and every one of you will receive a cool million dollars.”
Excited murmurs filled the room; Susan heard Tony/Cynthia mutter, “Now we’re talking.”
“One million dollars,” First Cynthia repeated, “in cash. You can go anywhere, do anything, be anyone. And in return, all you have to do is stay here for two, maybe three weeks; eat our food, and pretend to be us. It’s as simple as that.”
Tony/Cynthia raised his/her hand. “I’m in.” Several more people raised their hands in agreement. “We’re all in.”
“But what about me?” Susan asked. “Are you going to turn me into one of … you? And what about Dr. Fontanelle—I notice there aren’t any copies of him. Is he one of the ones that’s already fled the country?”
Did he even try to help me?
“He’s still here,” said First Cynthia. “But he doesn’t need protection. He’s the one who created ReBirth—the government won’t lock him up, they’ll try to use him. But thanks to you, they won’t get anything out of him.”
Susan glared at her. “So I’m a hostage.”
“Lyle is attached to you, Ms. Howell; it is a hopeless, brainless infatuation. And so as long as we have you, he will never work against us.”
21
Monday, June 18
8:00 A.M.
Ibis Cosmetics headquarters, Manhattan
179 DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD
Ibis had prepared not just a lab for Lyle, but an apartment. He had state-of-the-art equipment, most of it new; he had a bed, a kitchenette, a sitting room, and a bathroom amply stocked with Ibis shampoos and cleansers and moisturizers. They made his skin feel tight—the pH balance was off. The lab itself was brimming with state-of-the-art equipment, most of it so new he still had to calibrate it, and they gave him an ample budget to acquire any item or ingredient he needed—assuming, of course, that his request passed the scrutiny of the Cabal of Evil Lyles. The mini-fridge was neatly stacked with soda pop and beer. The CEO’s personal secretary had been instructed to order in any food he wanted to eat, since his phone would only call her. Even the lightbulbs were new.
He had everything he could possibly need, but nothing that he actually wanted.
Lyle had spent the weekend examining Ibis’s records of their failed attempts to re-create ReBirth. Each batch had been meticulously catalogued by a man named Abraham Decker, who seemed to be Ibis’s chief scientist, and he had done good work. The ingredients had been followed exactly, the measurements were precise, and even the order in which the ingredients had been combined had been followed exactly, even for the inactive ingredients that shouldn’t have had any impact on the function of the product. The records were like the scriptures of a cargo cult, faithfully following every meaningless ritual they could think of in the desperate hope that something, anything, would work. Nothing had. Each batch was the same as the last: a wonderful moisturizer with a regenerative effect on wrinkles and burns and scars, but no DNA copying in sight. The later batches started varying the rituals in carefully calibrated ways, trying slightly different measurements or slightly different procedures, but none had been successful. The mystery behind it all, the Igdrocil—the thing that made ReBirth work—wasn’t working.
If only I knew what Igdrocil was, thought Lyle. The retrovirus is the only new ingredient in 14G; the batches before that didn’t copy DNA, and the batches after that did. I always assumed they had to be the culprit. But Ibis’s batches with the retrovirus were completely inert. Ibis even used the same supplier, Rock Canyon Labs, but it still didn’t work.
Lyle read the Rock Canyon documentation again just to be sure everything was the same, though he’d read it a hundred times already. The sole purpose of the retrovirus was to regulate the function of the plasmids—they could work on their own, but if they worked too much the retrovirus would shut them down. It was their only function. So it didn’t make sense that the retrovirus would be causing the copying, and now, thanks to Ibis, Lyle had proof that it wasn’t. It had to be something else. But what?
It was 8:10 a.m. Lyle called the secretary, his only allowed contact. “Hello, Mr. Sachs,” she said. It was the code name they’d given him, to help keep his presence a secret. “How may I help you this morning?”
“I need to talk to Abraham Decker.”
“I’m afraid he’s unavailable at the moment, can I take a message?”
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“I’m afraid he’s unavailable,” she repeated. “I’d be happy to take a message, and Decker will call you at his earliest convenience.”
“I don’t know what you think I’m doing in here—”
“I’ve been fully briefed, Mr. Sachs.”
“—but I can’t do it without the right information. Decker’s papers are great and all, but I need to talk to the man himself.”
“I assure you that I will pass that message along as soon as I can,” said the receptionist. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
Lyle grit his teeth, growling in frustration. He looked around the laboratory, as if searching for something else to force her to do, just as punishment. He closed his eyes instead, sighing. “Breakfast would be great—fresh fruit, yogurt, the good probiotic stuff.” He breathed deeply. “And an assistant. I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“I’ll pass that request along to Mr. Brady. Is there anything else?”
“That’ll be fine, thanks.” He hung up the phone with a resigned slump of his shoulders, put his hands on his hips, and stared at the lab. “We’ve looked at everything that’s supposed to be in the lotion,” he said out loud. “Maybe Igdrocil is something else—something that’s not supposed to be there at all, that’s not on the ingredients list or anything else.” He nodded. “The best way to figure out what that might have been is to re-create my own lab as closely as possible, make a batch myself, and see if it gives me any ideas.” He looked around again, realized he didn’t remember his own office layout with the kind of specificity he needed, and frowned. After a moment he picked up the phone.
“Hello, Mr. Sachs, is there something else I can do for you?”
“I need to talk to your double agent,” said Lyle. “Whoever’s in my real office back in NewYew.”
“As I told you before, Mr. Sachs, Mr. Decker is not available at the moment.”
Lyle stopped in surprise. “Wait—you mean Decker is the one who replaced me? He’s the one in my office?”
The secretary paused, the silence stretching out to the point of discomfort. “I’m sorry, sir, I’ll have to call you back.” She hung up, leaving Lyle once again alone.
22
Monday, June 18
10:52 A.
M.
NewYew headquarters, Manhattan
179 DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD
“There’s been another robbery,” said Sunny.
Abraham Decker looked up from Lyle Fontanelle’s desk. Don’t look at the filing cabinet. Don’t look at the filing cabinet. “A robbery? Of ReBirth?”
Sunny nodded. “And another salvo from Kuvam: he’s curing a child of cystic fibrosis. A whole group of kids, apparently. It’s like he’s manufacturing cultists. Carl’s called an emergency meeting, but I wanted to talk to you first.”
Decker ventured a guess, and tried to sound more certain than he felt. “Have you finally decided to market ReBirth medically?”
“That’s part of what I’m here to talk to you about,” said Sunny. “You’ve got to stop fighting this all the time—you’ve got to stop fighting us. Cynthia’s already calling for your head.”
“But I’m supporting everything,” said Decker. He’d only been with NewYew for a few hours, and already his position was in danger of collapsing—not because of his own actions, but because of Lyle’s. “I’ve vetted your genetics reports, I’ve signed off on all the new product designs; I mean, I’m the one who made the stuff, Sunny. I support you.” He worried that he’d overdone it, and backtracked a little to sound like the real Lyle. ‘I’m just … also suggesting other avenues.”
“But it’s too much,” said Sunny. “You kick and you scratch and you resist us every step of the way, and that’s not the kind of behavior that wins you friends. When problems show up, like this new robbery, we look around and take stock of our enemies and you’re always on that list. I stand up for you when I can, but … you’re not making it easy. You’ve got to calm it down.”
“You think I’m the one who stole the lotion,” said Decker. This was too soon. He hadn’t even stolen anything yet, and they already suspected him—which means they suspected the real Lyle. What had he done that Ibis didn’t know about? “I haven’t done anything to betray you—I’ve walked the line the whole way, every time—”
