by Dan Wells
The woman continued. “So what is ReBirth? I’ll tell you: ReBirth is the future. ReBirth is the answer to each and every one of those women’s problems. I went and talked to them, like I said, and do you know what I told them? I told them that with one single application of ReBirth, they could look like me. Hair, body, lips, everything. And I think I look pretty good, don’t you?” She held out her arms and turned around, giving everyone a perfect view of her legs, back, chest, and butt. The audience clapped appreciatively.
“Ready on kabuki,” said Hannah. “Light presets for 15:30 on my mark.”
“Just one product,” said the Vicky. “Throw away all those other things and replace them with one simple product. Do you think it could work?” There was a scattering of hesitant applause, and Vicky smiled broadly. “Not sure? ‘Who is this crazy woman on-stage?’ You’ve seen enough of me—I think it’s time we bring them out. Ladies?”
“Go!” shouted Hannah, and abruptly the massive theater screen dropped, a vast white wall disappearing to the floor in the blink of an eye, and the lights came up on ten more Vickies, each with identical wavy hair and identical long legs and identical red dresses. The sound system roared to life, blasting Aerosmith’s “Sweet Emotion” as the women stepped out, perfect in their practiced synchronization. Even in the theater, live, just a few feet from the audience, they looked like a special effect. And then the guitars crashed loudly into the song’s main verse and the synchronized line broke step, exploding into a flurry of action—each woman alternately waving at the audience, or posing for the cameras, or dancing to the music. Eleven gorgeous women, all perfectly the same, each completely different.
This is it, thought Decker/Lyle. This is where they stare in silent shock, or charge the stage in revolt, or maybe, if we’re lucky, clap their hands a little.
What’s it going to be? Outrage or joy?
The audience cheered like mad.
27
Tuesday, July 3
11:33 A.M.
Ibis Cosmetics headquarters, Manhattan
164 DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD
Lyle checked his water filter carefully—that was the key. It was natural to assume that the ReBirth batches had been failing due to contamination, and even more natural to insist on filtering his own water. They hadn’t suspected a thing. He’d rigged a series of pool filters, aquarium filters, and other purifiers, and the water dripping out at the end was the cleanest he’d ever seen. Of course, the water didn’t matter; all he really needed was the filters.
Different water filters were made of different things, but one of his special requests—not his only request, but buried inconspicuously in the list—was a CrystalBlue pool filter. He knew the brand from his days in college chemistry, and he breathed a sigh of relief when the Ibis thugs had dropped a box of them on his desk. He’d been terrified the company didn’t even make them anymore. One of the CrystalBlues had been duly inserted into his filter contraption, but the others had all been disassembled, dissected, and collected in a pile of his last great hope: potassium permanganate. He was being watched by closed-circuit cameras, of course, but they didn’t know what he was doing. He’d even added some of the chemical to a batch of ReBirth, just for appearances, being careful to keep any glycerine out of that one.
Glycerine was a common enough ingredient in skin products, thanks to its texture, but potassium permanganate and glycerine together were so flammable they didn’t even need heat—they’d just burst into flames, all on their own, and water would only accelerate the reaction. With as much of the stuff as he’d managed to collect, he could start a fire they’d have to evacuate the whole building to put out.
At 11:34 a.m., on the third of July, he stacked all his books and papers and magazines on a single table. It was the day of the ReBirth product launch, and he knew he’d already missed the beginning; it was certainly too late to stop it. But this was as quickly as he’d been able to prepare everything: the potassium permanganate, the glycerine, and a box full of real, authentic, functional ReBirth. They’d stolen it from NewYew and given it to Lyle so he could study it in action. He had to get it out of here, and in just a few seconds—
Suddenly his door opened, and Ibis’s two massive enforcers rushed toward his pile of books and papers, and Lyle knew that they’d realized something was going on. He dumped the bulk of his potassium on the books, being careful not to get any on himself, and flung the last bit in the faces of the thugs, blinding them for a few precious seconds. His glycerine was stored in a glass jar, and he shattered it on the desk with a crash, heaving great gobs of it onto the books with his hands. The pile darkened, smoldered, and burst into flame, a bright chemical fire that raced across the rest of the pile, lapping it up hungrily. The thugs lunged for Lyle and he swung a wild fist; they dodged him easily, but small globs of glycerine flew from his fingers, pelting them in the face, and when the great blaze behind him triggered the fire-suppression sprinklers in the ceiling, the water splashed down on the enforcers and mingled with the glycerine and the potassium and their faces lit up like dry kindling, burning and blistering and crackling like mad demons. The men fell back, clawing at their faces, and Lyle stared in shock, losing two, three, four precious seconds before regaining his senses and grabbing the box of ReBirth. Tiny glass vials rattled inside as he ran out the open door, through the sprinkler-drenched halls, mingling with the chaos of men and women dashing back and forth through their cubicles, some trying vainly to cover their desks and papers and computers, others simply running for the exits with coats above their heads, impossibly trapped in a summer rainstorm right in the middle of their office building. The fire roared behind them, spreading eagerly through the laboratory and out into the hall, up through the ceiling, down through the floor, and here and there Lyle saw himself in the crowd—in a black suit, in a blue one, in a soaked white shirt sticking slickly to his own foreign chest. Nobody knew who anyone was, and as the fire crackled voraciously behind them and the two burning thugs ran wildly through the crowd nobody cared who he was. He swallowed hard, never stopping, and ran to the stairs and down.
28
Tuesday, July 3
11:35 A.M.
Ibis Cosmetics headquarters, Manhattan
164 DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD
“Let’s get down to brass tacks,” said Decker/Lyle, staring calmly into the spotlight. “The history of science has been focused on one thing, and one thing only: the ability of the human race to overcome its weaknesses. In the earliest days, at the dawn of time, humans realized they didn’t have fur like the animals, so they created clothes to keep themselves warm and protected. Tigers used their claws to kill their food, but humans didn’t have claws so they invented knives. Cheetahs used speed to catch their food, but humans couldn’t run that fast so they invented spears and bows to close the distance quickly. As time went on we started curing the inequalities within our own species: one man couldn’t work as fast as another, so we invented tools; a woman couldn’t see as well as another, so we invented eyeglasses. Today we can correct even more staggering inequalities, using cutting-edge technology to fix a faulty heart, or help a lame man walk, or bring a stroke victim back from the brink of death. We can do all of these things, and we do them every day, and we do them because we’ve told ourselves—or someone has told us—that we can. That we should. But how many of those solutions are temporary?”
Decker/Lyle reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a pair of glasses, holding them up for everyone to see. “Now everyone take a good look at these, because they’re the future. Can you see them? They’re my old glasses, with a pretty heavy prescription; when I was going through college I used these day in and day out—I used them so much they wore two grooves in my head, right over my ears. Who in the audience has something like that?” He heard a murmur of response, and smiled. It was a true story, not about Lyle but about Decker. None of the other executives had noticed, or at least they hadn’t cared. “So what about these old,
ugly, uncomfortable things makes them the future? The answer’s simple: they’re obsolete. A few years ago I got sick of these things so I went in for laser surgery; I got rid of an awkward, external aid to my vision and just fixed my vision. That, friends, is the future. Forget high heels, and makeup, and hair dye, and all the other things you do to pretend to change your body. The new way, the future, is to go right to the source and actually make yourself better.”
He reached into his other jacket pocket and pulled out a vial of ReBirth—empty, of course—and held it up. “ReBirth changes your body, the same way laser surgery changes your eyes, or Botox changes your skin. In fact, ReBirth is far more effective than any other method of physical change because it goes right to the core, right down to the DNA. Say you want better skin; you could use makeup to cover up the wrinkles, or an antiaging lotion to reduce the wrinkles, or you could go for Botox or a face-lift and actually stretch that skin out to get rid of the wrinkles altogether. Or, with one application of ReBirth, you could actually change the way your skin works. It gets right down inside your skin, right into your cells, and talks to your DNA. ‘Hey, DNA, why are you making such ugly, dry skin?’ ‘Because that’s how I am,’ says the DNA, ‘it’s all I know how to do.’ ‘Well,’ says ReBirth, ‘let me show you how to do it right,’ and then it tweaks a DNA strand here and another strand there and suddenly your cells aren’t making dry skin anymore, they’re making perfect skin—they’re making Vicky Carver skin. And Vicky Carver legs, and Vicky Carver eyes, and a Vicky Carver heart. Did you know Victoria Carver has one of the healthiest hearts I’ve ever seen? We actually took her into a doctor, just to make sure, and he said she was innately resistant to heart disease, heart attacks, heart murmurs … plus her good heart makes her circulation stronger, so she’s less likely to have problems with spider veins and varicose veins and muscle tremors and strokes. All just because she was born that way, because of her DNA. If you tried to correct every inequality between your body and Victoria Carver’s you’d need makeup, lotion, hair dye, a personal trainer, a tailored wardrobe, extensive cosmetic surgery, and a heart transplant—and even that would leave scars, so you still wouldn’t be able to match her exactly. Or. You could take thirty seconds, rub on some ReBirth, and have that same stunning body in about a month. Take a look at this.”
Decker/Lyle turned around and swept his arm across the screen behind him—a new one, to replace the dropped kabuki—where suddenly there appeared a massive chart of women’s faces, row after row and column after column. “This is the ReBirth family, and it’s growing all the time; if you go on our website you can find this exact chart, live as of thirty seconds ago. Using this chart you can find precisely the right body for you: do you want to be short? Tall? Thin or muscular? Blond, redhead, brunette? It’s all here. Every face on this chart represents a vial of ReBirth, each designed for what we call an imprint: a specific set of genetic traits that the lotion will write into your DNA. Let’s start with the basics, what we call the NewYew Guarantee.” A small paragraph in the corner of the chart zoomed out to fill the screen, and Decker/Lyle read it aloud. “‘Every imprint in the ReBirth family holds to the highest standards of health and beauty: good skin, good bones, a perfect heart, and O negative blood.’ Why O negative blood? Because that’s a universal donor, making it safe for everyone.” He turned back to the audience. “What this means is that no matter which imprint you pick, you’ll always be getting the healthiest body possible, with no congenital defects, no diseases, no major allergies, and no inherent weaknesses of any kind. You’ll have perfect proportions, perfect vision, perfect skin, and great hair. But that’s just the baseline. Now we get to have some fun.”
Decker/Lyle turned and pointed at the screen again; the NewYew Guarantee shrunk back down to the corner, revealing once more the chart behind it. “What do you want? Let’s say you want to be around five feet six inches, with high cheekbones, green, wide-set eyes, a slim, Roman nose, nice dark hair, and you want to fit into, say, a size two. Can ReBirth help you?” One of the faces on the chart lit up and expanded, filling the screen. “This is Monica; she fits every one of those criteria. Now, let’s say you want the exact same thing, but with blue eyes.” Monica’s face shrunk back down and the face next to it expanded. “This is Laura. Let’s say you want the same thing, but with a C-cup.” Laura’s face shrunk, and another expanded. “This is Kristen. You see what I mean? Any body you want, ReBirth has an imprint for you. But this is only a tiny portion of the chart—let’s look at the whole thing again.”
Kristen’s face shrunk back down, and the full chart once again filled the screen. “This is my favorite part,” said Decker/Lyle. “We have a full spectrum of skin tones, so you can find exactly the product you need no matter what ethnicity you come from—or what ethnicity you want. We have everything from pale Celtic to bronze Mexico to jet-black Africa, and every color in between, each and every one of them absolutely gorgeous. Imagine that for a minute—imagine a world where you can change your skin color like you change your hair. That’s a world without racism. That’s a world where no one will ever feel the sting of discrimination, because the entire concept will be meaningless. When NewYew sets out to change the world, we don’t do half measures.”
The audience cheered, and Decker/Lyle clapped with them. They’re eating it up, he thought. It’s working perfectly. After a moment he quieted them down. “I’m very glad to see that you’re as excited as we are by the possibilities ReBirth gives us, not only as individuals but as a society. This chart represents more than seventy different imprints, and get ready for this.” He pointed at the screen and the entire image changed, showing a vast chart not of women but of men. “We’ve got the same incredible selection for men, as well. You want to be taller? Broader? You want a stronger chin, or just straight-up stronger muscles? More than seventy choices await you, to give you exactly the body you want—but that’s still not all.”
The screen changed again, showing a different chart, smaller this time, with larger images. “Let’s take a look at the ReBirth specialty lines, which I’m really proud of. There are a lot of body types that might not have the same wide appeal, but still have a lot of the value to the right customer. How about a body built for speed, imprinted with DNA from world-class sprinters? Or a body built for strength or endurance, or a body gifted with the ideal shape and muscle distribution for swimming? The highest levels of athletic achievement are governed not by effort but by genetics; some of us are simply too short for basketball, or too big for gymnastics, or maybe we’re disabled and can’t compete at all. Thanks to ReBirth, there’s nothing holding you back but your own drive and dedication.”
Decker/Lyle glanced around at the audience. “Let’s do another demonstration. Ms. Carver, can you come out here, please?” One of the Vickies walked out onto the stage, and the audience applauded again. She waved and smiled. “Thank you, Victoria. Now, earlier—”
“Wait,” she said, smiling, “I’m not Victoria.”
“You’re not?” It was all rehearsed, of course, but Decker/Lyle tried to make it sound sincere. “But … are you sure?”
The woman laughed. “Pretty sure. I’m Betty York.”
Decker/Lyle widened his eyes. “You’re Betty York? The … big … woman … from the video?”
“It’s okay, you can say it,” said Betty. “I was fat.”
“Well, you look fantastic,” said Decker/Lyle. He looked at the audience. “Doesn’t she look fantastic?”
The crowd cheered, and Betty wiggled her hips just a bit, showing off her new body.
“Wow,” said Decker/Lyle. “Just wow. Well, Betty, maybe you can help me with this. Earlier in my presentation I talked about all the things someone would have to use in order to get a body like that. I understand you used a lot of those things, is that correct?”
“I used every product I could find,” said Betty. She smiled again. “In fact, I brought them all with me.”
“You brought them all with you
,” said Decker/Lyle. “What a”—he looked at the audience and furrowed his brow—“startling coincidence.” The crowd laughed, and he turned back to Betty. “Why don’t you bring them all out here, and we’ll count them off as we go.”
“All right,” said Betty. “Let’s start with skin creams and lotions and body washes—all the basics that help get your body ready for everything else.” As she spoke another Vicky wheeled out a large table covered with tubes and tubs and vials of lotion.
“That’s a lot,” said Decker/Lyle.
“That’s just the skin,” said Betty. “Don’t forget shampoo, conditioner, and maybe a little hair dye.” Another Vicky brought out an armload of bottles and set them carefully on the table. “Now,” said Betty, “throw in all the makeup: foundation, concealer, eyeliner, eye shadow, mascara, blush, lipstick, lip gloss, some tooth whitener, some glimmer for your cheeks—and naturally you need it in multiple color combinations, so you’re ready for different occasions.” While she spoke the Vickies went in and out, filling the table with more and more products.
Decker/Lyle looked at the audience. “This is a lot of stuff.”
“I’m not through yet!” said Betty. “I have a bunch of appliances, too, like hair dryers and curling irons and a scale for the bathroom, and that’s just the stuff I have at home—for the really big stuff I have to go to a salon. I did manicures, I did pedicures, I had haircuts and highlights and waxing, I went tanning, I even did microdermabrasion.” The Vickies were now bringing out enormous things, each propped up on wheels: pedicure chairs, tanning beds, even a hairdresser and a manicurist.
Decker/Lyle grinned broadly. “And you brought all this stuff from home?”
The audience laughed, and Betty continued at full speed. “There’s more. I exercised. I had a gym membership and a personal trainer. I bought a treadmill for my house. I bought those expensive diet drinks, and meal-replacement shakes, and calorie counters.” The Vickies kept up their procession, stacking first the table and eventually the entire stage with more things and bits and people. “I tried everything,” Betty said, “and when that didn’t give me the results I wanted, I tried Botox and cosmetic surgery. I had my stomach stapled. I had my cellulite lasered off. I…” She paused, staring at the massive pile that now completely filled the stage. “Wow, I didn’t realize how much stuff there was until now that I can see it all in one place.”
