by Dan Wells
Decker/Lyle nodded, looking at the vast collection, giving it time to sink in for the audience. “Betty,” he said at last, “can you tell me how much money you spent on all this stuff?”
“Oh, it scares me just to think about it,” said Betty.
“But do you know the number?”
“I do,” she said, grimacing. “It’s really embarrassing.” She looked at the audience, grinning sheepishly. “Last year alone it was … about thirteen thousand dollars?”
The audience gasped, and Betty turned red. That’s great, thought Decker/Lyle, you can’t fake that. He heard a loud intake of air as the audience gasped and whispered among themselves.
Decker/Lyle put a consoling hand on Betty’s back. “Would you believe,” he said, “that that’s actually … the low end of the national average?”
“Really?” asked Betty. More whispers from the audience.
Decker/Lyle looked at the audience. “The average American woman spends between twelve and fifteen thousand dollars a year on health and beauty products. It’s a shock to see it all in one place like this, but this is completely typical. Fifteen thousand dollars a year, just so one woman can look like another. Now.” He held up the vial of ReBirth, then turned back to Betty. “Betty, you’ve used ReBirth; you’ve seen what it can do. Was it easy?”
“It was the easiest thing I’ve ever done.”
“Did it take up a lot of space?”
“It’s just a tiny vial,” she said, “it’s smaller than a tube of lip gloss.”
“Not bad compared to all that,” said Decker/Lyle, pointing at the pile on the stage. “Right?”
“Not bad at all.”
Decker/Lyle looked back at the audience. “One single vial of ReBirth can do everything that pile can do—can replace it altogether—saving you time, and space, and money. Betty, we gave you the ReBirth sample for free, but do you have any idea how much it costs for a retail consumer?”
“To replace all of that?” asked Betty. “Fifteen thousand dollars?” Decker/Lyle shook his head. “Ten thousand?” Decker/Lyle shook his head again, and Betty shrugged, flustered.
Decker/Lyle held up his hand, the fingers splayed. “Five thousand dollars,” he said. “Less than a third of what you might pay for all of this”—he gestured at the pile behind him—“for the easiest, simplest, most effective beauty product in the entire world.” He handed Betty the vial of ReBirth. “There you go, Betty, that’s all you need.” He smiled; this would be fun. “What are you going to do with the other ten thousand dollars you just saved?”
Betty’s eyes went wide. “I—” Her shock was genuine; this wasn’t part of the rehearsal. “Ten thousand dollars? I’m going to Paris! I’m going to the Caribbean!” She stood up straight and beamed with an indescribable joy. “I’m going to hit the classiest beach in the world and show this body off!”
For the umpteenth time that day, the audience erupted in frantic applause.
29
Tuesday, July 3
12:50 P.M.
Thirty-Fourth Street, outside of the Manhattan Center
164 DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD
Amber Sykes smiled at the camera. “That’s the latest report, live from the launch of NewYew’s astonishing new product. Don’t forget to come down and see us in person, in just ten minutes, when NewYew will give away a bottle of ReBirth to one lucky person on this very street.” The massive crowd roared behind her, and she couldn’t resist a tiny wink at the camera. “This is Amber Sykes with New York One. Back to you, Alan!”
“And … we’re out,” said Sam, her producer. “We’re on air again in seventy-two seconds. This is nuts.”
The cameraman rolled his shoulder. “This is killing me.”
“You’re doing great, Monty,” said Amber. “Who’s the next interview?”
“Reverend Wade,” said Sam. “Same kooky religious dude from yesterday. The network wants a follow-up.”
“Being religious doesn’t make him kooky,” said Amber. “Be nice.”
“I don’t like him,” said Sam, but his face brightened as the reverend approached. “Welcome back, Reverend Wade! Right over here, please.”
Monty pushed through the crowd to find another good spot, right by the curb with a good mix of rally-goers and protesters behind them. Amber looked in her compact one more time, then snapped it shut and dropped it in her pocket. Sam counted down the last few seconds and pointed at Amber.
“Thank you, Alan, we’re back once again at the NewYew launch with a man we interviewed last night, the Reverend Joseph Wade. Tell me, Reverend, you told us last night that NewYew was abducting people and replacing them with lab-grown duplicates. Now that the truth is out, what do you think of today’s announcements?”
“I had the details a little wrong,” the reverend admitted, nodding, “but I was right about the most important thing: cloning is an abomination before God. It is a sin, and a mockery of His image. Mankind was created in His image, and it’s the height of arrogance for us to screw around with it like this.”
“I’m religious myself,” said Amber, “but let me ask you: if ‘God’s image’ is a wide enough category to include both you and me—different people, different races, and even different genders—then how does changing your look from one human face to another qualify as a mockery of that image?”
“It’s not about how we look,” the reverend said, “it’s about why we look that way. God gave you your body for a reason, and He gave me mine for a reason, and it’s not our place to turn up our noses at a gift from God.”
“So changing your appearance is wrong?” Amber asked. “I put on makeup just a minute ago—does that make me a sinner?”
“Of course not,” said the reverend, “but that’s entirely different—”
“What about plastic surgery?” asked Amber, pressing the attack. “Have you been protesting that, as well?”
“Would you use it?” asked the reverend suddenly.
Amber stopped, remembering just a second too late to close her mouth.
The reverend stared at her, probing. “You’re obviously a huge fan of the stuff, and we’ve got a sample coming out here in just a few minutes. I’m sure they’d give you a drop or two for an on-air demonstration. Will you use it?”
Amber pursed her lips, thinking. “My … face is my livelihood,” she said. “A reporter is a public figure; I need to look like me or I wouldn’t even have a job anymore.”
“But a new face could get you a new job,” the man countered, “and probably a better one. When you were fresh out of college, trying to break into reporting, how many times were you rejected for being too young, or too short, or not pretty enough?”
Amber swallowed. “That is uncalled for.”
“But that is exactly what we’re talking about,” he said fiercely. “We are quantifying beauty; we are telling people that they aren’t good enough as they are. You’ve been pushing this stuff all morning, so tell me: will you use it or not?”
In the corner of her eye Amber could see Sam waving his hand across his neck: Cut the segment, end it now, and get out of here.
“I … I’m proud of who I am.…”
“You’re the fluff reporter in a dead-end network,” said the reverend. “This can’t be why you got into reporting—you must have been aiming higher. How much higher do you think you could go if you looked like Victoria Carver?”
“I—”
“How much further could you go if you were white?”
“That’s it,” said Sam, barging past Monty and planting himself between Amber and the reverend. “This is over—there’s no more interview, and you should be ashamed of yourself, sir, completely ashamed—”
“Wait!” called a voice, and Amber looked up to see a blond girl shoving her way through the press of people. “Wait,” said the girl again, panting and out of breath. “I have to say something. Is that still recording?”
“Not for long,” snarled Sam, pointing at the camer
a. “Monty, turn it off!”
“I’m serious,” said the girl, “this is the scoop of the day.” Amber guessed she was just out of high school, maybe nineteen years old. Slim and blond. “I have information about NewYew that the world has to know.” She looked behind herself and shifted a few feet to the left. “Make sure you get the door in the back of the shot, ’cause in about thirty seconds we’re going to get swarmed with NewYew security.”
“We’re still live,” said Sam, astonished, putting a finger to his earpiece. “They’ve kept us running through the whole thing—they say they want more of the mob.”
“Then we’ll give them some.” The girl looked at the camera. “You ready?”
“Rolling.”
The girl composed herself and looked straight into the camera. “My name is Susan Howell,” she said. “I worked at NewYew helping to test ReBirth in its early stages, and I became accidentally infected with a sample of lotion that touched my boss, Lyle Fontanelle. When I started turning into him they—”
“Wait,” said Amber, stepping into the picture. She glanced at the camera, smoothed her hair, and continued. “You said that ReBirth turned you into a man?”
“Yes,” said Susan. “It put me in the hospital, until they used some more lotion and turned me back into myself.”
The crowd began murmuring loudly; none of them had heard that the lotion could change your gender. Amber hadn’t even heard it. It makes sense, but …
“For the last four weeks I’ve been a prisoner in a house on Long Island,” Susan continued, “number 35480 Red Hosta Lane—I escaped, but there are still more than twelve other prisoners who need to be found and rescued, and the executive board needs to be arrested immediately.”
The crowd was yelling now, an angry, braying roar full of loud, contradictory voices. Some were yelling about the kidnapping, others about the lotion, and a large contingent was yelling directly at Susan, calling her a liar and a swarm of other epithets. Amber struggled to stay on camera, but the crowd was pressing in, and the reverend was riling up the crowd with a growing chant of “God made man and woman!”
“NewYew is conducting illegal experiments,” Susan shouted, “they are kidnapping and torturing innocent people, they are vile and evil and they need to be stopped, and—”
The doors to the convention center slammed open behind them with a bang, and a team of black-suited security officers boiled out into the crowd. Susan swore and dropped the mic, ducking past Monty and fleeing into the mob. The security team shoved desperately through the people, to catch her, but somebody shouted, “They’re giving away free samples!” and Susan disappeared as the crowd surged forward like a tide.
30
Tuesday, July 3
1:09 P.M.
Midtown Manhattan
164 DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD
It’s okay, Lyle thought. Nobody knows what I look like.
At least not yet.
He clutched the box tightly to his chest, glancing nervously at the other people on the street. The burning building was blocks behind him now, distant sirens screaming at the crowd to stand back. The people he passed on the street were talking either about the fire or ReBirth—it seemed the entire city knew about it, both because of the miraculous stories they told of its effects, and because some kind of mob riot that had started outside. Lyle ignored them; he’d get the details later, now he had more pressing business. He had an armload of the most valuable, most dangerous substance in the world, and he was alone in the bustling heart of New York City.
New York is nicer than people think, he told himself. No one’s going to steal it. I did this once before, even later than this, and I was fine; nobody killed me or mugged me or even looked at me sideways. I’m fine. He moved gingerly through the crowd, trying not to touch anybody. Nice or not, they could bump me or knock me or even brush past me, and who knows what could happen. This is nearly twelve ounces of the stuff, sixteen half-ounce vials and one large four-ounce bottle. One accidental spill and Manhattan would get a lot less diverse.
All around him he heard whispers of ReBirth: Did you hear? Have you seen it? Did you know what it can do?
Just four more blocks. Lyle paused at the corner, waiting for the light. In the limited access he’d had to the Internet—read-only, with no chance to send a message—he’d researched other potential cases he thought ReBirth could help. A school crossing guard in the Bronx who’d lost his leg in a car accident—could ReBirth regrow a leg? It regrew a woman’s breasts, so it could probably do a leg. It turned your body into an ideal template of itself, no matter what it was like before. How did it do that? The more he studied it, the more he realized just how aggressive it really was. It was terrifying, in a way, to think of what would happen if—
Somebody bumped his elbow, and the box fell. Lyle’s heart stopped.
The cardboard burst when it hit the ground, flapping open and scattering vials of lotion across the sidewalk: a dozen or so half-ounce vials, and one four-ounce bottle. Lyle watched, frozen in horror, then fell to his knees and began quickly gathering them up. It’s okay, he thought anxiously, no one’s going to steal them. New York is nicer than people think—
“Let me help you with those,” said a friendly voice, and Lyle turned to see a woman crouching down to reach for a vial. He lunged toward her, grabbing it first, nearly stepping on the four-ounce bottle in the process. It skittered into the road and Lyle suppressed a curse.
“No,” he said, “it’s nothing, I can get them all, please don’t help.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble,” the woman said, reaching for another, “if I dropped something I know I’d be grateful for someone to stop and help me.”
“No, really,” said Lyle, and then another person crouched down to help. The man picked up a vial of lotion, dropped it in the cardboard box, and smiled at Lyle.
“You okay, sir?”
“Yes,” Lyle hissed through his teeth, scrambling now on his knees to collect the lotion before anyone noticed what it was. “I’m fine, thank you, please just go on”—he waved them off—“do whatever you were doing, I can manage it.”
“Wait a minute,” said the woman, staring at the vial in her hand. “Is this the … is this the stuff from TV? The stuff from the riot?”
“The cloning lotion?” asked the man. He stood up, holding a vial up to the glow of the sun. “It is. ReBirth.” He looked at Lyle, frowning. “Where did you get this? You’ve got,” he looked down, “sixty, maybe eighty thousand dollars’ worth of the stuff here.”
Lyle closed his eyes. Now I’m screwed. Almost immediately the crowd around them stopped.
“Eighty thousand dollars?”
“Is that the stuff from the news?”
“How much money did you say?”
Eighty thousand dollars retail, thought Lyle, bracing himself for the rush, who knows how much on the black market. He eyed the group tensely, his hand opening to reach for another vial—
In a flash the crowd descended like an avalanche of hands and feet, reaching and grasping and stepping on each other’s fingers and wrestling for control of the tiny vials. Lyle abandoned the last few loose ones and dove for the cardboard box, ready to cut his losses and run, but another man reached it just as he did. Lyle pulled on it vainly, trying to curl himself around it, all the while shouting “Everybody get back! You don’t understand!” but no one seemed to listen. The man yanked the box from Lyle’s hands and stepped back triumphantly, only to be mauled by a pair of women—one of them, Lyle noted, the same woman who’d first stopped to help him. Another man rushed into the fray and Lyle backed up, stunned by the frenzy, and then the traffic light changed again.
The flow of traffic shifted, cars surged forward past the melee, and too late Lyle remembered the four-ounce bottle of lotion lying in the street—not labeled for sale, and thus ignored by the crowd who hadn’t recognized it for what it was. He took a step toward it, saw a truck come barreling down the street, and dove behind a
signboard just in time. The truck hit the bottle with all its weight, Lyle heard a pop, and suddenly the whole crowd was hit with an explosion of white lotion—it landed on hands, faces, and hair; it misted into the center of the crowd; it smeared from one to another as they fought. By the time the first person screamed it was too late.
“It’s all over me!”
“Where did it come from?”
“I don’t want to turn into you!”
As fast as it gathered the crowd dispersed in a thunderstorm of terrified screams. Lyle saw a lotion-smeared woman racing toward him and jumped into the street to avoid her, barely missing another oncoming car. The fear swept through the streets in a widening circle, lotioned victims shouting and sobbing as they ran or stumbled or pleaded with others for help. Some ran from them, others stopped to help, not knowing what had happened, and touched the lotion themselves. Still others dashed back into the center to grab the unbroken vials still littering the ground, and the fight started over. Nobody knew what was going on, or how the lotion worked, or what they could possibly do to stop it.
Lyle knew exactly what to do. He ran.
31
Wednesday, July 4
Everywhere
163 DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD
NEWSCASTER: Good evening, I’m Lisa Maxwell, and this is Channel 6 News in Milwaukee. In our top story tonight, Brett Osborne, the newly hired manager of the local ReBirth clinic, was arrested this evening after a domestic dispute with his wife, Diane. Osborne received a shipment of the so-called cloning lotion in his store, opened it early, and applied it to his wife without her consent. The police were called when the neighbors heard shouting and several loud crashes. Channel 6 reporter Carlos Lancaster is live on the scene—Carlos, can you tell us any more about what happened?