by Dan Wells
“I’ve been investigating the black market sellers,” said Lyle. “It wasn’t easy.”
“But it worked,” said Kerry. “Somebody named names.”
“Two somebodies,” said Lyle, “but they did try to kill me afterward. So that’s something.”
“They tried and failed? How hard can it possibly be to kill you, you’re like a … homeless Pillsbury Doughboy. No offense.”
Lyle glowered. “None taken. In their defense they did kill a Lyle, just not the right one.”
“That,” said Kerry, “is becoming a bigger problem every day.” He climbed the path to the western edge of the park, stepping out onto the street, and Lyle followed him north.
“Do you know where the Lyle lotion is coming from?”
Kerry shook his head. “I probably know less than you do, if you’re investigating the black market. Somehow, about a month ago, it just started cropping up everywhere. I promise we’re not the ones selling it, but a lot of our sellers have picked it up on the side.”
Lyle studied him. “You don’t seem very concerned.”
“I’m concerned about the future,” said Kerry, “when and if it becomes a problem for us. As of now, it isn’t significantly cutting into our profits, and we’re hoping that it actually drives people toward our product instead of away. We’re trying to start a ‘verified seller’ program, so you can be sure of what you’re getting, but controlling street dealers is like herding cats.”
“You’ll never pull it off,” said Lyle. “Do you know the kind of margins the street sellers are getting for my DNA? It blows your business model out of the water—a street-level pusher makes more on a single sale of unmarked Lyle Fontanelle than in four sales of branded ReBirth. Whoever supplies them is practically giving it away, and the dealers are hawking it for the same sky-high prices they get for your stuff. If they didn’t have to sell the real stuff to keep the prices high, they’d drop you altogether.”
“That’s because people like money, Lyle. That’s what you never seem to understand.”
“The dealers, yes,” said Lyle, “but what about the supplier? Someone out there is working night and day to distribute Lyle lotion, without making any money at all. In a world that claims to be driven by money, that’s terrifying.”
Kerry stopped on the sidewalk, thinking. He chewed his lip. “You’re right,” he said at last. “That’s very strange.”
Lyle shook his head. “‘Strange’ doesn’t begin to cover it.”
Kerry started walking again. “No matter. We’ll find a way to deal with it.”
“You’re not taking me seriously,” said Lyle. “You never do. Let me talk to Sunny.”
“I’m the only one left,” said Kerry.
Lyle’s eyes widened. “So that car bomb—that actually got them? Sunny and Cynthia and everyone?”
“What? No, of course not. They’re in São Tomé, just like we planned.”
“Not me, though,” said Lyle, and a hint of bitterness crept into his voice. “Was saving me ever part of the plan, or was I car bomb fodder from the beginning?”
Kerry put a hand on his shoulder, guiding him into the apartment building; the doorman frowned at Lyle’s filthy clothes and patchy beard, but Kerry waved him away. “Of course we were planning to save you, Lyle. You thought that we thought that the Lyle we killed was you? Of course we knew he was a fake, but he was just so eager to please us we kept him around until the big day. And he did a bang-up job on that launch presentation.” They stepped into an elevator and Kerry punched the top button—the suites. Lyle could only imagine how much a suite in this location must be costing him. The doors closed, and Kerry turned to face him directly. “So: no free lotion, even for a former shareholder, but what else can I give you? You need money? You look like you could use it—though I guess that’s understandable, since you’re a wanted criminal.”
“So are you.”
“Kerry White is a wanted criminal,” said Kerry slyly. “My name is Armando del Castillo, and Armando’s not wanted for anything but his gorgeous body.”
“I don’t want your money,” said Lyle, feeling angrier than he’d expected at the suggestion. “You’re a drug dealer, Kerry, I can’t support that.”
“And you’re the greatest drug designer who ever lived,” said Kerry. “At least take some credit for it—let me give you, what, a hundred thousand?”
The elevator stopped on the top floor, opening into a small but luxurious lobby. Instead of a hall leading to myriad small apartments, there were two ornate doors, each leading to its own private penthouse. Lyle whistled at the obvious wealth. “Nice place.”
Kerry shrugged. “It’ll be a lot nicer once I buy the other unit. Rock-star neighbors are just as noisy as the stereotype suggests.” He opened the door, revealing a giant penthouse that seemed to ooze money. The main room was dominated by a massive wall of windows looking out over Central Park. Lyle walked to the windows and stood in awe. “How much are they charging you for this place?”
“A lot less than that view makes it worth,” said Kerry. “Wait ’til tonight, when the city lights up and this room just overflows with more barely legal tennis players than you’ve ever seen in one place at a time. It’s heaven.”
“You throw parties?”
“Why on earth would I have a place like this and not throw parties in it?”
Lyle turned back to him, confused. “What about Carrie?”
“I told you, I’m Armando now.”
“No, I mean your wife, Carrie.”
“Oh.” Kerry frowned, scrunching his forehead in thought. “She might show up. You interested?”
“Are you serious?” asked Lyle. “Saving her was the thing that started this whole stupid product in the first place, and now you don’t even know where she is?”
“Things change…,” said Kerry weakly, but he was cut off when the front door opened again and Cynthia walked in, deep in conversation with a Bluetooth headset.
“… the deposits have all been made, and Kerry’s back so we probably have the new payments. I’ll—” She stopped short, staring at Lyle. “He has a Lyle with him.”
“Not just a Lyle,” said Kerry, pouring himself a drink from a glass decanter by the wall. “The Lyle.”
“The Lyle?” asked Cynthia. She paused a moment, listening to her headset. “That’s what I thought, too,” she said. “Looks like we blew up the wrong one.”
Kerry rolled his eyes.
Two thoughts flashed through Lyle’s mind in a single instant: first, that Cynthia was supposed to be in São Tomé. Kerry had told him she was there, and if he’d lied about that, what else had he lied about? Lyle was too trusting—practically conditioned, he thought, to going along with whatever the other NewYew executives told him. Even months away from them hadn’t dulled their power, or his own naïve gullibility. He mentally kicked himself, wondering what he’d gotten himself into.
The second thought followed quickly on the first, a fierce reminder that he knew exactly what he’d gotten himself into, and that getting back out of it was going to be absolute hell: Cynthia said that she’d thought they’d blown him up. Kerry had lied about knowingly killing the impostor. They’d been trying to kill the real Lyle all along.
And now he was alone with two of them, thirty floors from escape, with who knew how many Larries waiting in the back rooms of the house.
Kerry was already moving, his taut model’s body charging toward Lyle, head down, arms pumping. The room was wide, but Kerry would be on him in seconds. Lyle stumbled backward, bumping into a designer couch, nearly slipping on the polished floor, scrabbling in his jacket pocket, Kerry barely two yards away, and then Lyle found his gun and pulled it out and fired, and Kerry dropped to the floor with a strangled cry.
“Now he’s shot Kerry,” said Cynthia to her earpiece. “I’m going to have to call you back.”
Lyle looked up, wide-eyed, but Cynthia slipped back out the door and into the lobby, closing the door behin
d her. Kerry swore on the floor, clutching his shoulder. “You shot me!”
“You were attacking me!”
“Not with a gun! Where the hell did you get a gun anyway?”
“All the homeless Pillsbury Doughboys have them,” Lyle growled, and shoved the gun back into his jacket pocket. He grabbed a small blanket off the back of a couch—more of a shawl, really, once he had it in his hands—and wrapped it around the flailing man’s shoulder. “If you’re moving that much I didn’t hit anything important. Stick it out and the ReBirth will heal you in a couple of weeks.”
“That’s,” Kerry grunted, his teeth clenched in pain, “a four-thousand-dollar throw.”
“Then stop bleeding on it,” said Lyle. He pulled the knot tighter, eliciting another string of painful curses from Kerry, and stood up. “Is there any other way out of here?”
“The window,” Kerry snarled.
“Wonderful,” said Lyle, jogging to the kitchen, “you’re very helpful.” He made a quick circuit of the house—gun back out and ready, in case there was anyone else lurking in a back corner—but the apartment was empty, and there were no other exits. He ran through again, looking for a stash of ReBirth, but found nothing.
“We don’t keep the lotion here,” shouted Kerry. “Do you think we’re idiots?”
Lyle went back to the living room, looked around again, and saw the briefcase from the park handoff. Maybe there was something in there? He pulled it up onto the back of a couch and tried to open it, but it was locked.
“I thought you didn’t want our dirty money,” said Kerry. He had barely moved from his spot on the floor, and Lyle could just see him through the gap between a sofa and a chair.
“I didn’t want you to give me money,” said Lyle. He held up the briefcase, and walked toward the door. “This is me robbing you, that’s different.”
“How is stealing money better than earning it from ReBirth?”
“Just … shut up,” said Lyle. He reached the door, only to realize he had no free hands to open it. Which did he dare to set down, the money or the gun? How many Larries were waiting on the other side of the door, or at the bottom of the elevator, or in the lobby? He stared a moment longer, then turned and walked to the window. The fire escape wasn’t the best option, but it was the best one he had left.
“Lyle?” said Kerry. His voice was weak.
“Yeah?”
“Thanks for not shooting my house. This stuff’s really hard to replace.”
“No problem,” said Lyle. “Say hi to Carrie for me.” He pushed open the window, stepped out onto the metal walkway, and started climbing down.
41
Friday, September 14
9:10 A.M.
The Pentagon, Washington, D.C.
91 DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD
Ira Brady, one-time CEO of Ibis Cosmetics, sat in the back of a conference room, watching it slowly fill with generals and analysts and politicians—everyone important enough to be invited to the briefing. One of the men paused to shake his hand, and he stood with a smile.
“General Blauwitz,” said Ira, “so good to see you again.”
“And you, as well, Senator Moore.” Blauwitz clapped him on the back, as familiar as if Ira were actually the real Senator Moore. Which, as far as anyone in this room knew, he was. He’d been Moore for almost four weeks now.
The room quieted, and Blauwitz got straight into his presentation, switching the lights off and a projector on. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “This briefing has been called to discuss the situation in São Tomé, and our options for appropriating the NewYew facility there.”
“‘Appropriating,’” said a woman in a military uniform. Ira recognized her as General Clark. “That’s an awfully diplomatic synonym for ‘conquering.’”
“The facility in São Tomé is the only such facility in the world still capable of producing ReBirth,” said Blauwitz. “Call it what you want, but we need that facility under our control as soon as possible. ReBirth is the most single powerful tool of espionage ever created.”
Ira/Moore smiled at the irony.
General Blauwitz cycled to the first slide in his presentation. “This is the first obstacle in our way; we don’t know his name, but this is his face.” The slide showed a tall African man, his features twisted in an angry scowl. He was wearing a green military uniform with a red beret, clutching a well-used AK-47. Similar men milled around in the background of the photo, and the audience of officers and politicians leaned forward, probably trying to determine if the other soldiers were copies of the first, or if their inability to tell them apart was some kind of latent racism they hadn’t realized they held. Blauwitz let them off the hook with an explanation: “For now we’ll call him Lagbaja, which is generic enough. NewYew has begun manufacturing Lagbaja in their compound on São Tomé—”
“Excuse me,” said Alexis Miller, one of the mid-ranking officers. “What do you mean, NewYew is ‘manufacturing’ a man? ReBirth can’t build new people, can it?”
“A better word would be ‘mass-producing,’” said Blauwitz. “NewYew has adopted the worst excesses of the child army and actually found a way to make them worse. They’re recruiting children, but instead of just arming them they’re treating them with NewYew and turning them into Lagbaja—six foot five, and two hundred pounds on average. Through satellite reconnaissance and our agents on the ground, we place the count somewhere around five thousand copies.”
“That’s abominable,” said Miller.
“The morality of it is beside the point,” said Blauwitz. “The more pressing matter is that five thousand Lagbajas make it very hard to mount any kind of successful invasion. NewYew essentially owns the island now.”
“I don’t like any of this,” said Miller.
“You’re not here to like or dislike it,” said General Clark. “You’re here to tell us what to do about it.”
“We’re running out of ReBirth,” said Blauwitz, and the room grew quiet. “The lotion we seized from NewYew’s manufacturing facilities will last us for years,” he continued, “assuming we want to turn people into attractive models with good circulation. If we want to do anything more interesting—if we want to use blank lotion, for example, which is the technology’s primary political application—we have very little to work with and no way to make more. All of our attempts to re-create their formula have failed.”
“So you need more than the facility,” said Miller, “you need the people who run it.”
“We need Igdrocil,” said Blauwitz. “It’s the only ingredient we haven’t been able to identify.”
“Because it’s not in the formula,” said Ira/Moore. He’d tried everything he could think of to reproduce the lotion, and now he was just going to use the U.S. government to go in and take it for him. “Igdrocil shows up in the ingredients list, but not in the recipe. Many of our analysts suspect that it’s an artifact of the manufacturing process, rather than a literal substance.”
“Senator Moore,” said General Clark. “You told me you had a plan to present to us.”
“I do,” said Ira/Moore, and stood up. “If you’ll permit me, General?”
“By all means,” said Blauwitz.
Ira/Moore walked to the projector, unplugged Blauwitz’s laptop, and plugged in his own. “Let me introduce you first to Jessica.” He clicked the trackpad on his laptop, and the first slide popped up: a cheerleader, maybe nineteen years old, grinning energetically as she posed with her pom-poms. Her face was framed by bright blond pigtails. “Jessica is the youngest of NewYew’s ReBirth models, marketed with a slim, muscular build for customers interested in gymnastics and similar sports. She’s five feet even, ninety pounds soaking wet, and—more germane to our discussion—we have approximately eight hundred ounces of her DNA. If we weaponized that DNA, we could turn NewYew’s army of Lagbajas into an army of Jessicas. I think you’ll all agree that our invasion would be much simpler under those circumstances.”
“H
ow do you intend to weaponize it?” asked Blauwitz.
“By dumping it in the water supply,” said Ira/Moore. “Testing shows no loss in effectiveness, even when the lotion is severely diluted.”
“I’m concerned about the wide-scale use of a biological weapon,” said Clark. “What if it hits civilians?”
“Then São Tomé gets a really big cheerleading squad,” said Ira/Moore. “It’s not the best human rights situation in the world, but we’re talking about invading a neutral foreign power. We’re not the good guys here.”
“Are we at all concerned about the racial issue?” asked Miller. “Most of the population, and obviously all of the Lagbajas, are black, and you want to turn them white?”
“NewYew was nothing if not thorough,” said Ira Moore, clicking to the next slide. It showed a woman of almost exactly the same build, but African instead of Caucasian. “This is Sally.”
“The color is not the issue,” said General Clark. “The Lagbajas are trained soldiers, and turning them into Sallies or Jessicas isn’t going to change that. The ReBirth models are fit and healthy, genetically predisposed to a level of physical prowess that their army regimen is only going to enhance. My daughter was a cheerleader; I’m pretty sure these girls can still shoot a gun.”
General Blauwitz raised his eyebrow. “Have you ever seen a ninety-pound girl fire an assault rifle?”
“You’re right,” said Ira/Moore. “We need something debilitating—something that brings them down so powerfully that by the time they realize what’s happening they won’t be able to do anything about it.” He looked around the room and saw them nodding, waiting expectantly. If he’d proposed this final plan first they would never have accepted it, but now, intrigued by the possibilities of genetic warfare, they were ready. Now that Ira/Moore had planted the idea, they wanted to see what ReBirth could really do.
He clicked the trackpad. “Allow me to introduce Toby, the soldier of the future. Toby is six years old, congenitally blind, and suffers from late-stage leukemia. Because it is a disease of the chromosomes, this leukemia would be transmitted through the ReBirth and forcibly propagated onto every target in the invasion zone—and because his body is so small, the early stages of transformation would require a significant loss of mass, exacerbating the flulike symptoms that have become associated with ReBirth. Our simulations predict that a dose in their water supply would incapacitate the general population in approximately ten days. We walk in, take the island, and then turn them back into whomever they want once the population is subdued. It’s the easiest invasion in history.”