“I mean physically.” Lyle stopped, stammered, and corrected himself. “I mean they won’t die. I don’t have any genetic diseases, and I don’t have a dangerous blood type. Aside from the heterochromia I’m as genetically average as you can get. But if the lotion gets imprinted on someone else, I don’t know what’s going to happen.”
“Can it imprint on someone else?” asked Sunny. “I mean, how does it work, exactly?”
“I don’t know how it works,” said Lyle. “I’m still trying to piece it all together. Jon Ford was the first case, and he turned into Susan; the lotion he used came from a new sample bottle I made in my lab, completely untouched until Susan squirted it into the trays for the testers.”
“So Susan imprinted it when she passed it out like that?”
“She can’t have,” said Cynthia, “or the others would have turned into her instead of Lyle.”
“After she passed out the lotion, she scooped it off of Jon Ford’s tray with her fingers and applied it to his hands directly,” said Lyle. “She touched it first, but his was the only lotion she touched.”
“She’s not allowed to do that,” said Sunny. “We have clean procedures—”
“Of course she’s not supposed to do it,” snarled Kerry. “I think we’re past the point where that matters!”
“The rest of the test subjects didn’t start showing symptoms until weeks later, so they were probably affected at the follow-up visit.” Lyle frowned. “But they were using clean samples applied directly to their trays. We never touched the lotion, so I don’t know how—” Lyle’s eyes went wide. “The plant. Those samples came from the plant, from the big batch we made as a test run. I went out to check on it, and Jerry showed me around, and I…” Lyle exhaled sharply, like he’d been punched in the stomach. “I touched the whole batch. I stuck my fingers right into it to test the viscosity.”
“You’re not supposed to do that!” Sunny repeated. “Why do we have clean procedures if nobody’s going to follow them?”
“The entire batch is imprinted on me,” said Lyle. “Everything that’s come out of it, every bottle we’ve filled, has my DNA. We have no idea how many of the plant workers have touched it—I know Jerry did, at least. He drizzled some on his fingers right after I sampled it.”
“I’ll call the plant,” said Marcus, pulling out his cell phone. The executives watched him in hushed silence. “Hi, this is Marcus Eads from corporate. May I please speak with Jerry Maldonado?” Pause. Marcus looked at Cynthia. “He’s out sick? A flu? Yeah, that’s going around. Tell me, do you have any other employees from the chemical floor who are out with the flu? Or anything else?” Pause. “Can you please e-mail me a full list? Thank you.” He hung up. “Jerry’s out, and three others. They think it’s just a bug going around.”
“It might be just a bug going around,” said Cynthia. “We need to know for sure exactly how many people are affected.”
“I’ll visit them all in person,” said Marcus, opening the door. “What do you want me to do if they’re … Lyle?”
“Make sure they stay inside,” said Carl, “and don’t let anybody see them. Give them paid leave, give them bonuses—whatever it takes to keep them quiet. We’ll figure something out.”
Marcus nodded and left. The rest sat in silence. Lyle shifted uncomfortably, drained and frightened.
“Obviously we have to destroy it,” said Cynthia.
“Obviously,” said Lyle.
“It’s too dangerous,” said Sunny, “it’s an out-and-out chemical weapon. I suppose that means I lied to the cops this morning.”
“No one will ever know,” said Carl. “We destroy the lotion and we hide all the evidence—Kerry, I want a plan for spin control; we need to tamp down leaks, we need a way to find and stop any leaks that get out—”
“Is there any unimprinted lotion left?” asked Kerry abruptly.
“What?” asked Lyle. “Why on earth would you want more?”
“To save my wife,” said Kerry. “She’s turning into a man—into Lyle, no less. No offense, Lyle, but…” He sat forward, pleading with the others. “If you can just give me a tiny bit of blank lotion, just a tiny bit, I could find something with her DNA—a hairbrush, maybe—and imprint it, and turn her back into herself. I won’t even ask to save myself, just please let me save Carrie.”
The room was silent.
Jeffrey laughed softly.
“Shut up, Jeffrey!” Kerry shouted. “Why are you even here, you worthless idiot!”
“Sorry,” said Jeffrey, “I was just thinking. I was just wondering if she’s hot.”
“What the hell kind of question is that?”
“I was just thinking,” said Jeffrey, “if you’re going to turn her into somebody, you may as well turn her into somebody hot, right?” He paused, looking at a room of shocked faces. “I mean, look at these posters on the walls—face models, bikini models, all long legs and nice racks and … well, come on, I can’t be the only one who thinks about this, right? They’re gorgeous, that’s why we take their pictures in the first place. So I’m just saying, if you’re going to turn your wife back into a woman, why not … turn her into one of them? That redhead by the window, maybe—or that Asian girl from the moisturizer ads.” He laughed again. “That’s just what I was thinking, though. It’s nothing. I’m sorry I said anything.”
The world seemed to tilt on its axis.
“Interesting,” said Cynthia.
“Oh no,” said Lyle, shaking his head, “no no no no no. Absolutely out of the question.”
“It’s kind of … the ultimate beauty product,” said Sunny.
“This is completely wrong,” said Lyle. “It’s immoral, it’s illegal—”
“It’s just like cosmetic surgery, really,” said Kerry. “You pay money, we give you a new body. It’s like my wife’s nose job last year, only … easier.”
“It’s not just a nose,” said Lyle, “it’s your entire body—it’s your identity! We can’t ask people to give up their own identity!”
“We don’t have to ask,” said Cynthia, “they’re going to be begging us.”
“It’s wrong—”
“Oh, grow up!” Cynthia snarled. “This is our business, Lyle: people give us money, and we make them look like somebody else. People want to look good, Lyle—they want to be beautiful! Look at the redhead Jeffrey pointed out—that photo’s on one of our hair dye boxes. Not just her hair, her entire face. And the women who buy that hair dye don’t just want her hair, they want her cheekbones and her nose and everything else. That’s the illusion that makes advertising work—that a product will change who you are. Nobody buys hair dye because they like their hair; nobody goes to a plastic surgeon because they love themselves for who they are. So get off your high horse and start acting like you know your job!”
“But I—” Lyle stammered.
