“It’s the only way,” said Lyle. “That doesn’t mean I’m happy about it.”
“Of course you’re happy about it,” said Cynthia. “Because you get to make a decision for somebody else.” Her eyes were cold. “Because you always know better.”
Lyle felt queasy. This is wrong, he thought, then grumbled and closed his eyes. But it’s also right. I think? I’m trying to save Susan, I just wish we didn’t have to be so … invasive about it. He looked at the other executives, softly discussing the theft and their plans and their horrifying line of ReBirth products. They’re the reason, he thought. We’re not robbing Susan’s home to save her, we’re robbing it to protect them—so they can come out of this fiasco clean, and sell their products and make their zillions of dollars. If I wasn’t stuck with them I could really help people. I could get out there and use this product for good. It rewrites your genes, for crying out loud: we could completely abolish genetic diseases. Don’t they care about that? We could be world-saving heroes, but all we’re doing is making them rich. And we still don’t know who stole it, or what they’ve got planned for it—
Lyle stopped, frozen.
We don’t know who stole it. He looked around the room. They don’t know who stole it. We’re all on pins and needles, waiting to see where the lotion surfaces, but until it does … they don’t know anything.
So if it turns up somewhere good—a hospital, for example, using it to save lives—they’ll assume it was part of that original theft. If I can sneak a blank sample, I can give it to someone who’ll us it properly, and the original theft will cover my tracks.
Lyle smiled. They want to work in secret? It’s time I had a secret of my own.
15
Monday, May 7
10:31 A.M.
Bellevue Hospital, Manhattan
221 DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD
Susan looked horrible; her face was dull and thick, her body covered in bandages and bristling with needles and sensors. Her skin was discolored and ill-fitting—tight in some places, sagging in others, like a set of clothes made for somebody else. She’d been unconscious for nearly four full days. Lyle checked her pulse: faint, but steady.
The hospital still thought it was leprosy—some new, devastating strain that their standard treatments couldn’t solve. Lyle had talked to the doctors, trying to learn everything he could, and while the hospital had noticed a rise in her testosterone he was fairly certain they didn’t suspect she was changing gender. He glanced up at Sunny and Cynthia. “Are we ready?”
Cynthia nodded grimly, pulling out a bottle of ReBirth. “How does this work?”
“Is that blank?”
“Of course it is.”
“You’re sure?” asked Lyle. “This isn’t going to do any good if it’s already imprinted on someone else.”
“It’s one of the same samples we took from your office,” she said. “No one’s touched the lotion. We haven’t even opened the bottle.”
Lyle nodded. “All right, then, let’s get this over with.” He wheeled the bedside table from the wall to Susan, and pulled on a pair of disposable gloves. “Give it to me.”
Cynthia handed him the bottle; he wiped it down carefully and set it on the table. He reached into the pocket of his suit coat and pulled out two plastic bags: a large one with a Styrofoam sample tray, and a smaller one containing a dull white powder. He set the tray on the table and picked up the powder bag, examining it carefully.
“That’s Susan’s skin?” asked Sunny.
“They’re called epithelials,” said Lyle, nodding. “Relatively large pieces of skin, recovered from a pedicure kit our thief found in her bathroom.”
“How does this work?” asked Cynthia.
“You’ve got me,” said Lyle. “I’m pretty certain what’s going to happen when I do this, but I still don’t know how or why.”
“You’re going to imprint the lotion with Susan’s DNA,” said Cynthia, watching his face, “which will turn it into some kind of … magical Susan lotion.”
Lyle laughed drily. “That’s the idea. I think it’s the retrovirus.”
“You said the retrovirus was supposed to prevent this from happening.”
“Yes, but it’s the only explanation I can think of. Retroviruses are designed to read DNA—that’s what makes them so good at regulating plasmids, which is why we put them in there in the first place. They attach to a strand, read it, and decide if it’s doing what it’s supposed to be doing.” He opened the bag gingerly, and poured the dull powder onto the sample tray. “I think the retrovirus in ReBirth is not just reading the DNA but remembering it, and then somehow forcing all the future DNA it encounters to match that initial template.”
“Can it do that?” Sunny asked.
“No.” Lyle shook his head. “No, it can’t. Retroviruses transfer information, but they don’t store it. It should be impossible.” He poked at the powder with a gloved finger. “And yet it works, consistently and predictably.” He picked up the bottle. “Are you ready?”
“Stop asking and just do it,” Cynthia snapped.
“Okay, okay,” said Lyle, “it’s just … Okay, I’ll do it.” He popped open the plastic cap. This can imprint on anything, he thought. This much of it, all in one place, could overwrite the DNA of everyone in this hospital. Be very, very careful. He tipped it over the tray and squeezed gently, holding his breath while a thick blob of creamy white lotion oozed out onto the skin rubbings. He squirted out a pea-sized drop, then carefully closed the lid and slipped the bottle into his pocket.
“This is when it’s dangerous,” said Lyle. They both stepped back. “It’s reading Susan’s DNA and … doing whatever it does to imprint it. If you touch it now, you’ll be Susan inside of four weeks.”
“I’m not getting anywhere near it,” said Cynthia, taking another step back. Sunny moved with her. “You’re the one who has to apply it.”
Lyle watched the drop of lotion, some terrified, primal part of him expecting it to start slithering across the table. Obviously it didn’t.
“How long does it take?” asked Cynthia.
Lyle shrugged. “I have no idea. We know from the way it’s behaved in the past that a DNA contact in one part of a lotion sample will eventually spread to the entire sample, so obviously the information is being transferred from one … thing … to another. Again, probably the retroviruses.” He reached out with a gloved fingertip and stirred it gently, rubbing the lotion around in the skin cells. “Do you realize how frightening this is? How stupid we’re being?”
“Don’t start this again.”
