“It would certainly be easier than stealing it from NewYew every time we need it.”
“But I don’t know how,” said Lyle. “When we make it in our plant it works fine, but if you can’t make it work, then I understand even less about the lotion than I did when you shoved me into the car. There’s no reason for ReBirth to do what it’s doing.”
“I don’t care why it works,” said Evil Lyle, “I just want it to work!”
“But ‘why’ is the most important part,” said Lyle. “I can’t make it do something unless I know why it does it. That’s like asking me to repair an engine without knowing anything about combustion or electricity.”
“Which in this analogy are chemistry and genetics,” the man growled. “You know all about chemistry and genetics!”
“Not for ReBirth,” said Lyle. “The engine was a bad analogy: let’s say instead that combustion and electricity are the principles that should work but don’t. ReBirth is like opening the hood of a car and finding the engine replaced by a rock, or an alligator. It’s obviously functioning on some kind of scientific principle, because it’s predictable, but until I know what that principle is I can’t do anything to fix it.”
The limo was silent; the five men stared at him, and Lyle forced himself not to squirm under their gaze. They’re weighing me, he thought. Like a worm right before it gets stabbed with a hook.
The lead Lyle looked at the others, face solemn, then back at Lyle. “You will simply have to do your best.”
“And if I still can’t figure it out?”
Evil Lyle reached into his suit coat and pulled out a gun. “No one will even know that you are missing.”
“Fine,” said Lyle, putting out his hand to stall them. “I … need my lab.”
“We’ve prepared a lab for you.”
“My notes,” said Lyle, “my equipment—”
Evil Lyle shook his head. “Our agent can get everything you need out of your office.”
Lyle eyed the gun, searching for a way out. Even if he escaped, he couldn’t just go to Carl and the board—as soon as they found out there were other copies of him, loose and with nefarious plans, they’d pack him off to São Tomé for “containment.” Part of him didn’t mind that—it longed for it, in fact. It would be an end to his troubles, an end to his fears, just a lifetime of blissful house arrest in a tropical paradise, lounging on a beach with Susan … and nine or ten other copies of himself. No. He wouldn’t do it—it wasn’t worth it. Even without the other Lyles, he knew he couldn’t just sit there doing nothing while this technology—his technology—was used and abused by one misguided group after another.
Lyle looked at the other Lyle, at all five of them. “Okay,” he said, “I’ll help. I need to figure it out anyway, and if you’re really willing to give me the support I need, you’re my best chance of doing it.” He looked out the window. “Where’s your lab?”
“We’re here,” said the lead Lyle, and the car pulled to a stop.
“Here in Manhattan?” Lyle frowned. “We’ve only gone a couple of blocks.”
Another pair of burly thugs stepped up to the doors and opened them. “Welcome to your new home,” said Evil Lyle. “You’re the new chief scientist at Ibis Cosmetics.”
20
Sunday, June 17
6:22 P.M.
An undisclosed location, in a very nice house
180 DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD
Susan Howell was a prisoner—there was no other word for it. They were treating her nicely enough, with plenty of food and a fairly luxurious room, but that didn’t mean anything. A room you can’t leave, no matter how nice, is a prison, and the person trapped inside was a prisoner.
She had one window, and she’d tried getting out that way, but it was barred from the outside. Looking out between the bars she could see a wide, green lawn, ringed by giant maple trees—sugar maples, by the look of them; her parents had several in their yard on Long Island. Was this Long Island? She’d been unconscious when they brought her here, and they’d told her it was a tropical island, but what kind of tropical island had sugar maples? And it smelled like Long Island: hydrangeas and sea salt and money. This was definitely Long Island, and fairly far east. The Hamptons, maybe. She’d grown up in the Hamptons, with her one-percenter parents. She’d know it anywhere. But who kept people prisoner in the Hamptons?
It didn’t matter what they were doing, and it didn’t matter why. She was a prisoner, and she hated it.
When the time came, she would destroy them.
An hour after dinner the door opened again, revealing one of the thugs—a tall, thickset man with receding hair and a coiled wire behind his ear. His name was Larry, or at least she thought it was—he had a twin somewhere in the house, as well, and she couldn’t be sure which one this was. She’d seen them together once, and was so surprised to discover there were two of them that she couldn’t help but ask why they’d both gone into the evil corporate thug business. They’d scowled and refused to answer, so she assumed it was a touchy subject—which only made it more intriguing.
Larry gestured to her, beckoning her to the hallway, and her eyes widened in surprise.
“A trip outside my room? What’s the special occasion?”
“Hurry, please.”
“You’re talkative today.” Susan slid off the bed and walked to the door. “Is this exercise time, or something? Take me out in the yard, let me lift some weights, maybe get a prison tattoo?”
“Meeting,” said the thug. “That way.” He pointed down the hall, and Susan stifled her disappointment.
The thug led her into a large room, filled with couches and chairs and little tables with vases on them. It was also filled with people, and Susan instantly recognized some of them: there was Cynthia Mummer, the CFO at NewYew; there was Sun-He the lawyer, and Jeffrey the president, and … there was Cynthia again, and … there she was again, and …
“What on earth?” said Susan.
“Ah,” said one of the Cynthias, “our final guest has arrived. Please, Ms. Howell, have a seat.”
Susan looked around the room in shock, counting in her head: Three, four, five … five Cynthias. Four Sun-Hes. Two, three, four Jeffreys. Most of them look as shocked as I am. What’s going on?
And where’s Lyle?
