Tony/Cynthia raised his/her hand. “I’m in.” Several more people raised their hands in agreement. “We’re all in.”
“But what about me?” Susan asked. “Are you going to turn me into one of … you? And what about Dr. Fontanelle—I notice there aren’t any copies of him. Is he one of the ones that’s already fled the country?”
Did he even try to help me?
“He’s still here,” said First Cynthia. “But he doesn’t need protection. He’s the one who created ReBirth—the government won’t lock him up, they’ll try to use him. But thanks to you, they won’t get anything out of him.”
Susan glared at her. “So I’m a hostage.”
“Lyle is attached to you, Ms. Howell; it is a hopeless, brainless infatuation. And so as long as we have you, he will never work against us.”
21
Monday, June 18
8:00 A.M.
Ibis Cosmetics headquarters, Manhattan
179 DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD
Ibis had prepared not just a lab for Lyle, but an apartment. He had state-of-the-art equipment, most of it new; he had a bed, a kitchenette, a sitting room, and a bathroom amply stocked with Ibis shampoos and cleansers and moisturizers. They made his skin feel tight—the pH balance was off. The lab itself was brimming with state-of-the-art equipment, most of it so new he still had to calibrate it, and they gave him an ample budget to acquire any item or ingredient he needed—assuming, of course, that his request passed the scrutiny of the Cabal of Evil Lyles. The mini-fridge was neatly stacked with soda pop and beer. The CEO’s personal secretary had been instructed to order in any food he wanted to eat, since his phone would only call her. Even the lightbulbs were new.
He had everything he could possibly need, but nothing that he actually wanted.
Lyle had spent the weekend examining Ibis’s records of their failed attempts to re-create ReBirth. Each batch had been meticulously catalogued by a man named Abraham Decker, who seemed to be Ibis’s chief scientist, and he had done good work. The ingredients had been followed exactly, the measurements were precise, and even the order in which the ingredients had been combined had been followed exactly, even for the inactive ingredients that shouldn’t have had any impact on the function of the product. The records were like the scriptures of a cargo cult, faithfully following every meaningless ritual they could think of in the desperate hope that something, anything, would work. Nothing had. Each batch was the same as the last: a wonderful moisturizer with a regenerative effect on wrinkles and burns and scars, but no DNA copying in sight. The later batches started varying the rituals in carefully calibrated ways, trying slightly different measurements or slightly different procedures, but none had been successful. The mystery behind it all, the Igdrocil—the thing that made ReBirth work—wasn’t working.
If only I knew what Igdrocil was, thought Lyle. The retrovirus is the only new ingredient in 14G; the batches before that didn’t copy DNA, and the batches after that did. I always assumed they had to be the culprit. But Ibis’s batches with the retrovirus were completely inert. Ibis even used the same supplier, Rock Canyon Labs, but it still didn’t work.
Lyle read the Rock Canyon documentation again just to be sure everything was the same, though he’d read it a hundred times already. The sole purpose of the retrovirus was to regulate the function of the plasmids—they could work on their own, but if they worked too much the retrovirus would shut them down. It was their only function. So it didn’t make sense that the retrovirus would be causing the copying, and now, thanks to Ibis, Lyle had proof that it wasn’t. It had to be something else. But what?
It was 8:10 a.m. Lyle called the secretary, his only allowed contact. “Hello, Mr. Sachs,” she said. It was the code name they’d given him, to help keep his presence a secret. “How may I help you this morning?”
“I need to talk to Abraham Decker.”
“I’m afraid he’s unavailable at the moment, can I take a message?”
“Do you know when he’ll be back?”
“I’m afraid he’s unavailable,” she repeated. “I’d be happy to take a message, and Decker will call you at his earliest convenience.”
“I don’t know what you think I’m doing in here—”
“I’ve been fully briefed, Mr. Sachs.”
“—but I can’t do it without the right information. Decker’s papers are great and all, but I need to talk to the man himself.”
“I assure you that I will pass that message along as soon as I can,” said the receptionist. “Is there anything else I can do for you?”
Lyle grit his teeth, growling in frustration. He looked around the laboratory, as if searching for something else to force her to do, just as punishment. He closed his eyes instead, sighing. “Breakfast would be great—fresh fruit, yogurt, the good probiotic stuff.” He breathed deeply. “And an assistant. I’ve got a lot of work to do.”
“I’ll pass that request along to Mr. Brady. Is there anything else?”
“That’ll be fine, thanks.” He hung up the phone with a resigned slump of his shoulders, put his hands on his hips, and stared at the lab. “We’ve looked at everything that’s supposed to be in the lotion,” he said out loud. “Maybe Igdrocil is something else—something that’s not supposed to be there at all, that’s not on the ingredients list or anything else.” He nodded. “The best way to figure out what that might have been is to re-create my own lab as closely as possible, make a batch myself, and see if it gives me any ideas.” He looked around again, realized he didn’t remember his own office layout with the kind of specificity he needed, and frowned. After a moment he picked up the phone.
“Hello, Mr. Sachs, is there something else I can do for you?”
“I need to talk to your double agent,” said Lyle. “Whoever’s in my real office back in NewYew.”
“As I told you before, Mr. Sachs, Mr. Decker is not available at the moment.”
Lyle stopped in surprise. “Wait—you mean Decker is the one who replaced me? He’s the one in my office?”
The secretary paused, the silence stretching out to the point of discomfort. “I’m sorry, sir, I’ll have to call you back.” She hung up, leaving Lyle once again alone.
22
Monday, June 18
10:52 A.M.
NewYew headquarters, Manhattan
179 DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD
