Lyle blustered, waving his arms as he searched for the right words. He had always thought of himself as a good man, an honest man, a man who helped his neighbors and did what was right and made the world a better place, but now that he was confronted about it—by himself, no less—he couldn’t think of a single example. “I am not…” He gave up on examples. “I am a good person.”
“I’m not saying you’re not.”
“I have never stood for destroying lives,” Lyle said, punctuating his declaration with a point of his finger, as if this was the clinching piece of evidence. “No one can say that I’m a destructive or a bloodthirsty or even a careless person. I help people.”
“Not hurting people isn’t the same as helping them,” said Decker/Lyle.
“But what NewYew is trying to do will hurt people,” said Lyle. “That’s what I’m saying, and that’s what you’re helping them do, in my name. And in my whole”—he waved his hand over Decker/Lyle—“body.”
“That’s where I disagree with you,” said Decker/Lyle, leaning forward. “They’re not going out of their way to help people, no, but they’re not hurting anyone, either. They’re going to bring an amazing product—your product—to market, and yes, they’re going to make a mind-boggling amount of money doing it, but that doesn’t make them evil. They’re not stealing from anyone, they’re not oppressing anyone, they’re not even deceiving anyone. They’re better than Ibis in a lot of ways, and while I’m only working with them as a ruse, I still feel some pride in what we’re doing. You’re giving the scientific presentation at the launch next week—well, I mean I am, but it’s you. It’s both of us, in a way.”
“They would never let me speak at an event,” said Lyle.
“Not the old you,” said Decker/Lyle, “but you said it yourself: I’m better at being you than you are.”
All of Lyle’s anger and frustration seemed to come together then in a single point, his anger at NewYew for misusing his technology, at Ibis for imprisoning him, at himself for failing twenty-seven times to re-create his own discovery. At this calm-voiced, amoral, fun house–mirror version of himself that twisted his own words and called him a monster. Before he even knew what he was doing he was out of his chair and grasping the evil Lyle by his own lapels, yanking him from his seat, shoving him to the ground, and then he was punching him, smashing his fists into his face—into his own face, except every time he hit the face looked less like his own, mussing its hair, cutting its skin, streaks of blood welling up on its cheek, and suddenly the other Lyle was punching back, his own enemy fist lashing out at his own face, his real face, and felt his brain pulse and thump and rattle as he beat himself senseless. A moment later more hands appeared, bigger and stronger hands, and the Ibis thugs were pulling them apart. Lyle regained his footing, shrugging off the thugs’ meaty hands, and when they saw that he was no longer trying to lunge forward they let him go. He stood panting, wiping the blood from his cheek with the cuff of his shirt. The Decker/Lyle stood across from him, wiping blood with the flat of his hand, flanked by a thug of his own. Another Lyle, untouched by the fight, stood in the doorway.
“Are we done with our little tantrum?”
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” said Lyle, and suddenly he felt like crying. He panted again, gasping for breath. “I don’t want to do it.”
“Are you Prime?” asked Decker/Lyle. The third Lyle nodded, and Decker/Lyle walked toward him. “I need to get cleaned up. NewYew’s touring the Manhattan Center in three hours, prepping for the product launch. I can’t show up looking like I’ve been in a fistfight.”
“We’ll find some way to cover for you,” said Prime, helping Decker/Lyle to the door. “A fake mugging, maybe, or a fall down the stairs.”
“I don’t want to do this anymore!” said Lyle again. “Doesn’t anyone listen to me? I’m not going to give you ReBirth, I’m not going to live in your little lab, I’m not going to do any of it! The deal’s over.”
“You didn’t come here because of a deal,” said Prime. He let Decker/Lyle out, and closed the door again behind him. He looked back at Lyle. “You came here because we brought you here.”
“But you can’t make me work.”
“We can’t,” said Prime. “But we can offer you incentives not to fail us. As it happens, you’ve written a very threatening letter to the president.”
Lyle felt queasy. “I did?”
Prime nodded. “A very detailed letter, of the kind the FBI loves to follow up on.”
“They’ll know it’s a fake.”
“The envelope contains fragments of your hair and epithelials; the handwriting was harder to copy, but it’s surprising how much of your movements were already right here in our hands.” He held up his hand, turning it slowly from front to back. “Not muscle memory, of course, but simple muscle structure—the size of our fingers, the distance between our knuckles. It changes the way we write, Dr. Fontanelle. It changes us further and further into you. I assume that we also owe you our growing love for brussels sprouts.”
“Food preferences aren’t genetic,” said Lyle.
“Not directly, no,” said Prime, “but having your tongue means we have your specific distribution of taste buds—some are larger, some are smaller, certain areas of the tongue have more or less than before. And there’s just something about a brussels sprout that … really hits that combination just right, doesn’t it? A little butter, a little salt, that delectable bitterness buried deep in the leaves.”
“Just stop already,” said Lyle. “I’m sick of helping every two-faced, money-grubbing, walking conspiracy theory that thinks my hand lotion can rule the world.”
“Give us the lotion,” said Prime.
“Why don’t you just buy some?” asked Lyle. “The launch party’s in three days—the stuff’s already been shipped to the clinics. Stand in the audience and you might even get a free sample.”
“It’s not enough to have ReBirth,” said Prime, “we have to be able to make it. That’s the only way we can control it, instead of being controlled by NewYew. This isn’t just a beauty product, Dr. Fontanelle, it’s the greatest weapon of espionage ever created. Instead of being you I could be a senator, a president; my friends and I could be the presidents of every political superpower on earth. NewYew isn’t even selling blank lotion; they’re keeping it locked up in their clinics, and if we can’t make our own we’ll have to go into those clinics and take it. Do you want to be responsible for any accidental deaths that might arise from that scenario?”
“That’s not how responsibility works,” said Lyle.
“Tell that to your guilty conscience when you see the first bodies on the news,” said Prime, and his voiced turned to steel. “Give us a working formula.”
Lyle stared at him, running through a hundred different scenarios. None of them looked good, but one of them had potential.…
“So,” said Prime. “What is your next step?”
To get out of here, thought Lyle. To get out of here and run away and be done with this forever. He blew out a long breath, and stooped to pick up a chair knocked down in the fight. “I need to analyze the lotion—the real lotion—while it’s working. I need to watch what it does, while it does it, and see if I can figure out why.”
“And what do you need for that?”
“I need a genetics degree, for starters.” Lyle shrugged. “Mostly I need better equipment: better tools, cleaner water. I want to start filtering my own.”
Prime nodded. “That’s the spirit. Give us a list and we’ll get it for you as soon as we can.”
“As soon as you can,” said Lyle. He breathed heavily, still catching his breath. Decker is their only chemist, and he’s too busy to vet my list for them. They won’t see what I’m trying to do. A few days to get the ingredients, and a few more days to get everything ready.…
I just hope I can get out in time.
24
Monday, July 2
