Hammerstein Ballroom, Manhattan Center, Manhattan
165 DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD
“Better lighting on the runway!” Kerry shouted. “We need to see skin, not washed-out blobs.” He’d already tired of the underwear model and chosen a new body, though he was only halfway through the transformation, and his face had an exotic look somewhere between a Mediterranean surfer and a Polynesian samurai. Decker/Lyle had to admit it looked pretty cool. “Come on, guys,” Kerry continued, “you’ve done fashion shows before, haven’t you? Let’s get it right this time!”
Decker/Lyle rubbed his eyes tiredly, sitting next to Sunny in the semidarkened event center. “The police called me again last night,” he said.
Sunny laughed. “The honorable officers Luckesen and Woolf? Still chasing down their burglary suspect?”
“And their bank robbery suspect,” said Decker/Lyle. “And their manslaughter suspect. He killed a bank teller, you know.”
“Accidentally,” said Sunny, “or so he swore to us when we finally tracked him down. But we did, and he’s in São Tomé now, so relax—you’re the only Lyle left.”
Decker/Lyle shook his head.
“More red,” Kerry shouted, standing in a pool of light and examining his hands. He looked up at a man on a scissor-lift, hanging heavy black lights from an elaborate metal scaffolding. “The skin tones are too pale! We need—” He stopped. “We need one of the Vickies out here, they’re the ones I’m worried about.”
“We can’t change the whole lighting scheme for one girl,” the man on the lift called down. “You’ve got fifty girls in this show.”
“And half of them are Vicky!” Kerry shouted back. He turned and shouted off stage. “Hannah? Where’s Hannah?” He cupped his hands around his mouth. “Dammit, Hannah, you’re the stage manager, why aren’t you on the stage?”
The sound system squealed, and a woman’s voice boomed over the speakers. “I’m in the booth, Mr. White, what do you need?”
“I need Vicky.”
“Which one?”
“Why would I care which one? They’re identical—that’s the point.”
“I think they’re in the dressing room.”
“Well, get them out here! We’re doing a lighting test!”
There was a pause, then the speakers boomed again. “You need more red.”
“I know I need more red!” Kerry stormed off the stage. “Vicky!”
Sunny frowned. “I always hate these shows. We’ve been working on this for months, and we’re still not ready.”
“You don’t have to go onstage,” said Decker/Lyle. “I’m the one giving the science speech.”
Sunny raised an eyebrow. “You mean there’s still science in that speech? I thought Cynthia cut out everything more complex than ‘it makes you pretty.’”
“That’s it in a nutshell,” said Decker/Lyle. “I kept what I could, but you know her.”
“What I wish we’d gotten was ‘Mr. DNA,’” said Sunny. “You know, the little cartoon guy from Jurassic Park? He could explain this whole thing.”
Decker/Lyle laughed drily. “And then a swarm of Vickies would charge off the stage and eat the audience.”
Sunny’s phone rang, and he looked at the screen. “It’s Cynthia. Hang on.” He tapped the screen and held it up to his ear. “What do you need?” Pause. “You’re kidding. Hang on, we’ll find a TV.” He stood up quickly, dropping his phone back into his pocket. “Come on, we’re on TV.”
Decker/Lyle stood and followed him. “We’ve been on TV all summer.”
“Not the ads,” said Sunny, weaving a path through chairs and electrical equipment toward a side door. “This building—this event. There are protesters outside.”
Decker/Lyle followed him through the twisting side halls to the sound booth, where Hannah, the event center’s stage manager, was reviewing a list of sound cues with a room full of technicians. Sunny walked to an angled screen and tapped on it. “Is this connected to the satellite?”
Hannah swung around on her chair and clicked a switch. “Should be, what do you want to see?” The screen flickered to life.
“Local news,” said Sunny.
Hannah clicked a few buttons, flipping rapidly through channel after channel, stopping on a scene of the Manhattan Center. The street outside was filled with protesters, many of them carrying signs. A young, black reporter named Amber Sykes was speaking in the foreground.
“… suspected to be members of the same religious watch group that picketed the Yemaya Foundation headquarters earlier this evening.”
Amber walked to the side, and as the camera followed her a man came into frame: older, maybe early fifties, with a salt-and-pepper blend of close-cropped hair. “This is the Reverend Joseph Wade,” said Amber, “leader of the protesters. Reverend Wade, can you tell us what, exactly, you’re protesting here?”
“I represent a multidenominational Christian society called the Holy Vessel,” said the man, “formed last month when the so-called Guru Kuvam, really just a failed surgeon named Brett Halley, began spreading his dangerous philosophy of ‘secular salvation.’”
“And you’re here at the Manhattan Center…?” Amber prompted.
“What he’s really promoting,” said the reverend, ignoring her and speaking straight to the camera, “is the use of unregulated drugs, and an attitude of outright blasphemy against the sacred nature of our God-given bodies.”
“That’s…” Amber paused, seeming unsure of what to say.
“They’ve linked us,” whispered Sunny. “They’re protesting Kuvam at our event; they know it’s the same lotion.”
“They don’t even know that it’s lotion,” said Decker/Lyle.
