“But a new face could get you a new job,” the man countered, “and probably a better one. When you were fresh out of college, trying to break into reporting, how many times were you rejected for being too young, or too short, or not pretty enough?”
Amber swallowed. “That is uncalled for.”
“But that is exactly what we’re talking about,” he said fiercely. “We are quantifying beauty; we are telling people that they aren’t good enough as they are. You’ve been pushing this stuff all morning, so tell me: will you use it or not?”
In the corner of her eye Amber could see Sam waving his hand across his neck: Cut the segment, end it now, and get out of here.
“I … I’m proud of who I am.…”
“You’re the fluff reporter in a dead-end network,” said the reverend. “This can’t be why you got into reporting—you must have been aiming higher. How much higher do you think you could go if you looked like Victoria Carver?”
“I—”
“How much further could you go if you were white?”
“That’s it,” said Sam, barging past Monty and planting himself between Amber and the reverend. “This is over—there’s no more interview, and you should be ashamed of yourself, sir, completely ashamed—”
“Wait!” called a voice, and Amber looked up to see a blond girl shoving her way through the press of people. “Wait,” said the girl again, panting and out of breath. “I have to say something. Is that still recording?”
“Not for long,” snarled Sam, pointing at the camera. “Monty, turn it off!”
“I’m serious,” said the girl, “this is the scoop of the day.” Amber guessed she was just out of high school, maybe nineteen years old. Slim and blond. “I have information about NewYew that the world has to know.” She looked behind herself and shifted a few feet to the left. “Make sure you get the door in the back of the shot, ’cause in about thirty seconds we’re going to get swarmed with NewYew security.”
“We’re still live,” said Sam, astonished, putting a finger to his earpiece. “They’ve kept us running through the whole thing—they say they want more of the mob.”
“Then we’ll give them some.” The girl looked at the camera. “You ready?”
“Rolling.”
The girl composed herself and looked straight into the camera. “My name is Susan Howell,” she said. “I worked at NewYew helping to test ReBirth in its early stages, and I became accidentally infected with a sample of lotion that touched my boss, Lyle Fontanelle. When I started turning into him they—”
“Wait,” said Amber, stepping into the picture. She glanced at the camera, smoothed her hair, and continued. “You said that ReBirth turned you into a man?”
“Yes,” said Susan. “It put me in the hospital, until they used some more lotion and turned me back into myself.”
The crowd began murmuring loudly; none of them had heard that the lotion could change your gender. Amber hadn’t even heard it. It makes sense, but …
“For the last four weeks I’ve been a prisoner in a house on Long Island,” Susan continued, “number 35480 Red Hosta Lane—I escaped, but there are still more than twelve other prisoners who need to be found and rescued, and the executive board needs to be arrested immediately.”
The crowd was yelling now, an angry, braying roar full of loud, contradictory voices. Some were yelling about the kidnapping, others about the lotion, and a large contingent was yelling directly at Susan, calling her a liar and a swarm of other epithets. Amber struggled to stay on camera, but the crowd was pressing in, and the reverend was riling up the crowd with a growing chant of “God made man and woman!”
“NewYew is conducting illegal experiments,” Susan shouted, “they are kidnapping and torturing innocent people, they are vile and evil and they need to be stopped, and—”
The doors to the convention center slammed open behind them with a bang, and a team of black-suited security officers boiled out into the crowd. Susan swore and dropped the mic, ducking past Monty and fleeing into the mob. The security team shoved desperately through the people, to catch her, but somebody shouted, “They’re giving away free samples!” and Susan disappeared as the crowd surged forward like a tide.
30
Tuesday, July 3
1:09 P.M.
Midtown Manhattan
164 DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD
It’s okay, Lyle thought. Nobody knows what I look like.
At least not yet.
He clutched the box tightly to his chest, glancing nervously at the other people on the street. The burning building was blocks behind him now, distant sirens screaming at the crowd to stand back. The people he passed on the street were talking either about the fire or ReBirth—it seemed the entire city knew about it, both because of the miraculous stories they told of its effects, and because some kind of mob riot that had started outside. Lyle ignored them; he’d get the details later, now he had more pressing business. He had an armload of the most valuable, most dangerous substance in the world, and he was alone in the bustling heart of New York City.
New York is nicer than people think, he told himself. No one’s going to steal it. I did this once before, even later than this, and I was fine; nobody killed me or mugged me or even looked at me sideways. I’m fine. He moved gingerly through the crowd, trying not to touch anybody. Nice or not, they could bump me or knock me or even brush past me, and who knows what could happen. This is nearly twelve ounces of the stuff, sixteen half-ounce vials and one large four-ounce bottle. One accidental spill and Manhattan would get a lot less diverse.
All around him he heard whispers of ReBirth: Did you hear? Have you seen it? Did you know what it can do?
Just four more blocks. Lyle paused at the corner, waiting for the light. In the limited access he’d had to the Internet—read-only, with no chance to send a message—he’d researched other potential cases he thought ReBirth could help. A school crossing guard in the Bronx who’d lost his leg in a car accident—could ReBirth regrow a leg? It regrew a woman’s breasts, so it could probably do a leg. It turned your body into an ideal template of itself, no matter what it was like before. How did it do that? The more he studied it, the more he realized just how aggressive it really was. It was terrifying, in a way, to think of what would happen if—
Somebody bumped his elbow, and the box fell. Lyle’s heart stopped.
The cardboard burst when it hit the ground, flapping open and scattering vials of lotion across the sidewalk: a dozen or so half-ounce vials, and one four-ounce bottle. Lyle watched, frozen in horror, then fell to his knees and began quickly gathering them up. It’s okay, he thought anxiously, no one’s going to steal them. New York is nicer than people think—
“Let me help you with those,” said a friendly voice, and Lyle turned to see a woman crouching down to reach for a vial. He lunged toward her, grabbing it first, nearly stepping on the four-ounce bottle in the process. It skittered into the road and Lyle suppressed a curse.
“No,” he said, “it’s nothing, I can get them all, please don’t help.”
“Oh, it’s no trouble,” the woman said, reaching for another, “if I dropped something I know I’d be grateful for someone to stop and help me.”
