The political situation was no better. Half the world’s nations had closed themselves off, terrified that another nation would try to replace their leaders, or threaten their religion, or make a desperate, São Tomé–style attack in a mad grab for resources. Private citizens were doing the same thing on a small scale, encasing themselves in hazmat suits or a homemade equivalent, buying up piles of food storage and guns. Lyle could call a mortuary about his grandmother, but who would answer the phone? Who would care? It was the end of days.
Lyle searched the house for food, but there was little to be had. His dying grandmother had eaten almost everything she owned during the transformation, up to and including a can of water chestnuts he knew for a fact that she hated. Lyle took a long drink from the sink, washing the dishes carefully when he was done—because his grandma would want them that way—and then scrounged through the shed for a shovel. Even if there was no one else around to bury her, the least he could do was bury her himself.
It took him an hour to make a hole big enough, and two more hours after that to make it deep. It was almost midnight when he carried her body—his own body, filthy and brittle and hollow as old bones—to the small backyard of the home she had lived in all her life. He laid her gently in the dirt, said a silent prayer, and covered her with moist shovelfuls of earth. He’d never buried anyone before, let alone himself, and he felt a morbid shiver race through him as he covered her legs, her chest, and finally her face. His face, gaunt and skeletal at the bottom of a grave. He filled the hole and patted it down, ringing it with rocks from the garden. He had no headstone, but found a picture of her and his grandpa on the mantelpiece, and placed that on the mound instead.
Lyle showered and changed his clothes. It was one in the morning. He’d realized weeks ago that if the government was determined to imprison all Lyles, then the simplest answer was to not be a Lyle. Even knowing that, though, he’d hung on doggedly, refusing to give up the last remnants of his identity. It wasn’t sentimental reasons—it wasn’t that he loved being himself, because over the last few months he’d grown to hate being himself. Over the last few years, maybe, if he was being honest. It was more than the ubiquity—the news stories, the wanted posters, the people on the street. It was the knowledge that he, somehow, was the cause of it all. He’d thought at the time that he was trying to stop it, but looking back he realized that all he’d really done was whine and pity himself. And that’s all he’d been doing for years. So no, he wasn’t maintaining his DNA because he liked being himself.
In some ways, he realized, he’d clung to his identity because it was the only thing he had left. He had thrown out his driver’s license and other ID cards to protect himself from the law, destroying every evidence that he was the “real” Lyle Fontanelle, and all he had left was a face shared by a hundred thousand others. It wasn’t much of an identity, but it was his. In a world where so many people had lost themselves, he’d kept himself—as damaged and criminalized as he was—and he’d drawn some kind of strength from that.
But it was a meaningless gesture, and an increasingly dangerous one. Millions of people around the world had taken the plunge and changed themselves, so why not him? His resolve had weakened, and tonight, burying his own body in a shallow grave, his resolve had snapped in half. It was time to start a new life.
He hadn’t been following the black market for weeks, but he knew where the old dealers had hung out, the old hot spots where a paying customer could score some ReBirth. Lyle counted his money—still most of Kerry’s hundred thousand—and hid the majority of it in an ankle brace he’d started using for just this purpose. With his pants worn long, no one could even tell it was there. He hid the rest of it in various pockets and waistbands and shoes, separated so that a single mugger wouldn’t take a dangerous amount, and then raided his grandma’s dressers and nightstands for jewelry. If he was going to get some ReBirth, he needed to be ready to pay for it.
He walked through the dark streets, keeping his ears open for cars—especially the army’s Lyle wagons—and his eyes always scanning for dealers. He approached one likely dealer and recognized the same seven-foot giant he’d met before, though of course he had no way of knowing if it was the same man. He approached the man casually—noting, with practiced eyes, the three thugs waiting in the background.
“You’re out late,” said the man. His voice was deep and sonorous.
“I’m looking for something,” said Lyle, beginning the verbal dance of codes and implications that passed for a drug negotiation. “I was wondering if you might give me directions.”
“I know where a lot of things are,” said the man. “And I’m not doing anything else, so why not?”
“A friend of mine’s an athlete,” said Lyle. “Nice guy, good bone structure. Maybe you know where he lives?”
“Maybe,” said the man. “Maybe the guy I know isn’t the guy you know. How much does he earn in a year?”
Lyle did his best to stay calm and professional. “A hundred thousand.”
The man smiled. “I’m pretty sure I know that guy. It’s dangerous on the streets this time of night, though—you want a ride?”
Lyle nodded. He’d seen this before. Once the dealer knew you were serious, they moved the deal to a car; it kept the negotiations private and, if things went bad, mobile. “Sure.”
The man stood up, and a moment later a black car with dark, tinted windows slid up to the curb, beams from the streetlights rippling across it like water. The tall man got in, and Lyle helped himself in to the other side. When the doors were closed the car began driving slowly through the neighborhood, and the tall man spoke to him directly.
“You have a specific model in mind, or just whatever I got in stock?”
“Anything that’s not Lyle,” said Lyle.
“If all you want is non-Lyle, I’ve got plenty of celebrities—”
“No celebrities,” Lyle said quickly. “Nothing identifiable. I just want to be … different. I want to be background noise.”
“You and every other Lyle in America,” said the dealer. “Celebrities used to be the expensive stuff, now it’s cheap.”
“Then what can I get for a hundred thousand?”
“The cheap stuff.”
Lyle’s jaw dropped. “You’ve got to be kidding.”
“How desperate are you to not be Lyle anymore?” While Lyle struggled to find an answer that didn’t destroy his negotiating power, the dealer pointed at him with a long, slim finger. “Exactly. Now consider that there’s more than a hundred thousand of you, and they’re all just as desperate. I can name my price for what I have left, and I can turn you away and still find another buyer before morning.”
Lyle grimaced. “What celebrities do you have?”
“Does gender matter?”
That stopped Lyle short, staring at the man as he searched himself for the answer. After a moment he nodded. “Yes.”
“Not so desperate after all, then. The price list is upside down, now that anonymity’s such a priority. I could put you in a Tom Cruise for fifty, but for the full hundred thousand we could go all the way up to C-List: daytime soaps, and a couple of people from Dancing with the Stars.”
Lyle nodded. “How much for a guy that did, I don’t know, a few pilots? Maybe died on CSI?”
The dealer snorted. “You don’t have that kind of money.”
“Make a recommendation, then,” said Lyle. “You know your stock better than I do.”
The dealer pulled a small notebook from the seat-back pocket, and consulted it quickly in the dim light from a passing streetlamp. “How about a former model, couple of series, and a stunning performance as ‘Security Guard’ in an episode of 90210.”
“What’s his name?”
“Dan Wells.”
“Never heard of him.”
“Most people haven’t.”
Lyle frowned. “He did a few series, though? I mean, he’s famous?”
“Famous enough, but the average American isn’t going to know him in a crowd. Especially if you put on some weight and get a different haircut.” The dealer leaned forward. “Look, man, I can’t offer you a complete unknown. That’s not what the lotion was designed for—if he wasn’t famous enough for people to want to be him, I wouldn’t have his DNA in the first place. Now, if you have twice the money you claim to have, and you’re just holding out on me for some reason, then we can talk about ‘Cheering Man Number Three’ in a crowd scene from a Lifetime movie. Otherwise, Dan Wells is the best I can do.”
