He knew how it worked, but it didn’t matter. The world was falling apart, and knowing why wasn’t going to save it.
The lotion itself was no more widespread than any typical drug problem—more noticeable, perhaps, because of its visual nature, but not really any more prevalent than cocaine or marijuana or meth. The massive surge of Lyles in the New York area was an admitted exception, and the government had apparently come to the same conclusion Lyle had: ReBirth was in the water supply. Anyone who could had been urged to evacuate.
Much more dangerous than the lotion’s civilian usage, the news outlets all agreed, was the lotion’s appeal to governments themselves. The various religious side effects had been bad enough, most notably the Holy Vessel’s divine cloning experiment and the resulting New Crusade. Latin America was still burning, from Argentina to the Southwestern U.S. The various countries of the Middle East had either descended into chaos or been locked down under fascist control. Even China, ostensibly nonreligious, had seen its share of denominational uprisings.
Potentially much worse, however, was the fallout from São Tomé. Before the invasion the world’s governments had wanted ReBirth as a weapon; after it, they feared it like a plague. The only way to avoid São Tomé’s fate was to destroy ReBirth or to be the sole owner, and the possibility that someone might achieve the second option made everyone too jealous to consider the first. Governments themselves, as entities, had become as addicted to ReBirth as any crackhead. They had to have it, or they would be destroyed by those who did.
At 6:13 in the morning, Lyle and Cynthia and their military escorts loaded themselves into Humvees and trekked across the city. Lyle was shocked to see how much of a wasteland it had become. Makeshift fences had been erected around “clean” zones; groups of homeless huddled around trash can fires; shanty towns and lean-tos had sprouted up in every alley and park, ominous not so much for their existence as for the fact that the police hadn’t knocked them down. Law was disappearing, and Lyle knew that civilization itself was not far behind.
The UN building was ringed with guards and barbed wire, protecting the last vestiges of a fading world government. Their small procession stopped at the gate, showed copious IDs, and traded a long series of complicated pass codes before the barricades were finally moved aside. They drove down into a subterranean parking garage only to be greeted by more guards, who walked them through the same tense rituals. Eventually satisfied, if not actually trusting, the guards opened the elevator and Lyle followed his escorts with mounting trepidation. He still had a box full of unread reports clutched awkwardly under his arm.
“This is where we’ll be living for the next several days,” said Cynthia. “We’ve requested an airlift to D.C., where it’s more secure, but for now this is as secure as we can get.”
“The sooner you can solve this, the better,” said Blauwitz.
“I don’t know what you’re expecting me to do,” said Lyle.
“Do you know how the lotion works?” asked Cynthia.
“I think so,” said Lyle. “I haven’t done the tests, but I think I’ve finally worked out the theory of it. But that doesn’t mean I can do anything about it—you need a team of scientists in here, real genetic scientists, I’m just a…” He threw up his free hand and turned to General Blauwitz. “I make lipsticks for a living, General. If you want someone to color match your eyes and your eye shadow I’m your man, but saving the world? Please tell me you have a backup plan.”
Blauwitz looked grim. “You are the backup plan.”
“I’ve heard that before,” said Lyle. “You’re not the first people to kidnap me and hope for the best.”
The elevator door opened, and a tall, older man greeted them with a smile. “Dr. Fontanelle, it’s good to see you again. I’m Eric Moore, Senate liaison to the Department of Homeland Security.”
“Another member of our ‘Save the World’ Committee,” said Cynthia.
Lyle fumbled with his heavy box of papers in an effort to take the man’s outstretched hand. “I’m sorry, sir, I don’t remember meeting you before.”
“I looked different,” said Moore, and he smiled almost wickedly. “It was back in my prime.”
Lyle stared at the man, the word “prime” sparking some half-forgotten memory. He couldn’t quite place it.
“When Ibis abducted you, you said you couldn’t help them,” said Moore. “They held you for weeks, and all you did was run up their expenses and set their lab on fire. Our theory is that you were refusing to help them, spending all your time on a carefully calculated plan of escape instead. Can you confirm this?”
Lyle stammered. “How did you know I was abducted by—Holy hell. Prime?”
“What?” asked Cynthia.
“Nothing,” said Ira/Moore. “It’s shocking, I fear, how completely our best laid plans have all come crashing down. But you, Lyle: we need to believe that you know more than you let on. We’ve pinned an awful lot of hope on you. An entire world of hope.”
Lyle felt sick and confused—did the others know that Moore was a ReBirth clone? Would they even care? He wondered if he should expose him, and realized he had no way to prove it, and realized further that here, at the end of the world, it might not even matter. He shrugged helplessly and sighed. “I’ll tell you what I know, but I don’t know how much it will help.”
“Nonsense,” said Cynthia. “He’s a genius. The only scientist in the building who’s been on the cover of Scientific American.”
Lyle looked at her oddly. “Do you mean there are other scientists?”
“I mean we have a cover model,” said Cynthia.
“I’ll tell everyone you’re here,” said Senator Moore. “We’ll call for you when we’re ready.”
Cynthia led Lyle down another hall, and he followed awkwardly with his box. “He should never have questioned your abilities,” she snapped. Now that the two of them were alone she seemed much more furious than an insult to Lyle should reasonably have made her. She was taking this personally, and Lyle wondered how much of her current power, including her freedom from prison, was based on his own performance in the upcoming meetings. If he screwed it up, would she take revenge? The thought made him queasy, and he hurried to catch up.
“Are they expecting some kind of presentation?” Lyle asked. “I don’t have anything prepared—”
“You just got out of prison,” said Cynthia. “No one’s expecting PowerPoints and handouts. My guess is they’ll want to hear as much as you can tell them about the lotion itself, followed by a Q and A, which will inevitably turn to the topic of solutions. Sound smart and confident the entire time—a stretch for you, but do your best—and we’ll get out of this fine.”
“Be honest,” said Lyle softly, hoping no one was close enough to overhear. “You know as well as I do that there’s no cure for this, no magic reversal. When ReBirth changes your DNA, nothing can change it back but more ReBirth, and we’re already seeing where that road takes us. What are you expecting us to accomplish in there? What can we even do?”
“Think of it like a hostile corporate takeover,” said Cynthia. “The human race is a company, and ReBirth’s going to buy us out, gut the executive board, and rebrand us into an extension of itself.”
“So how do we survive a biological merger?” asked Lyle. “Try to convince a hand lotion we’re too valuable to fire?”
“We accrue so much stock that the buyout makes us rich,” said Cynthia. “And here we are, me out of hiding and you out of a prison camp, with the hopes of the whole world pinned on us. I’d say we’re doing pretty well.”
Lyle frowned. “How do you intend to cash in your stock in this metaphor?”
Cynthia raised her eyebrow. “If I tell you everything, what’s left for me?” She stopped at a door and opened it, revealing a sleepy but well-groomed receptionist yawning at a desk. “Lyle, meet Lilly. I’m sick of your names already.”
The woman stood up, and Lyle found himself reflexively analyzing her appearance: African American, attractive; good hair that she hadn’t been keeping great care of lately; good skin, especially around the corners of the mouth and eyes, which was important for a makeup model; passable hands, though nothing they’d use in a nail polish ad; a slim body, though not an especially curvy one. Her strongest feature was her young, open face with striking eyes and a bright smile, which managed to stay bright even when it was wrapped around a stifled yawn.
He looked at Cynthia in surprise. “I thought you were joking about the cover model.”
Lilly rolled her eyes. “I don’t even have makeup on.”
“Lyle hired half our models at NewYew,” said Cynthia. “Give him a minute, he’ll figure it out.”
