Extreme Makeover

  “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

  6:17 A.M.

  An undisclosed location, in a very nice house

  165 DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD

  There was one day left; Susan had been counting them. One more day until NewYew unleashed its latest product on the world. One more day until ReBirth would be shipped across the globe.

  One more day until the company she used to trust used her as a pawn to exploit the entire nation.

  She needed to stop them, and today she had a new plan to escape. She’d tried before, of course—she’d tried almost every day—but they’d stopped her every time, and she was growing increasingly desperate. They’d removed every weapon from the room, and everything they thought she might use as a weapon, but the definition of “weapon” was changing, and they’d missed one. This was a luxury estate, and the private bathroom was well stocked with everything she needed to stay clean and presentable: shampoo, body wash, a full suite of makeup—all NewYew products, naturally—and a bottle of lotion. She picked it up, closed the bathroom door, and sat down on her bed. She was already dressed and ready to run.

  “Hey!” It was early, but there was bound to be at least one Larry awake. There always was. “Hey, meatheads! Somebody get in here!” No sense being polite, she thought, they all know I hate them. She paused, listening for footsteps or an answering call, but there was nothing. She squeezed a glob of lotion into her hands and rubbed them together as she shouted. “Somebody come—”

  “Shut up!” said a deep voice from the hallway. The speaker rapped sharply on the door for emphasis. “Go back to bed, you idiot.”

  “There’s a rat in my room,” said Susan, examining her hands. “I need you to come kill it.”

  “A rat?”

  “In the bathroom,” said Susan. “A pretty big one, too. I don’t know how it got in.”

  The voice paused, then laughed harshly. “Your bathroom is your problem. I’m not coming in there to get stabbed.”

  “Stabbed with what? You took everything I have. And I really have to pee.”

  “So kill the rat yourself,” said the Larry, “it makes no difference to me.”

  “It will make a very big difference to you when I pee on the floor and they make you clean it up,” said Susan.

  “All right!” said the Larry. “Fine, I’ll come take a look at your rat. But if you try anything stupid so help me, I will beat you like a dirty rug.”

  “You have my word,” said Susan. “I won’t touch you.”

  The lock on the door clicked and jiggled, and she watched as the knob turned and the door swung open. The thug was wearing a dark suit, as always, stretched tight across his chest and shoulders. I can see why they wanted so many of this guy, she thought, his upper arms probably outweigh my entire body. The thug stepped in cautiously, watching her. Susan squeezed out some lotion, rubbed it on her wrists, and nodded toward the bathroom with a smile. “In there.”

  “I know where the bathroom is.” He closed the hall door behind himself, locking it carefully; his keys were on the end of a retractable lanyard, and they zipped straight back to his waist when he let go. He looked at her suspiciously, then walked to the bathroom door. “I’m going to have to close the door when I go in, to keep it from coming out. Don’t do anything stupid.”

  “Like what? You locked the door.”

  “Just … don’t do anything.”

  “Stop stalling, pantywaist, it’s just a rat.”

  He glowered at her, slipped open the bathroom door, and shut himself inside. “I don’t see it,” he called out.

  “It likes to hide,” said Susan. She stood up, walked to the door, and held the bottl
e of lotion over the doorknob. She squeezed it tightly, pouring out a massive blob of thick, creamy ooze. She smeared it around, making sure it was thick and visible.

  “There’s nothing in here. There’s not even a hole where a rat could get in.”

  “Maybe it came in through the drain.”

  “They can’t come in through the drain.”

  “Not with that attitude they can’t.” She used her clean hand to squeeze even more lotion onto her fingers. “Poor dumb thug. You’ll be a dumb thug all your life.”

  “Listen, bitch, if this is just some kind of game to piss me off and waste my time—” He opened the door and stopped, staring at her. “What are you doing?”

  “Do you know how fast this ReBirth stuff is supposed to work?” She held up her hand, dripping white slime like a movie monster.

  “That’s…” He shook his head. “That’s not ReBirth.”

  Of course it wasn’t, but she was betting he’d be too cautious to test it. “They gave it to me last night,” said Susan, looking at it idly. “Something about the plan going into motion, I don’t know. They don’t tell me anything.”

  He took a half step forward, but no farther. “Get out of the way.”

  “You’ve done it before, right? Used the lotion, I mean? That’s how you lost your neck and turned into Larry number four.” She stepped forward and he stepped back. She couldn’t help but smile. “What’s the matter, you don’t want any?”

  “Get out of the way,” he said again.

  “It doesn’t matter where I go,” she said, “it’s all over the doorknob, too.” She held out the bottle, aiming it at him like a weapon. “And I can squeeze this hard enough to hit you all the way across the room—I’ve been practicing. But really, it wouldn’t be that bad to be me, right? You’d have great hair, if nothing else.” She paused, widening her eyes in mock surprise. “Oh yeah, but then you’d, uh … lose a few things, too.” She stepped forward again, gesturing at his crotch. “I hear they just … fall right off. Not to mention you’d start having periods, and I guarantee those are even more unpleasant than you’ve heard.”

  “Stay away from me.”

  “Give me the keys.”

  “I’ll scream for help.”

  “Give it a few weeks and you’ll be screaming in a much higher pitch.” She thrust out the bottle and he flinched backward.

  He shook his head. “They’ve got plenty of lotion. They’ll change me back.”

  “Sure they will,” said Susan. “They’ll be falling over themselves to rebuild their perfect enforcer, who couldn’t even stop a nineteen-year-old girl from escaping. If all those muscles aren’t helping you do your job, what makes you think they’re going to give them back?” She pointed the lotion bottle straight at his face, staring into his eyes as coldly as she could. “Give me the keys.”

  His hand hovered over the gun on his belt. “I’ll kill you.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  “You hit me with that stuff and I won’t have anything left to lose; I’ll jump right over this chair and beat you to death with your own legs.”

  “Then give me the keys, and it will never come to that.”

  He looked at her, waiting, thinking, then unclipped the key ring and tossed it; Susan caught it with her gooey, lotioned hand, almost dropping them as they slid through the ooze.

  “Stay there,” she said.

  He didn’t move. She backed up to the door, jangling the keys until she found the right one. “Stay there,” she said again.

  He stayed, eyes seething with rage. Susan reached to the side, glancing at the door for just half a second, just barely long enough to aim the key, then shoved it in and turned it. The lock clicked open.

  “Stay,” she said one more time. She opened the door, slipped into the hall, and pulled it closed behind her. He wouldn’t dare touch the knob, but she locked it anyway, leaving a smear of lotion on the handle.

  “One of the girls is escaping!” the thug shouted, his voice a guttural roar. He banged on the wall, and Susan flinched. “Third floor! The blond girl! Somebody stop her!”

  “Didn’t think he’d stay quiet,” Susan muttered, and looked around quickly. She didn’t know exactly where the front door was from here—she’d only been out of her room once—but she could hear movement to the right, so she jogged left. There was nothing around the corner but another short row of locked doors.

  “She’s down there,” said a voice. She heard footsteps running toward her, raised her lotion bottle to the height of Larry’s face, and squeezed a huge glob of it right as the man rounded the corner. He stumbled back with a scream, clawing at the chemical sting in his eyes, and she jumped past him as he tripped and fell. Another Larry stood at the end of the hall, gun drawn, and Susan stopped short.

  “Get down on the ground,” the Larry said.

  The thug behind her groaned on the ground, wiping at his face. “She got it right in my eyes! I’m going blind!”

  “He’s not just going blind,” said Susan, aiming the bottle. “I’ve left two genetic mutants in my wake so far this morning—you want to be the third?”

  “That’s not ReBirth.”

  “You want to take that chance? Do they tell you anything about us?” asked Susan, inching forward. “I’m one of the scientists who invented this stuff—I’ve seen firsthand what it can do. But look who I’m talking to—you guys have seen it, too. You’ve even used it, and you’ve seen it used on us. How many men did you start with, and how many of them have been turned into women?”

  She could see his eyes flickering over her, glancing at the lotion on one hand and the bottle in the other.

  “Arrrgh,” said the man on the floor, crouching on his hands and knees in obvious pain. “Somebody just kill her!”

  “You can shoot me, or rush me, or whatever you want to do,” said Susan, “but sooner or later you’re going to have to touch me, and I am covered with this stuff.” She squeezed another blob onto her hand and smeared it across her face and arms. “I’m willing to do whatever it takes to get out of here—are you willing to do the same to stop me?”

  The Larry hesitated, gritting his teeth as he considered the possibilities. He swore and shook his head. “What do you want?”

  “Are you crazy?” shouted Locked-Up Larry; he was just behind the door. “Don’t let her go!”

  “You already let her go!” Hallway Larry shouted back. “And for the same reason!”

  “I’m not going to hurt anyone I don’t have to,” said Susan, “but if I do have to, I’ll make you wish you’d never heard of ReBirth.”

  Larry jerked his chin toward the lotion bottle in her hand. “Who is it?”

  “Does it matter?”

  He watched her, then shook his head and shrugged. “What do you want?”

  “Just let me out.” She pointed at the locked door to her old cell. “I’ve got Locked-Up Larry’s keys, and I assume there’s a car out there to go with them. I leave alive, you keep your DNA, everyone’s happy.”

  “And you go straight to the police.”

  Susan shrugged. “Probably. You’ll still have plenty of time to leave before any of them get here.”

  He stared for another moment, then took a step backward. “Get out of here.”

  The man on the floor screamed in anger. “You’re not going to let her get away!”

  “You’ve already been hit with it,” said Larry, “I haven’t. You’d do exactly the same thing in my place.” He shook his head. “We’re not getting paid enough for this.” He backed away, through the hall and down the stairs, and Susan followed him carefully. He led her to the front door, opened it for her, and stepped back well out of reach as she went through it. She reached for the knob to close it behind her, but he stopped her with a motion of his hand. “Don’t touch anything.” He opened the door, let her out, and closed it behind her.

  Susan jogged down the wide, ornate driveway toward the row of parked cars, fumbling with the key ring as
she looked for a car remote. People were shouting in the house behind her, but she didn’t dare look back. Her fingers were too slick from lotion, and she dropped the keys; instantly she sank to her knees, discarded the lotion bottle, and used both hands to find the car remote and click the unlock button. A car chirped, but a loud crash from the house nearly drowned it out. Hurry! she shouted at herself, not daring to imagine the fight that must have started inside. She clicked the button again, and again and again and again, following the chirp to a sleek red sports car. She climbed inside, shrieking as a gunshot rang out behind her. She shoved the keys in the ignition, the car roared to life, and she tore out of the driveway like the fires of hell were behind her.

  25

  Monday, July 2

  11:08 P.M.

  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.”