Tuesday, July 3
12:50 P.M.
Thirty-Fourth Street, outside of the Manhattan Center
164 DAYS TO THE END OF THE WORLD
Amber Sykes smiled at the camera. “That’s the latest report, live from the launch of NewYew’s astonishing new product. Don’t forget to come down and see us in person, in just ten minutes, when NewYew will give away a bottle of ReBirth to one lucky person on this very street.” The massive crowd roared behind her, and she couldn’t resist a tiny wink at the camera. “This is Amber Sykes with New York One. Back to you, Alan!”
“And … we’re out,” said Sam, her producer. “We’re on air again in seventy-two seconds. This is nuts.”
The cameraman rolled his shoulder. “This is killing me.”
“You’re doing great, Monty,” said Amber. “Who’s the next interview?”
“Reverend Wade,” said Sam. “Same kooky religious dude from yesterday. The network wants a follow-up.”
“Being religious doesn’t make him kooky,” said Amber. “Be nice.”
“I don’t like him,” said Sam, but his face brightened as the reverend approached. “Welcome back, Reverend Wade! Right over here, please.”
Monty pushed through the crowd to find another good spot, right by the curb with a good mix of rally-goers and protesters behind them. Amber looked in her compact one more time, then snapped it shut and dropped it in her pocket. Sam counted down the last few seconds and pointed at Amber.
“Thank you, Alan, we’re back once again at the NewYew launch with a man we interviewed last night, the Reverend Joseph Wade. Tell me, Reverend, you told us last night that NewYew was abducting people and replacing them with lab-grown duplicates. Now that the truth is out, what do you think of today’s announcements?”
“I had the details a little wrong,” the reverend admitted, nodding, “but I was right about the most important thing: cloning is an abomination before God. It is a sin, and a mockery of His image. Mankind was created in His image, and it’s the height of arrogance for us to screw around with it like this.”
“I’m religious myself,” said Amber, “but let me ask you: if ‘God’s image’ is a wide enough category to include both you and me—different people, different races, and even different genders—then how does changing your look from one human face to another qualify as a mockery of that image?”
“It’s not about how we look,” the reverend said, “it’s about why we look that way. God gave you your body for a reason, and He gave me mine for a reason, and it’s not our place to turn up our noses at a gift from God.”
“So changing your appearance is wrong?” Amber asked. “I put on makeup just a minute ago—does that make me a sinner?”
“Of course not,” said the reverend, “but that’s entirely different—”
“What about plastic surgery?” asked Amber, pressing the attack. “Have you been protesting that, as well?”
“Would you use it?” asked the reverend suddenly.
Amber stopped, remembering just a second too late to close her mouth.
The reverend stared at her, probing. “You’re obviously a huge fan of the stuff, and we’ve got a sample coming out here in just a few minutes. I’m sure they’d give you a drop or two for an on-air demonstration. Will you use it?”
Amber pursed her lips, thinking. “My … face is my livelihood,” she said. “A reporter is a public figure; I need to look like me or I wouldn’t even have a job anymore.”
“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.