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“You do that. I’ll check with you in fifteen minutes.”
I take off the headset and rest it on the table. It’s hell to just sit here and do nothing, especially when I have so much to do. I want to get started, but I also know that they’re going to be paying attention now. Later they’ll get bored. For now I take out the index cards and pen and amuse myself by figuring out where in the room a camera could be hidden. Not that I am sure there is one. But I figure that if I stick to being as paranoid as possible, I can’t go wrong.
Finally I hear the headset crackle again. “Anything to report?”
“Nada,” I say, picking it up and speaking into the mic. “All good.”
It’s nearly eight. An hour isn’t a lot of time.
“I’ll check in with you in another fifteen,” she says.
“Make it twenty,” I say, hopefully just as casually. Then I find the switch on the headset and turn it off. Since they didn’t specifically tell me not to do that, I figure that even though they probably won’t be happy, they probably won’t come looking for me either.
If they’ve got some kind of GPS tracking thing on me, it’s in the ID tag, the hoodie, or the headset. I’m betting it’s not the ID tag, since it has to be scanned. I take off the hoodie and leave it on the table. Then I go into the bathroom and turn on the taps to muffle any sounds.
I strip off my clothes. I fold them and rest them on the small table with the towels and antibacterial glove soap. I take out and unfold my pictures. Then, naked, I crouch down on my knees and rest my bare hands on my thighs. The floor is cold. I dig my fingers into my skin.
I concentrate on everything I learned over the past week, every detail I know. I concentrate on the photos in front of me and the videos I saw. I bring Governor Patton into my mind’s eye. Then I become him.
It hurts. I can feel everything shift, bones crack, sinews pull, flesh reshape itself. I try very hard not to scream. I mostly succeed.
Just as I’m starting to stand up, the blowback hits.
My skin feels like it’s cracking open, my legs melting. My head feels like it’s the wrong shape and my eyes are at first closed, then wide, seeing everything through a thousand different lenses, as though I am covered in unblinking eyes. Everything is so bright, and all the different textures of pain unfold around me, pulling me under.
It’s so much worse than I remembered.
I don’t know how much time passes before I’m able to move again. It feels like a while. The sink’s flooded, splashing over onto the floor. I wobble to my feet and turn the taps, grabbing for my clothes. The T-shirt and boxers fit badly. I can’t get into the jeans at all.
I look at myself in the mirror, at my bald head and lined face. It’s jarring. It’s him. With my comb and gel I groom the few silver hairs on my head to be just like in the photos.
My hands are shaking.
When I was a kid, I wanted to be a transformation worker because it was rare. It was special. If you were one, you were special. That’s all I knew. I never really thought about the actual power much. And then, when I figured out that I was one, I still didn’t really understand. I mean, I knew it was unique and powerful and cool. I knew it was dangerous. I knew it was rare. But I still didn’t really comprehend why it scared powerful people so deeply. Why they wanted me on their side so much.
Now I know why people are afraid of transformation workers. Now I know why they want to control me. Now I get it.
I can walk into someone’s house, kiss their wife, sit down at their table, and eat their dinner. I can lift a passport at an airport, and in twenty minutes it will seem like it’s mine. I can be a blackbird staring in the window. I can be a cat creeping along a ledge. I can go anywhere I want and do the worst things I can imagine, with nothing to ever connect me to those crimes. Today I might look like me, but tomorrow I could look like you. I could be you.
Hell, I’m scared of myself right now.
Holding my phone in one hand and my index cards in the other, edging past where I guess cameras might be so as not to be caught on film, I walk out of the trailer.
People turn their heads, wide-eyed, at Governor Patton in his underwear, standing in the open air. “Wrong damn trailer,” I growl, and push open the door to Patton’s.
There, just like I hoped, hangs the suit I ordered from Bergdorf Goodman, zipped up in a cloth storage bag and tailored to his measurements. A new pair of shoes and socks and a fresh white shirt, still in plastic. A silk tie is wrapped around the hanger holding the suit.
Other than that the trailer looks a lot like mine. Couch, dressing area. Television monitor.
Seconds later an assistant comes in the door without knocking. She looks panicked. “I’m so sorry. We didn’t realize you had arrived. They’re ready for you in makeup, Governor. No one saw you come in, and I didn’t— Well, I’ll let you finish getting ready.”
I glance at my phone. It’s eight thirty. I lost about half an hour being unconscious and missed checking in with Agent Brennan on top of it. “Come back and get me in ten minutes,” I say, trying to keep my voice inflections as like his as I can. I watched all those videos and I practiced, but it’s not easy to sound entirely unlike yourself. “I have to finish getting dressed.”
When she leaves, I call Barron.
Please, I say to the universe, to whatever’s listening. Please pick up the phone. I’m trusting you. Pick up the phone.
“Hey, little brother,” Barron says, and I slump onto the couch with relief. Until that moment I wasn’t sure he would come through. “One government drone to another, how are you doing?”
