by C. P. James
“I understand perfectly well, Brent.”
Geller stood and moved to the window.
“I always knew what I was capable of. So did you. That’s why we kept pushing the science forward. But when things fell apart, I saw the future. We would’ve spent the next decade spinning our wheels, and for what? False hope? I took the blame with me so you could do whatever you needed to do.”
“Oh, so you’re actually selfless.”
“Think what you want.”
“You left because you’re a coward, Brent. Plain and simple. It doesn’t matter if this woman has any of the answers; it only matters that she might. Hell, you’ll probably even convince everyone you’ve been working out of some home lab all this time, and that you found her.”
“I’m only here for her, and to consult. If you want me to leave, just say the word.”
“If the Cure isn’t fixable, then why is she here? What do you think is going to happen? For that matter, why are you here?”
“She’s an outlier. I thought it was worth a closer look. If you disagree, I’ll drop her off wherever she came from and go back to Montana.”
Baz sighed deeply and leaned back over his computer.
“Do as you please. I have a lot of work to do.”
Geller nodded and closed behind him. Jeanine lifted her eyes from her desk.
“Tearful reunion?” she asked.
“Picked up right where we left off,” said Geller with a wink.
31
Hope could quickly become a problem, and Erik knew it. He needed to keep the circle very small, which was why the lab would only have a skeleton crew while Geller was around. Word would spread that he was there, which was bad enough, but few needed to know what he was doing there. Though they’d all been briefed about secrecy, they looked at him like he’d ridden in on a white horse. Erik came forward and extended his hand.
“Hey boss.”
For a brief moment, Geller appeared not to recognize him. He had filled out a bit and kept his hair shorter, but other than that, he was just Erik.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” Geller said, looking him up and down.
Just then a very strange thing happened: Geller hugged him. Erik never knew his own father, so for better or worse, Geller was the closest thing. He had unwittingly educated him in the ways of respect, business acumen, fastidiousness, candor and a million other positive traits by demonstrating the precise opposite. A hug was the last thing he expected.
“It’s really good see you,” Geller added, sincerely.
While Erik processed that, he cast his eyes for the first time upon Heidi Robb. She was a remarkably beautiful woman, tall and athletic. She was tan, with freckles on her cheeks and shoulders and long blond hair that made him think of organic cotton and trail mix. This was a girl who lived outdoors.
Behind him, the small team of researchers ventured forward, in turn, to introduce themselves to Geller. Erik extended a hand to Heidi, whose hands were callused from the playing of instruments. Somehow it made her all the more attractive.
“Ms. Robb, I’m Erik Heiser. This is my lab.”
“Nice to meet you,” she said.
Heidi indulged Erik’s small talk as they walked down to legal. They needed to sign off before anything happened and he couldn’t think of anything smart to say. PGs had extraordinary protections under the law, so they had to be very careful when working with living subjects. Erik introduced Heidi to their lead counsel and promised to fetch her shortly. She thanked him and disappeared down the hall.
When he returned to the gen lab, he found Geller at a terminal, sifting through recent files.
“Learning anything?” Erik asked.
“Not really,” Geller replied, and pushed back in his chair. “I could use some coffee.”
They walked down to a little coffee/break area at the intersection and ordered. Geller paid. The pimply young man working the counter didn’t appear to recognize him, which was good. He handed Erik his cappuccino and sank down into an overstuffed chair nearby. Erik sat across from him.
“So,” Geller said.
“So.”
In the years he’d known Geller, never once did they go for coffee, or really even chit-chat. It was all business with him, as though polite conversation was beneath his intellect. Like the hug earlier, it was way out of character. He favored the old man with a recap of the last 13 years—Lucy, Lars, his work, the evolution of the company. Erik’s life didn’t have many moving parts. Even though he doubted most of the rumors about his old mentor, some were as plausible as any guess Erik could hazard. When he was done, Geller explained, with shocking candor, why he left.
Erik’s role in the Cure was a small and blameless one—the kind you learned to live with. But until Geller spilled his guts just then about Montana, isolation, and the depth of his guilt, Erik couldn’t have empathized. Now he did. Sort of.
The subject turned to Heidi. Once it did, Erik saw the old Geller fall over the new one like a shadow. His posture changed, his tone of voice—everything.
Erik knew the basics already: Heidi Robb, PG, 27 and healthy. Granddaughter of Geller’s mentor from the little midwestern college that disowned him. Entrepreneur turned traveling entertainer. No unusual family history. No known exposure to radiation or chemicals. No drug abuse. No known physical defects. She shouldn’t be alive, but there she was. He knew as well as Geller that even if she somehow held the key to everything, it was unlikely they could do anything before the last PG was dead.
They agreed that no one outside the circle of trust could know who or what she was, and why she was there. The thirst for a breakthrough was too great. Legal issued her credentials with a fake name, and gave her enough of a backstory so she could lie convincingly to anyone she bumped into on campus. She would stay in one of the executive guest houses, tucked away in a far corner of the property, for as long as she liked.
“Sounds like you have everything covered,” Geller said.
“Not quite,” Erik said. “I’m still unclear about your role in this. I mean, are you here here?”
“You’re in charge,” Geller said, taking the last sip of his coffee. “I’m here because of my personal connection to her, and to be a resource to you if I can. Otherwise, I’m only interested to see what the results show.”
“And as of this moment, you have no idea why she’s still alive.”
Geller hesitated before answering—the kind of halted reply that could’ve meant anything.
“Only guesses.”
He of the once-peerless ego was uncharacteristically deferential. Erik had been certain that he was here to seize the reins and steer this research—maybe even help clear his name. But if he wasn’t here for that, then why? The company? It didn’t add up. But then again, if Heidi led them to something significant, then Geller could take some of the credit. Maybe it made sense after all.
32
From The Perfect Generation: A Memoir
by Dr. Brent A. Geller
It’s silly, but one thing I hadn’t considered upon returning to GIG was where the hell I’d stay. Despite it’s notoriety, it’s actually very isolated. When I was there on a regular basis I kept a house near Evergreen—about 40 miles away—but spent most of my nights in a GIG-owned house on-property. After we landed on the GIG airstrip and got picked up, I learned no one had arranged for a place for me.
The head of communications ended up coming to my rescue, which was nice of her. Truthfully I could have spent a night or two in the plane with no trouble, but my back appreciated having a proper bed. They put Heidi up in one of the newer houses nearby, in a section used most often for international visitors.
As I indicated, I wasn’t there to save the world. I was following a hunch about why Heidi was still alive. To do that, GIG needed to perform its due diligence. In so doing, they would eliminate enough possibilities to get us to the truth. In the meantime, I had to keep certain information to myself. I think Baz and Erik both kne
w I wasn’t being completely forthcoming, but they probably were used to that.
Earlier that day, I used the plane ride from Montana to call to President Earle. News of Heidi’s and my arrival would find its way to her, and I owed it to her to frame the situation very carefully.
Connie was an impressive woman. She was a centrist Democrat who’d stolen the election from a Republican ticket that obviously felt threatened by her black, Thai, and Latina heritage. She’d used her two doctorates from Columbia to start one of the most admired nonprofits in the world. That led her into politics, and when we met she was still a senator from Massachusetts. Shortly after the Cure received FDA approval, we shared a table at a big fundraiser in Chicago. It was one of these silly events where you write someone a check for $50 million and they don’t know what else to do but give you an award. I never cared about that stuff, and I usually declined the invitations. After a time, though, I realized that awards were like funerals—they’re not really for the honoree, they’re for everyone else. So, I went along when my schedule permitted.
Even though Connie’s degrees were in sociology and management, her questions about the Cure were insightful and challenging. She was trying to start a family at the time, but wasn’t at all convinced about the treatment. It wasn’t the science, she said, but the principle. I asked her why she would leave her child’s health to chance, and she said that almost every good thing in her life had been a product of chance. I actually conceded her that point. But then I pointed out that chance was a fickle bitch. I had put my heart and soul into something that would nearly eliminate it, and that choosing “nature’s way” was like choosing not to vaccinate.
At the time, we agreed to disagree and moved on to a discussion about her own work. She had no love for politics or politicians, but felt that leadership was a calling. I told her the political arena was no place for effective, humble, levelheaded people, and that if she really wanted to effect change she should double down on her nonprofit. Connie just smiled and raised her wine glass toward me and said, “History will prove one of us right.”
Unlikely though it was at the time, I had made a lifelong friend.
Connie was on Air Force One when I called. Her chief of staff tried to tell me she couldn’t be interrupted, but I thought she’d want to hear this. After a few minutes, she came on.
“Brent! My God, how long has it been?”
“Too long.”
“A lot of people thought I had you killed.”
“It would’ve elevated your standing if you had.”
“What’s up?”
“There’s something I wanted to brief you about.”
“You have my undivided attention.”
She sounded tired, maybe even cynical. We hadn’t spoken in years. I told her about Heidi’s unprecedented age and that GIG was looking into it. She asked what it could mean, and I said I didn’t think it would yield anything useful but that it was scientifically significant. Basically I knew she’d find out about Heidi but didn’t want her to entertain any false hopes. I owed her an honest evaluation.
As it happened, Connie was due in Colorado in a few weeks for a fundraiser. She asked if she should take a side trip to meet Heidi and tour the facility. I was concerned about the optics of that, but I also thought it could be good for morale at GIG. The trick would be to not make it seem like there were any new developments. Connie understood PR as well as anyone, and said she’d think about it. That was pretty much where we left it.
A few hours later, she called back to confirm she could make it over to GIG, and that she understood the danger of spreading false hope. She never would’ve admitted it to me or anyone else, but I think she wanted to try a little hope on for size.
33
The drive from Boise to Seattle was more interesting than most tour hops. It was a straight shot through northeastern Oregon and some boring parts of Southern and Central Washington, growing more wild and diverse before the forest over Snoqualmie pass threatened to swallow the highway. Marius figured they’d circled the country about five times since the band formed, which didn’t sound as impressive as it felt. Had he been a regular person, and if the whole thing hadn’t happened the way it did, he’d probably still be figuring out what to do with his life while he pulled espressos in some hipster cafe. To paraphrase Robert Earl Keen, the road went on forever and the party never ended. This was church for him.
JT came out wearing pajama bottoms with the button missing on the fly, from whence his penis poked out. It was hard to know if he was oblivious or just uncaring—either was likely. Such was life on the bus. He sat in the huge passenger seat next to Marius, swiveled it toward him, and propped his feet up on the center console, affording Marius an on obstructed view of his junk.
“Well, I was just going to say how pretty it is through here,” Marius said.
“Luke sleeping?” JT asked. Luke was their bus driver.
“Or something. He didn’t feel so hot.”
“Need me to take over for a while?”
“Maybe after we drop down toward the city. I don’t want your cock in my chair.”
JT smiled and began to sing, playing an air guitar: “Don’t want your cock in my chair/Don’t want my face covered in hair/I just want to … hug a bear.”
Marius shook his head and laughed.
“This is why you don’t write lyrics.”
“Seriously, let me drive for a while. I’m bored.”
“I’m good.”
“You still don’t trust me in the mountains.”
“No, because I remember Tahoe.”
“Fuck, dude, aren’t we way past the statute of limitations on that shit? It’s been like three years now.”
“Drifting around a corner, in a fucking RV, with only a guard rail between us and a 500-foot drop never expires.”
“Okay, first of all, I was doing maybe 20 and it was icy. Second of all, no one got hurt, and third, in spite of everything it was kind of epic.”
Marius shook his head and smirked, feeling JT’s eyes on him.
“The epicness of it is not material to the conversation—“
“Ha! So you admit it was epic!”
“I didn’t say that.”
“That’s what I heard.”
Satisfied, he swiveled all the way around to face the back.
“Are we the only ones up?”
“Dunno.”
“Anything new on the whole stadium controversy?”
Marius shook his head. “Haven’t been looking. Hopefully it’s all blown over by now.”
Seattle Park was a former football and soccer venue that had traded ownership got renamed several times since the decline of professional sports. Recently it had been converted into a shelter for Seattle’s astonishing population of homeless PGs, who exchanged public services to the city for living there plus two square meals a day. In recent years, other cities had followed their lead. Seattle’s other large venues, the old Tacoma Dome and a former baseball stadium, were gone. That left officials with a tough choice regarding Clockwatchers, whose presence had a major economic impact.
Since no existing outdoor venue would suit, they either had to figure out what to do with 20,000 homeless PGs for the show then make it somewhat presentable for 70,000 paying fans, or build some sort of Woodstock out in the boonies. It wound up being a huge controversy in the city, but ultimately promoters arranged to temporarily relocate the stadium’s residents in exchange for diverting a big chunk of ticket sales back to the private foundation that supported the stadium’s operations.
The band was conflicted about the whole plan. Kris’ kid brother had lived in the stadium for almost a year, and they’d all heard horror stories about the conditions. They looked at the money that would go back into deferred maintenance and just improving the space, and decided it was a fair deal. No one wanted to talk about what might happen the next time they came to Seattle—if there was a next time.
Kris was ready to trade clot
hes with some homeless guy and go looking for his brother, but everyone was pretty tired from the road, so they sent Wes, their manager, to go find some ratty jackets and hats for them so they could go together. They left through the back of the hotel then boarded a train down toward the water. Kris was from Renton, so he knew his way around. No one paid them any mind.
It quickly became clear that the city hadn’t lived up to its end of the bargain, or couldn’t. A handful of warehouses and empty factories appeared to be overflowing with thousands of homeless PGs, but an equal number were camped out on the sidewalk. The guys in the band knew well that any city that looked kindly upon homeless PGs attracted more of them. It was the traditionally liberal cities that were victims of their own kindness. Phoenix, Houston, Birmingham, Miami, Charlotte—they had no PG problem because none of them wanted to live there. Boston, New York, Chicago, Denver, and Portland were like Seattle.
Kris said his brother, Kyle, was staying in a former cannery just east of the viaduct. They’d spoken about two weeks prior, but not since. The squalor as they walked was hard to describe; it reminded Marius of what medieval Europe must have been like. The sidewalks were a carpet of young homeless people. Some were under boxes or sleeping bags, but many had nothing at all. Gutters had become toilets, and the stench was eye-watering. A small row of porta-johns sat unused across the street on the edge of a vacant lot. One was tipped on its side and broken, excrement pooled around it. No one wanted to think what they were like inside.
As if the physical environment weren’t bad enough, the anger and fear were palpable. Perhaps many of them had been there before, but it seemed most had been relocated on account of the concert. The guys didn’t speak at all—they just kept their heads down and shambled along after Kris, trying not to draw attention to themselves. Finally they arrived near the touristy area where the aquarium used to be, and Kris nodded up the hill to indicate where they should go.