The Perfect Generation

by C. P. James

  A piece of plywood was painted white and stenciled with a huge black number 6, apparently indicating the building number to which people had been assigned. Nearly everyone was outside. A wide door that once served as a loading dock was fully open, and they weren’t even 50 feet inside before they understood why the sidewalk was more popular. The smell of human waste and body odor was hostile, oily, and stagnant. At a glance, little had been done to prepare the space for an influx of people. It was just a roof and a cement floor with some rusted equipment bolted to it. The only thing that differentiated it from the sidewalk was the shelter it provided, though it wasn’t even the time of year when Seattle was getting its famous rain.

  They wound between sleeping or passed-out bodies and bundles of clothing and plastic that may or may not have had bodies underneath. Kris showed everyone a photograph of Kyle on the train, disclaiming that it was almost two years old. He shared his brother’s red hair and freckly complexion, which they hoped would help him stand out.

  As they walked, more than a few people stared in their direction. Marius was certain they would be recognized at any moment, and had no idea what would happen if they were, so he made every effort to cover his face. He wished he had a scarf.

  They’d almost completed a circle of the warehouse when Kris suddenly darted toward the corner, grabbed the shoulders of a skinny young man with his back to them, and flipped him around. They embraced briefly then immediately began to talk. The rest of the band stayed put while Kris spoke to him in an urgent whisper. When he gestured their way, Kyle took notice of them and his eyes got big, but Kris whispered something in his ear and he calmed down. He gestured with his head toward the exit, and Kris looked to the band to head back out.

  Only a couple restaurants remained open on the pier, which was being heavily patrolled by Seattle PD. They crossed the viaduct and headed toward a seafood place called Gilligan’s, which had a vaguely Hawaiian-looking security guard standing outside. The policemen near the road eyed them carefully as they approached. The security guard rose and sniffed at them.

  “Something I can help you gentlemen with?”

  “Yeah, lunch,” Kris said, annoyed.

  “You got a reservation?” the guard said, stepping between them and the door.

  Marius pushed past JT and Reynaldo, removed his stocking cap, and pulled down his hood.

  “We were hoping you might squeeze us in,” he said, checking to make sure no one nearby was looking their way. He didn’t like doing this sort of thing, but sometimes it was necessary.

  The guard’s eyes widened. He looked to be in his late 30s. It was never a guarantee that non-PGs would recognize someone from the band, but just about anyone would recognize Marius.

  “Holy shit,” he said. “What the hell are you guys doing down here?”

  “Lunch,” Marius said, a bit irritated. “Like he said.”

  “Fuck yeah, brother,” he said, offering his hand arm-wrestle style for Marius to take. When he did, the guard leaned in and put the other hand appreciatively on Marius’ shoulder. They were bro’s now, apparently.

  “Thanks,” Marius said, letting the other guys walk past ahead of him.

  “Hey, I’ll be there tonight,” the guard said. “Section 104, row 30, seats 13 and 14. You point my way, alright?”

  “Sure thing,” Marius said, and followed everyone inside.

  Kyle ate like he'd just discovered food. He powered through enough fried shrimp and tater tots to feed a basketball team, all in the time it took Marius to eat a single Dungeness po’boy. He then asked for a dessert menu and ordered two gigantic slices of cheesecake. Kris just let him do his thing and only started talking to him once it seemed he was running out of places to cram his barely chewed bites. Kyle was addicted to glitter, a dirt-cheap derivative of crystal meth that caused wild swings in mood and appetite. They’d all seen this sort of thing before. It was the reason Kris stopped sending him money.

  Kyle said things weren’t ideal at the stadium, but that it was the Four Seasons compared to what they had now. Initially the residents of “Stadium City” refused to leave, but city officials said they should actually want to leave because it would be far nicer when they returned. The Stadium City Council—a duly elected governing body recognized by City Hall—was leery but agreed to move everyone out a month ago, expecting to return two weeks after the show. But a rumor had started that the city had no intention of returning anyone to the stadium because a group of investors were talking about rebooting professional football, starting with the Seahawks. It wasn’t very far-fetched.

  Their server brought Kyle his cheesecake—one with cherries and one with chocolate sauce. He ate these more slowly, savoring every bite as though they might be his last. Kris looked uncomfortable.

  “So what happens if the city goes back on its promise?” asked JT.

  Kyle paused between bites for a moment, weighing this.

  “It’ll get bad, fast,” Kyle said, matter-of-factly.

  Marius tried to imagine several thousand homeless PGs and non-PGs alike, emptying their squalid shelters and terrorizing downtown. Thousands more would flood the city in solidarity—many of whom were already in town for their show. The city wouldn’t have predicted this, and it would end badly. They were set to perform the very next day, meaning it would be impossible to determine beforehand if the rumor was true. If they didn’t go on, they’d create a similar situation. If they were making other plans for the stadium, fine. In the long run it probably was good for the community. But if there was even a chance the city lied, then something had to be done.

  He had an idea.

  34

  Connie knew better than to entertain false hope. Most PG parents clung to it in their grief and confusion, even now, and she knew better. But Geller was Geller, and he was there for a reason. GIG was the NASA of bioresearch. The world looked to them for the next revolutions in microbiology, agriculture and dozens of other areas, and they delivered again and again. But for all their contributions to global society, it was known more for its most spectacular failure than for its myriad successes. Its chief architect was probably the only person capable of doing anything about it, but if there was any real hope, he would’ve told her.

  Jayla was arriving from Peru that morning, where she’d spent the past several months. Before that, Paraguay. PGs with the resources to do so often traveled extensively, taking inspiration and goodwill from a deeply sympathetic global community. So calming and welcome was the company of the non-doomed that some PGs actively avoided each other’s company so they wouldn’t have to watch anyone die. Jayla was one such kid; as far as Connie knew, she’d never lost anyone close to her and seemed determined to keep it that way. This aspect of Jayla’s life made it that much more special when she did come home, which she’d only done twice since turning 13.

  Very few people recognized her daughter, even in the US. She changed her look often—depending, it seemed, on local custom or fashion. Connie liked to think it was ordinary teenage self-exploration, though she supposed there were deeper reasons. She was arriving on a commercial flight into Dulles. She shouldn’t have felt nervous about seeing her own daughter, but she was. Jayla was a wonderful girl—smart, funny, and kind. In any other circumstances, Connie was sure she’d have grown up to be a leader of people, perhaps a mayor or the head of a nonprofit. She had charisma, and a look in her eye that made you suspect she was somehow testing you, trying to figure you out. Yet for all her qualities, there was a darkness about her. Something that went deeper than just knowing she would die in the prime of her life. Something Connie never learned to address.

  She wanted to take Marine One and meet Jayla there personally, but sent a car to avoid attention. She used the time in between to read through a new immigration bill that awaited her signature.

  There wasn’t much of a protocol for picking Jayla up at the airport so a pair of Secret Service agents drove up in a plain black sedan and looked for her. One entered with
a sign bearing her code name, Frankie J, and waited while the other circled mindlessly outside like anyone else.

  Storms delayed her flight from Houston, making a long day even longer. By the time the escalator delivered her to the baggage area, she was so tired that the sign with her code name on it didn’t register in her brain and she walked right past.

  “Excuse me, miss,” said the agent, who she didn’t recognize, as he touched her shoulder. “Have you seen Frankie J?”

  “Oh right,” she said, and he gestured for her to follow. “My bag is—”

  “We’ll take care of it, miss,” he said flatly, eager to have her away from the crowd. Outside she saw the black sedan pull up. Despite her aversion to luxury, the soft leather seats beckoned. She flew coach and her back was killing her. Her eyes were heavy. She followed the agent to the car, got in, and fell asleep.

  After what seemed like 10 seconds, the back door opened and another agent gently shook her awake.

  “We’re here, miss,” he said with the slightest of smiles. He was younger than most of the others, and nice-looking, clean and crisp—nothing like what she’d grown accustomed to seeing in South America.

  Groggy, she shouldered her backpack and climbed out. She never got used to visiting her mother in the White House. Like the young agent, it looked whiter and cleaner than it was in her memory. She checked her watch—11:45 p.m.

  Her mother was waiting just inside the door. She had changed, too: visibly older and bonier, a few extra flecks of gray in her hair. Her eyes seemed to protrude further than usual, and the wrinkles around her eyes had deepened. Still, she carried herself in the same way as always—purposeful and self-assured. She wore a track suit embroidered with the presidential seal—more casual than Jayla had seen her in years. She beamed and eagerly stepped forward to hug her. Jayla felt in her mother’s slight frame a certain tightness, as though the transformation from mother to chief executive was finally complete. And yet, when she planted a big, enthusiastic kiss on Jayla’s cheek, it had the same softness she always knew.

  “Welcome home, baby girl,” said her mother, wiping her eyes.

  Jayla slept like the dead, only waking at the report of a very distant gunshot—hardly unusual in DC, but enough to yank her from her sleep. It felt like dawn, but it was nearly 11. It seemed strange no one had woken her, but then again, she knew her mother would have given everyone orders to let her daughter do as she pleased. For now, that was just fine.

  First Daughter was a role she couldn’t ever fully relinquish, even in the forgotten corners of the world where she preferred to be. In truth, there was never a moment where the NSA, at least, didn’t have eyes on her. Important officials and their families were tagged with radioactive isotopes, safely embedded in carbon nanotubes, so they would light up on surveillance. So even when she managed to shake her detail long enough to get her rocks off or smoke up, someone was watching.

  She stepped out of the shower after a very long time and found the large sink mirror unusable. She toweled off and stepped into the bedroom to study herself in the ornate full-length floor mirror—the first time, really, in months. Her hair was long, frizzy, and desperately in need of attention. She was too skinny. And she needed to shave her legs. The large butterfly tattoo on her hip looked garish in the bright light, and her skin a bit too Caucasian for her taste. She needed more time outside. But she was otherwise satisfied with her progress, physically. The curves were coming, and she welcomed them. Her mother was sort of rectangular, broad-shouldered and narrow-hipped, though maybe that was the part of her that was one-quarter Filipina.

  By the time she did some preening, pulled her hair back and dressed in her last clean-ish outfit it was pushing noon. An aide she didn’t recognize was sitting in a chair across the hall. He rose nervously upon seeing her and tugged down on his sport coat.

  “Miss Earle, your mother was hoping you would join her for lunch.”

  She regarded the small man bemusedly.

  “Um, sure. No big plans.”

  “Excellent. Do you remember the way to the kitchens?”

  “It hasn’t been that long.”

  He smiled and turned to leave, but she stopped him.

  “Hey, I have a little laundry. Do you think someone could—“

  “Of course. I’ll see to it.”

  “Cool. Thanks.”

  She watched him walk away and started to follow, then about-faced and stood for a moment, suddenly unsure whether to go right or left.

  White House food was good, but not as good as the appointments. Though her time in South America had curbed her taste for junk food, the potato chips that came with her panini were divine. She ate her sandwich then savored the chips while her mother peppered her with questions she already knew the answers to—again, courtesy of the NSA and Secret Service. Jayla played along, omitting the more lurid details involving men and drugs. She wasn’t a “bad girl” compared to some PGs, but she also wasn’t the girl her mother thought she was.

  She nibbled at a shortbread cookie from the small plate where most of her mother’s sandwich remained. Connie stirred honey into a fresh cup of jasmine tea and cleared her throat.

  “Sweetheart,” she said, “I was hoping we might take a short trip together.”

  Jayla sighed. “Mom, I just got here.”

  “Of course, and it wouldn’t be for another several days, but I managed to clear my schedule for about 48 hours and I was hoping you could join me.”

  “Where?”

  “Colorado.”

  “What’s in Colorado?”

  Connie dabbed at her chin with a cloth napkin and looked around to ensure they were alone, then leaned forward conspiratorially.

  “Officially, I’m going to a fundraiser in Denver. Unofficially, I’m taking time to visit the Geller Institute of Genetics,” she said, her eyes bright. “They want to brief me on their newest research.”

  Jayla felt resentment, bordering on hatred, for that name.

  “What research?”

  She sighed. “It can’t leave this room, Jayla.”

  “Okay.”

  “I’m serious.”

  “I said okay.”

  Jayla listened as her mother explained about the 27-year-old PG in perfect health. Even if it was true, and she doubted it was, it wouldn’t change anything for her. Hope wasn’t a feeling she knew. Most parents seemed to think they had to have enough of it for their kids, and her mother was no exception. Still, if it made her happy to take a little trip together, she didn’t see the harm in it. Besides, what was she going to do in the White House after a few days of R&R anyway?

  “Sure mom. Let’s go to Colorado.”

  35

  Clockwatchers managed their own ticket sales. The days of brokers and label-owned ticket houses were long gone, and so the only way for the Watchers to constantly tour and fill the remaining usable big venues was to bring everything in-house. It was expensive, and that end of the operation barely paid for itself, but it was necessary. They’d tried pay-what-you-could shows when they were getting started, which was how 98 percent of the few bands out there still got by, but after a while they got too big.

  Marius and JT sat in a sparsely decorated office across from the mayor of Seattle, Tom McManus, explaining this. He nodded politely and waited for them to finish.

  “And that’s why you think you can add a second show this late in the game?” he said.

  “Tickets are easy—all electronic,” Marius said. “The news will travel almost instantly. Event logistics is the tricky part—concessions, cleanup, security, additional staff—it’ll be a long couple days for some people, but it’s doable.”

  “But it’s also another several thousand hotel rooms, meals, all that,” JT noted.

  McManus sized them up for a moment, apparently looking for holes in this plan.

  “And you’re confident you’ll sell out again.”

  “Very,” Marius said. No one under age 25 would ever ask this ques
tion.

  “So why not always do multiple shows?” McManus said. “Hell, for that matter, why not stay here for weeks on end if you’re just printing money? You’d be welcome.”

  Marius had anticipated this.

  “Our fans are all over, and they don’t have a lot of time, so we go to them,” he said. “We’re not interested in becoming a house band.”

  McManus leaned back in his chair and sighed. “This city was on the rise. Not that long ago—before all this happened. It was youthful, y’know? Electric. Movements started here that changed the world. Music in particular.”

  “Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Soundgarden, Mudhoney,” JT said. “This was the epicenter.”

  JT was the band’s unofficial musical historian. This kind of thing was exactly why Marius brought him to the meeting.

  “That was a little before my time, but you’re right. Some of those guys were around a long time—did you know I saw Eddie Vedder’s last show?” said the mayor.

  “At the Off Ramp Cafe in 2037? Damn—that was supposed to be a legendary show,” JT said, genuinely impressed.

  Marius knew the mayor wouldn’t tip his hand about the long-term plans for the stadium, but if he agreed to their idea it wasn’t going to matter.

  “You know, boys, a second night throws a few wrenches into a few machines, but if you can fill the place, it’s good for the city. I’ll grease the skids for you.”

  Marius and JT rose, beaming, and shook the mayor’s hand.

  “Thank you, Mr. Mayor,” Marius said, and they headed for the door.

  “Have a great couple shows,” said the mayor, and they left.

  Once they were down the stairs to the main floor, Marius placed a call and said one word:

  “Go.”

  On 4th Avenue, a ticket printer that hadn’t seen action in more than 40 years was connected to an even older computer, whose cooling fan coughed up a puff of dust when powered up. In the corner of the garage were 14 boxes holding spools of tickets that said “Seattle Mariners” on them. A man in his early 70s, a collector of such antiquities, entered information into a form while Reynaldo helped him with the spelling of “CLOCKWATCHERS” and clarified that it was one word. Once everything appeared correct, the man struck a key and the old printer started cranking out the first of 30,000 tickets that said: