The Perfect Generation

by C. P. James

  Tick-Tock Productions Presents

  An evening with

  CLOCKWATCHERS

  Wednesday, August 15, 2063

  SEATTLE STADIUM

  General Admission

  Reynaldo transferred a significant sum to the man’s account and reminded him that the balance would be paid upon delivery, by 6 a.m. the following morning. Then he walked back to the hired car that was waiting, and asked the driver to return him to the hotel so he could get ready.

  Kris had obtained a list of all the people who had, until a few weeks ago, called Seattle Stadium home. It wasn’t hard to do, since the stadium was a city asset and had a legal obligation to keep such a list. It would be uploaded to networked devices carried by door security so they could verify that the ticket holder was, in fact, a displaced resident of the stadium. Once they were in, they would watch the show and simply stay after it ended. If the city had secretly planned to lock them out, they’d either have to abandon those plans. If they hadn’t, then the city would have to return to business as usual, and that was good, too. Either way, Kyle and tens of thousands just like him would be back in the place they called home.

  That evening’s show was among their best ever. It was one of those nights that felt like it would be special, and it was. No one in the band could’ve said exactly what it was, but the crowd was insane, the mix was perfect, their rhythms were tight, and Marius’ voice rang like a bell. They also were thinking about the following night’s subversive act, and realized it would almost certainly be the last show they ever played in Seattle. Not just because their plan was going to piss off a lot of powerful people, but because Billy and Marius were almost 25, and on borrowed time.

  Early the next morning, Kyle and Kris went to meet with the Stadium City Council, whose resentment toward the band quickly gave way to enthusiasm about the plan to get them back inside. Each took a box full of tickets to distribute to everyone they could, along with a warning to keep things as quiet as possible.

  Marius’ post-concert guest was still in the shower when there was a knock at the door. He checked the time—9:15 a.m. He hadn’t even gotten to the hotel until almost 4. Immediately he regretted not looking through the peephole.

  “Mr. Beecher, good morning,” said Mayor McManus, flanked by a lone security guard. “I hope I didn’t wake you.”

  Marius turned and left the door open. “Lemme get a robe.”

  He entered the bedroom to fetch a robe from the closet, catching a glimpse of the girl as she toweled off in the bathroom. He closed the door behind him.

  “You’ll forgive me if I’m a little groggy,” he said.

  “I do apologize for the hour, but I had an urgent concern,” said McManus.

  “Oh?”

  “I didn’t mention it when we met yesterday, but an engagement last evening kept me from coming to the big show. Sorry I missed it—I hear it was one for the ages.”

  “We felt good about it.”

  “Well, after our chat I realized I could make the show you added tonight. So, I talked Mrs. McManus into joining me and asked my assistant to get us some good tickets. Funny thing is, she couldn’t find any information about it anywhere.”

  Marius didn’t count on this. Their rocket was lit, and there was no stopping it.

  “Huh. The announcement definitely should’ve gone out by now. I’ll have to look into that right away.”

  “I’m not the kind of man who uses his station to score tickets to a rock concert, but I guess that’s sort of what this is.”

  It wasn’t clear whether he knew something was up with the show and was trying to trap Marius in a lie, or if he really just wanted to know if there were tickets.

  “You don’t need tickets, Mr. Mayor. I’ll put you on a list at Will Call.”

  “Are you sure? That would be tremendous.”

  “No problem. Anything else I can do for you? I kinda need to start coming alive here.”

  “Of course. I’m sorry to bother you for such a small thing, but I’m a fan. I’ll be very curious to see who’s able to drop everything to see a show at the last minute on a Wednesday.”

  “Probably people whose life is too short for an eight-to-five,” Marius said.

  “I suppose that’s true. Well, you have a good show tonight.”

  “I’ll look for you.”

  McManus smiled and nodded, his eyes lingering for a moment on Marius, then smirked and left.

  36

  Once she’d answered what seemed like a million questions and endured all the scans, tissue samples, and blood draws, there wasn’t much for Heidi to do but hang out while they ran tests. She technically could’ve just left, but she didn’t have anywhere to go. GIG put her up in a ridiculously appointed house about two miles away—a three-level monstrosity that clung to the side of a mountain, each level jutting out below the one above it in cascading terraces. The house was fully but unobtrusively staffed, with a professional chef, housekeeper and handyman.

  Heidi was put off by the VIP treatment at first, but it grew on her. Her life was bohemian, but not as often in the romantic way as in the are-we-eating-tonight way. She intended to return to it if she lived long enough, but decided to try and enjoy this while it lasted. Either they’d get something useful from her or she’d be dead. Either way, nothing wrong with some sponsored hospitality.

  She read, worked out, and caught up on television, three things that never seemed to fit in an urgent life. One show was a drama about twins, one of whom received the Cure and one who didn’t. It felt phony to her. Instead she favored the shows of her youth, which were available on demand. But it was a one-way conduit only—one of the downsides of this arrangement. She could make calls and send messages to friends and family if she wished, but that was done from a special room at GIG, with the help of a communications officer named Brad, who helped make sure she created the impression she was traveling.

  After finishing a gourmet sandwich, she pulled on some tights and a sweater and waited at the back of the living room until she heard her car pull up outside.

  The car drove her to a lower level in the parking complex, accessible only through a flip-up panel that opened a steel door. It closed immediately behind them. The narrow passage led to a turnaround in front of a cylindrical elevator. She got out and the driver indicated she should enter. Once she did, he pressed his thumb to a panel and the door hissed shut. She descended in silence for several seconds. The next door to open was behind her, where a small, pretty woman smiled at her from behind a curved desk.

  “Good morning, Ms. Robb,” she said, gesturing down a short hallway. “They’re waiting for you.”

  The woman touched a panel and door in the hallway slid open on the right. Cautiously, she went in.

  The room was a spare, official-looking boardroom, more angular and less comfortable than other rooms at GIG. Seated at a long table were Geller, Baz, Erik, and a man and woman she didn’t recognize. Baz rose and greeted her warmly.

  “Heidi, thank you for coming. I apologize about the James Bond routine, but honestly, the other secure conference rooms were booked.”

  Erik smiled. “This is mostly a safe room for biohazard emergencies, but don’t worry—we’re not having one of those.”

  Baz offered her a beverage, which she declined, then gestured for her to sit. He quickly moved to introduce the two strangers.

  “This is Jill Nguyen, vice president of communications, and our media relations director, Ken Conlon.”

  They both raised a hand in greeting, as the table was too large to shake hands. Ken was a stumpy, red-faced man in his early fifties whose collar looked way too tight for his fat neck. Jill was a fashionably dressed Asian woman maybe ten years his junior.

  “Are we team writing a press release or something?” Heidi asked.

  Ken liked that one. He choked on his coffee a little.

  “I’ll let Jill explain,” Baz said with a smile, then nodded deferentially to her.

  “T
hanks. Well, basically, Heidi, as you know, we’ve all worked hard behind the scenes to keep both your stay with us and Dr. Geller’s involvement under wraps. Now, it was only a matter of time before the cat got out of the bag, and it has. We don’t know how or who, but it doesn’t matter. What matters is that we’re prepared for what comes next.”

  “Okay …” Heidi said tentatively.

  “The news is that Dr. Geller has come out of retirement,” she said. “So far, it doesn’t appear that anyone knows about you, but that could change.”

  “Dr. Geller is a polarizing figure,” piped in Ken, who seemed much more grave than Jill. “The media are going to want to know what he’s doing back and what it has to do with us, and that potentially could lead them to you specifically. You shouldn’t have to deal with any of that.”

  “Our job is to get between you and them,” Jill interjected. “We don't lie, but we don't tell the whole truth either. That’s just how this works. Our priority is to protect you and the company.”

  “Protect us from what?”

  “Anything. Rumors. Zealots. Competitors. Wackjobs.”

  “Congress,” Jill said.

  “Especially Congress,” echoed Ken.

  “This is just so you aren’t blindsided by anything you might read over the next few days. The rumor mill’s going to be very active. If your name gets out there, just know that it’s our job to deal with that,” Jill said.

  “I appreciate that,” Heidi said.

  “We don’t know for sure when this will break, or even how much information anyone has,” Ken said. “With any luck, the GIG rumor sites will keep piling onto each other and it’ll turn into a big game of telephone. Until then, nothing really changes for you. You’re free to go anytime, but the less anyone sees of you, the less chance you become part of the story.”

  “No unsupervised contact with the outside world. Got it.”

  “Do you have any questions for us?” Jill asked.

  Heidi surveyed the room, her eyes finding Erik’s. He always looked like the calm center of a storm, and this was no different. He smiled, just a little.

  “I don’t think so,” Heidi said. “Is that all?”

  “Not quite,” Geller said. By the looks of everyone else in the room, they didn’t know what he was going to say. Jill looked especially concerned. “We’re getting an under-the-radar visit from President Earle.”

  Jill raised both eyebrows. Ken’s ruddy Irish face looked like it might burst into a hot, purple cloud at any moment.

  “You’re serious?!” he said, activating a small tablet with which to take notes.

  “Tomorrow, mid morning,” Geller said, as casually as if his roommate from sophomore year was dropping by for coffee. The contrast of Geller’s calmness and Ken’s massive parasympathetic response was comical, and Heidi stifled a laugh. Only Jill seemed to notice, and smirked.

  Geller said the president had contacted him the previous day, which caused Ken’s face to ripen even further. She had business in Denver and was extending her stay for a private audience with him, and that was why he didn’t see any need to trouble his staff. Heidi knew little of such things and couldn’t quite grasp their panic.

  “Dr. Geller, this is going to add fuel to the fire,” Jill explained. “If anyone finds out she’s here, they’ll assume you have something so important to tell the president that she came to hear it herself.”

  “There’s nothing to tell,” Geller said, still implacably calm. “I promised Connie I’d keep her informed of developments. Heidi’s a development. It’s that simple.”

  “I appreciate that, but—“

  Geller cut Jill’s explanation short. “It’ll be fine. They can’t cover what they don’t know anything about.”

  “Maybe you’ve forgotten about this thing called the Internet,” Ken said, incredulous and surprisingly condescending.

  Geller’s eyes swung over to Ken and wordlessly said remember who you’re talking to before swinging them back to her. Ken shrank two shirt sizes.

  “Heidi, I think you know what you need to know. Go home and relax. This’ll blow over.”

  “We’ll let you know when we need you,” Erik said.

  “Can’t wait,” she said.

  37

  Connie’s official reason for being in Colorado was to attend a fundraiser in support of Colorado Governor Marcus Fitzwater, an old friend who could be on the Democratic ticket when her term was up in two years.

  “What am I supposed to do for three hours?” Jayla whined, sounding very much like the teenager she was. “I don’t know anyone in Denver.”

  “Dr. Geller said they’d send someone to pick you up and take you wherever you wanted to go.”

  “What, like a chaperone?”

  “Mmm—I don’t think so.”

  Jayla stewed for the balance of the long flight on Air Force One, drinking a hearty American beer and catching up on celebrity gossip with her headphones on. Her reaction was childish, and she was hardly a child anymore, but she didn’t care. She was supposed to be petulant at her age.

  Below them, the endless brown prairies of Middle America slowly gave way to shiny little neighborhoods with cul-de-sacs and tidy little parks. She’d been through Denver just a couple times, mostly on her way to Utah or Montana and never for long. Part of her wanted to explore it and part of her still wished she’d stayed in Peru.

  The plane touched down at Buckley Air Force Base in Aurora, a middle-class southeastern suburb long since absorbed into Denver proper. The sun was just dipping below the Rockies and it looked like the start of a beautiful night. When she emerged onto the steps, it was a bit chilly but still nice. She left her jacket in the backpack, since she’d be inside one of the sedans lined up on the tarmac within minutes. She imagined being driven around by some middle-aged suit who didn’t know any better than to act like she was on a bus tour. And if you’ll turn your attention to our left, you’ll see the famous Denver Capitol, whose 15th step is exactly one mile above sea level …

  As she thought these things she almost forgot about her mother, who was standing at the bottom of the stairs looking impatient. They hadn’t spoken in hours.

  “Sweetie, I’m sorry, but I’m already running late.”

  Jayla descended to receive a hug. It felt nice.

  “I should be back to the hotel by 10. Want me to knock on your door when I get there?”

  “If you want,” Jayla said. “I’m sure I’ll be asleep by then.”

  “Okay, well … just make the best of it tonight. We’ll have the whole day together tomorrow.”

  “Great,” Jayla said.

  Her mother’s entourage got on their radios as they hurried her into the limo and drove away, along with three other black sedans. That left just two—one for her and the other for her Secret Service detail.

  “Ma’am, we’ll take your bags with us, if that’s okay,” said one of the agents. She thought his name was Scott, but it might have been Seth or Skyler or Todd.

  “Sure,” she said, and walked tentatively toward the other car. After a few steps the driver got out. The first thing she noticed was an unruly mop of sun-bleached hair that tumbled over a simple black sport coat with a T-shirt underneath. And jeans. He hurried around the front of the car, sliding his sunglasses over his bangs. He squinted into the sun, which turned deep red as it fell into the mountains. He appeared to be her age, maybe a little older, and he was utterly gorgeous.

  “You must be the first daughter,” he said, flashing a set of impossibly white teeth. He looked like an underwear model.

  “Just Jayla,” she said, sheepishly extending her hand.

  “Are there snipers waiting to shoot me if I shake your hand too hard?”

  “Only one way to find out,” she said.

  He took her hand. “I’m Lars, Just Jayla,” he said. “You want to go find some trouble?”

  It didn’t take long for Jayla to learn everything she needed to know about Lars Heiser. He was a P
G. He looked older, but they were almost the same age. He’d been to many of the same places she had, though never at the same time. He was fond of surfing and had the resources to go wherever the big waves were—Bali, Australia, Oahu. She’d been to Indonesia once and Australia twice and liked them well enough, but she was drawn to the warmth and vibrance of Latin culture. The East was too foreign somehow, even if they spoke her tongue. Plus, she didn’t care for the food. Their families could hardly have been more different. Lars was much closer to his father than his mother, while Jayla’s father died when she was very young. Her mother was charismatic and strong-willed, but Lars said his mother only aspired to be beautiful and alone.

  They talked about travel and music, people they’d met, those they’d loved and lost. Periodically Lars would provide color about the city—famous bars and restaurants, major streets, parks, the teams that used to play there, like the Broncos and the Rockies. He parked downtown just a few blocks from Coors Field and they walked, stopping at a couple places for a drink. She liked Denver; there were many more PGs out than she had ever seen concentrated in one place. At one landmark (Lars’ word) bar called Wynkoop, she met a girl who knew a lot of the same people in Cusco. Lars just laughed right along with them and their stories, as easily as though he’d been there himself. All the places they stopped had good drinks and good music, and were as unpretentious as she’d experienced anywhere in the States. There were more once, before all their frequent customers started dying. She found herself utterly uninterested in returning to DC, and already was thinking of ways to limit her girl time the next day.