by C. P. James
Baz nodded, gave Geller a tired half smile, took his tray, and left. Geller turned his head back toward the inner part of the cafeteria in time to see several hundred employees pretend they weren’t staring. It would be the last time they ever spoke.
Part III
2067 – 2076: Time Capsule
52
On April 1, 2067, a young man named James Palicki walked into a bar in Austin, Texas. A small group of co-workers gathered around one of the tall tables loudly greeted him, giving him a hard time for being late to his own birthday party. He laughed it off in his usual good-humored way and poured himself a beer from one of the two fresh pitchers on the table. He chose the darker of them, probably a bock or a porter. Not that it mattered—it had been a long week. It was still a treat, though. The beer industry was coming back, but it was still expensive.
Seven or eight beers later, he raised one toward the ceiling.
“Mom and dad, this one’s for you,” he said, and his friends followed suit.
“To Mom and Dad!” they exclaimed.
His friends knew nothing of his parents. They didn’t know that he was 10 when he watched his father die at 24, or 11 when his mother went one year later to the day. They were all younger than he—maybe 23 at the oldest, and he knew for a fact they weren’t the children of PGs because their parents were all still alive.
Suddenly the lights in the bar dimmed, and before he could look to see what was happening, his friends joined in a clumsy version of Happy Birthday. Moments later, the rest of the bar followed suit. From the kitchen came their server, carrying a small chocolate cake filled with candles.
“Happy birrrthdayyy tooooo youuuuuu!” they sang, just as the girl put the cake down. She smiled at him, her eyes lingering on his for just an extra, rather communicative moment.
James made a wish and blew. He didn’t count the candles, but it looked like all 26 were there.
The next morning, the waitress from the bar was in the shower when his phone rang.
“Hello,” he said, his mouth dry and awful tasting.
“James Palicki?” said an official-sounding voice at the other end.
“Yeah.”
“This is Dr. Stafford from the Geller Institute of Genetics. How are you feeling this morning?”
53
The mood at Funk Library, the third oldest but most decrepit of Laird College’s main buildings, was upbeat save for Paul Schoeneman, archives director, who was especially grumpy. A longtime friend (and user) of the library, Mrs. Barbara Smart, left $25,000 in her will for the sake of “improving the comfort of the archives’ reading room,” by which she meant new chairs.
That would’ve been fine if not for the fact that its existing chairs were less than five years old and had been chosen by him. Everyone thought they were great except for the late Mrs. Smart, who came in every freaking Tuesday after bridge to research her book on Laird history (which now would never get finished). She’d make a show of how hard the chairs were on her back, making sure he was watching. When their planned-giving officer giddily informed him of the estate gift and its specific restriction, he almost told her nothing would improve everyone’s comfort like Mrs. Smart’s permanent absence. Almost.
Chairs aside, there was another reason for the shuffle in everyone else’s step today: An anonymous donor gave $50 million to renovate and expand Melvin Hall, the science building, and rename it Robb Hall. Of all places! It was dedicated just 30 years ago—still a young building by most college standards—and had been well looked after. A gift that size represented almost half the college’s entire endowment. It could’ve funded every deferred-maintenance project in the queue with enough to spare for a whole new library. No one doubted the building’s importance to the college’s relative success over the past few decades. Enrollments were steady now and it had become known for the sciences. But it needed another money injection like the football team needed new uniforms, which is to say, not at all. Two million was just to endow a chair in virology, which seemed frivolous.
Adding insult to injury for Paul was the fact that the building’s time capsule, which was only the same 30 years old, was being opened as part of the groundbreaking ceremonies for the new expansion. It might not have been a consideration, but the monolith in the fountain where it was entombed was among the planned renovations. After the big reveal of the positively ancient and historically significant artifacts therein (all of which were thoroughly documented by the student news bureau), a temporary display was to be made in the archive room until they decided whether to put the old stuff into a new time capsule or start all over.
Guess who got stuck with that unhappy task.
This would be a strange year. Laird was one of just a handful of private colleges in the country that remained open, at least partially, since everything happened. They survived the way most others did: cutting costs and personnel to the bone, aggressively recruiting foreign students, and employing a small army of volunteers. But the first class of post-PG students was just about to graduate from regular high school and a modest number of them would matriculate in the fall. It wasn’t that he minded the mostly Chinese and Korean students who were there now—not at all—but he was very much looking forward to a more, say, Midwestern demographic being back on campus. It seemed right somehow.
He’d spent most of the previous afternoon emptying old junk from a glass display against the east wall of the archives and making it look good for the new junk. The dean of students opened and removed the contents of the capsule that morning, then a student walked them across the quad to Paul. His goal was to get everything labeled and displayed by early afternoon—maybe by lunch if no one bothered him.
But no sooner had he started playing music on his computer and taken the lid off the box than the door opened and an older man stepped through. He had his collar up and a baseball cap on, and he spent a moment getting his bearings. Paul watched him silently, then greeted him when he finally noticed he was there.
“Morning,” Paul said.
“Good morning,” said the man, who started purposefully across the room toward him. As he came closer and Paul got a good look at him, his jaw dropped.
It was Brent Geller.
“Holy shit,” Paul said, almost reflexively, though he rarely swore. Geller was a political touchstone at Laird, for obvious reasons, and no one really had claimed him as an alumnus for a very long time, but he was still one of the most famous people in the world. He was a little star struck.
Geller relished the opportunity to trot out one of his favorite lines. “I believe my reputation for arrogant presumption precedes me.”
Paul forgot to reply for a few moments. “Welcome back, Dr. Geller. No one’s seen you on campus for quite a while.”
“Yeah, well, I’m here under the radar. I’d prefer it stay that way …”
“Paul.”
“Paul.”
“Of course. So, what brings you to the archives?”
Geller’s eyes moved down to the open box.
“That.”
“The time capsule stuff?”
Geller nodded.
“I was just going to put it in a display.”
“I know. I was hoping to have a look at it before you did though.”
“Oh. Well, I guess that’d be fine.” His voiced was tinged with suspicion. He slid the box a couple inches toward Geller, who regarded it briefly.
“Alone, I mean.”
Paul glanced around. No one was outside.
“Why? If I may ask.”
“You know, the first thing I thought was when I came in was that this building looks almost exactly the same as when I was a student—and it seemed old then. I actually wrote a paper once in this very room. It looks exactly the same. New chairs maybe.”
“The chairs are less than five years old,” Paul noted.
Geller shrugged. “Seems like this place could use a facelift. In fact, I’d say you’re due for a whole new building.”
; Paul’s eyes narrowed like an amateur detective trying to piece together clues. In his mind, a narrative was starting to form about Melvin Hall’s anonymous donor.
“Are you saying that all I’d have to do to get a new library is leave you alone with this box for a few minutes?”
Geller leaned forward conspiratorially.
“You’re on the ball, Paul. And you can’t let anyone know I was here. Ever.”
Paul cast his eyes down at the box, then back at Geller. His mind swirled with questions about what in hell could be so important. He didn’t like the idea of being bought, but he also didn’t like the idea of spending the next 15 years putting buckets down on the floor every time it rained.
“I’m walking over to the union for coffee,” Paul said. “It takes a long time to cool down, if you know what I mean.”
He winked. This was as much subversion as he’d ever engaged in, and he wanted to savor it. Geller put a finger aside his nose and winked.
Paul slipped on his jacket, checked for his keys and wallet, then paused while Geller stood there and looked at him. Maybe he expected some final exchange. None came and he nodded to Geller on his way out.
When Geller was satisfied that the archivist was gone and no one was looking in on him, he took the lid off the box.
54
It was raining when they buried Baz. Though he’d spent half his life in and around the eastern slope of the Rockies, his heart was always back in Chicago where he grew up. It also turned out there was a Montes family mausoleum and an immense extended family, facts which underscored how little Geller really knew about his oldest, if not dearest, colleague. If they’d ever truly been friends, they didn’t part as such.
The way Geller heard it, he was helping himself to a piece of cake at a farewell party for a retiring colleague—Baz having retired himself just a year prior—and suffered a massive stroke that killed him on the spot. Lucia, of all people, had gotten word to him about what happened and convinced him to attend the funeral.
It was lovely as far as funerals went, but it made Geller consider his own mortality and he tended to avoid such thoughts. No one asked him to say anything at the service, and even if they had, he wouldn’t have known what to say. Either Lucia knew that or she didn’t want to risk having him speak, either of which was a strong possibility.
Baz’ second wife, Kalpana, was being consoled by Lucia, who’d had a new family and life for decades. Baz was the second husband she’d seen lowered into the ground, and her face suggested it was one too many. The deep furrows around her eyes told the tale of a woman who had known both deep sorrows and profound joys, though not in equal measure. Whatever strength she possessed had left her body, and it wouldn’t have surprised him if she joined Baz within the year.
He and Baz never regarded each other as intellectual peers. Seemed was the operative word, though. It was Baz who recognized the comparatively simple perfection of serum one and advised that Geller go no further—advice that would have saved 18 million lives to date. It was also Baz who said once that people were sheep to Geller, an observation he took some umbrage with at the time but one which he could now admit reflected Baz’ unique understanding of his nature.
For what he lacked in charisma, however, he more than made up for as a businessman and manager. That GIG weathered the storm was a credit to his work ethic and leadership. Geller got out of his way and everyone else’s. Those who stayed did so because they believed they could still accomplish great things. In the end, it was more Baz’s house than his.
All this went a long way toward explaining how many people came out to pay their respects. He figured the church alone had about 800 people in it—shocking, when you consider how long it had been since Baz had lived in Schaumburg.
Erik was there with Heidi. They had it out after the incident with Lars and Connie’s daughter was settled, and it got ugly. Erik was right to hate him. Geller stood by his reasons for doing what he did, if not how.
After the ceremony concluded, Geller spotted Erik and Heidi walking hand-in-hand toward the long line of cars at the cemetery. He caught up with them just before they got to their vehicle.
“Erik,” he said. They both stopped and slowly turned toward him. Geller forced a smile, indicating he meant well, but it wasn’t returned by either of them.
“It’s good to see you both. Heidi, you look well.”
Erik looked him up and down for a moment before speaking.
“Nice service,” he said.
“Yes, I was impressed by the turnout. I wasn’t sure if you saw me—“
“I was terrified you might speak.”
“Lucia made it clear that wouldn’t happen.”
“Listen, we’ve got plans in the city tonight. What do you want?” Erik said.
“Two minutes of your time. That’s it.”
Erik sighed heavily and ran his hand through his hair.
“I’m not interested in anything you have to say.”
“Please. You’ll never hear from me again.”
“What is it?”
“Confidential,” Geller replied, glancing apologetically toward Heidi. She subtly shook her head at him and mouthed, don’t. Geller’s eyes returned to Erik.
“Come on. Let’s go,” Heidi interjected, and started pulling him away.
“No, no, it’s okay,” Erik said. “Brad and Jenna are staying at our hotel. Why don’t you catch a ride back to the hotel with them. I’ll be right behind you.”
Heidi glanced again at Geller. “Are you sure?”
“Yeah, I’m sure.”
She kissed him on the cheek and gave Geller another warning look before joining her friends. Geller lingered on her a bit, though not so long that Erik would notice. If anything, she was even prettier now.
“Let’s walk,” Erik said. “I’ve been standing still for too long.”
They crossed the line of cars and continued on through the enormous cemetery grounds, eventually finding a gravel path between the tombstones. They exchanged some tense pleasantries about how things were going at GIG and how Geller was enjoying his second retirement. Geller learned that Heidi was pregnant with their first child and that Lars was teaching in Malaysia.
“That’s tremendous—congratulations,” Geller offered.
“Yeah. So how about you say what you need to say so I can have the pleasure of telling you to fuck off once and for all?”
“It has to do with Baz and me. And Heidi.”
Erik looked into Geller’s eyes for several seconds, squinting. Then:
“She’s no mystery to you, is she? I’ll bet she never was.”
Geller raised an eyebrow. “No.”
Erik nodded, his eyes darting all around the cemetery as though his brain was too busy assembling puzzle pieces to control them. After a moment, they found Geller’s again.
“She had the markers like everyone else, but not quite all of them. That’s what we couldn’t quite figure. You gave her something different. I knew it, man. Deep down, I fucking knew.”
He meant the isotopes. Heidi didn’t seem to have as many markers, which had mystified Erik and his team.
Geller explained everything about serum one, up through his very expensive clandestine trip to Laird to retrieve the cryotube sewn into the pocket of his time-capsule jeans. Erik’s walking cadence slowed until he finally stopped, staring down at his feet until Geller was finished. After a moment he spoke, but didn’t raise his eyes.
“That day at Laird, when we hung out and talked shop? That was the greatest day of my life. From that point on, I was going to do whatever it took to be in your company. To learn from you. I spent my whole life trying to get out from under your shadow, only to realize that you don’t cast one. You’re not even here.”
Erik trailed off and stared across the cemetery, shaking his head. Geller let him. After a time he turned to face him again.
“And where is this serum one right now?”
Geller reached in his pocke
t and withdrew a small metal tube the size of a cigar.
Erik looked at it, then incredulously back up at Geller, shaking his head.
“Oh, you’ve gotta be shittin’ me.”
“I thought a treasure map would be pretentious,” Geller offered. Erik didn’t laugh.
“What am I supposed to do with this?”
“I don’t care,” Geller said. “I had half a mind to throw it in with Baz.”
“Yeah, well, that would’ve been better than giving the fucking thing to me. Did he know?”
“It was the last time we spoke. I told him I destroyed it.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“It was my life’s work.”
“What am I supposed to do with it?”
“Throw it away. Hide it. It doesn’t matter anymore.”
“You know, it’s just such a coincidence that you show up with this when Heidi is two months pregnant.”
“What? I couldn’t have known about that. Congratulations.”
“Fuck you.”
Geller continued to hold the little tube out toward him.
“If you don’t care what happens to it, why go to such lengths to get it?” Erik said.
“If someone else found it, there’s no telling what would happen to it. Where it would end up, and with who. This way at least I know. You’re a good man. Whatever the right thing is, that’s what you’ll do.”
Erik stared at him, incredulous, as though wondering how Baz ever held Geller in such high esteem.
“You diminished him. Every bad thing he ever went through was because he believed in you.”
“I know.”
Geller, expressionless, continued to hold the tube out. After several moments, Erik took it.
“No one will ever know this existed,” Erik hissed, shaking it in Geller’s face. Tears formed in his red eyes, but he blinked them away. “I’m going to see to it. Your only legacy will be how you played God.”
“Nothing you do or don’t do will change that,” Geller said.
