Misspent Youth (commonwealth saga)

by Peter F. Hamilton

  His mood wasn’t helped when Simon and Rachel strolled off down the drive together, leaning together and French kissing as they went.

  In the morning Tim had a quick shower and put on a clean sweatshirt before taking the stairs two at a time. When he thought back, last night wasn’t so discouraging after all. He and Annabelle were making a kind of progress toward having full sex. Even that would have been unthinkable two months ago. He heard the voices coming from the kitchen, and barged straight in.

  His mother and father were sitting at the long table in the middle of the room, both of them in bathrobes. There was tea and toast on the table, along with jars of marmalade and honey. The wallscreen was silently playing a news stream.

  “Morning,” Tim grunted. He sat down at the table opposite from them, and reached for the jug of orange juice.

  “Morning, Tim,” his father said.

  Tim saw his father’s hand move out of his mother’s lap where he’d been squeezing her leg. And his voice, that was cheerful. And they were both smiling, leaning close to each other. Two contented people.

  Very slowly Tim’s eyes tracked back up to his father’s face. A handsome young face, reasonably similar to his own. A young face on a young body. And then there was his mother, gorgeous as always, even with her hair uncombed—which it never was at breakfast. Could they have…Last night, did they…Had they actually been…

  “Careful, Tim,” his mother called.

  His glass was full, and orange juice was leaking over the rim to flood down his hand. “Shit! Sorry.” He stopped pouring, and looked around for a cloth. His face was bright red. He knew that for certain, his skin was surely hot enough to blister.

  “Here.” His father handed over a dish cloth.

  Tim began dabbing away. “Thanks.” He concentrated hard on the task. There was no way he could glance up. If he did that he’d have to look at their faces. And if they really had… No!

  “So what’s the plan for today?” his father asked. “You and Annabelle going out?”

  “Er, no, she’s visiting her cousins today. I’ve, got some, um, friends coming round later.” Tim stood up and dumped the dripping cloth in the clothes hamper. “We’re doing some stuff.” He sat down again and found the toast.

  “Stuff, eh?”

  “Yeah.” At the edge of his vision he could see his father and mother exchange a glance and grin at each other. God, this is so embarrassing.

  “Good stuff?” Jeff asked. “Bad stuff? Terrible stuff?”

  “Er, your old Jet Ski, actually. We’ve fixed it up, and we’re going to test the engine. You don’t mind, do you?”

  “Fine by me.”

  Tim slapped some butter on a slice of toast and gulped down his orange juice. “I should go and get ready. They’ll be here soon.” With the toast in his hand he fled out of the kitchen. When he was halfway up the stairs, he was sure he heard laughter behind him.

  20. AWAY DAY

  JEFF DROVE DOWN TO LONDON. The Europol team hadn’t liked that, nor Lucy Duke; they all wanted him to take the train. But he allowed Lieutenant Krober to come in the car with him while Lucy and the rest of the team followed in their own vehicle.

  He didn’t do it to be obstinate; he just remembered how much he used to enjoy driving before the nineties, when everyone suddenly had three cars and drove like characters out of Wacky Races. Now it was like the early seventies again, except the roads had been in much better condition back then. But with strategic (i.e., punitive) Green fuel taxes and the huge Brussels-funded investment in public transport over the last twenty years, people had reluctantly moved back to the trains and buses. It left long stretches of the Al where he couldn’t see any other vehicles at all. When another car did come into view it was normally a big luxury model like his own, most of them ignoring the speed limit. Every car in Europe had to have a journeytracker unit fitted in order to get a road license, and the journeytracker was linked to the Galileo positioning satellite network. It enabled the EuroTransport Bureau to monitor the location of every car all the time, and impose instant fines if the speed limit was ever exceeded. Jeff had gotten a software fix for the annoying unit, of course—every car owner did; garages slipped them in as a matter of course. But today, with Krober in the car with him, he stuck reasonably close to the one hundred twenty kph restriction.

  Despite all the restrictions and exorbitant license costs, trucks were still fairly common, big sixty-ton juggernauts powered by liquid gas. Every few kilometers Jeff would pass the burnt-out chasses of similar vehicles, all of the models dating back about ten years. Fires must have burned fiercely at the time, consuming the surrounding bushes and trees to create little dead-zones. These patches of scorched earth had now been reclaimed by keck weed and giant thistles, whose leaves were sallow and misshapen thanks to the chemicals that fire-fighting crews had left, staining the soil. With their rusting metal hulks netted by vines, and every viable component stripped off, the ruined trucks looked like the abandoned relics of some mighty Soviet-era transport project.

  Jeff avoided making any comment to Krober as he drove past the frequent wrecks. They were all foreign haulers, careless enough to have been spotted by their English counterparts or local Separatist groups. Nobody from the Continent drove through England now. Freight containers were all unloaded at ports and the Channel Tunnel depots, allowing the deliveries to be undertaken by English firms. Or at least English-registered firms.

  As soon as he crossed inside the M25 orbital the car’s journeytracker told him he’d been charged a fifty euro fee for a London CityDrive day license. The traffic picked up when he took the A41 into the West End, smaller cars and vans closing around him, along with innumerable buses and the city’s ubiquitous black taxis. Jeff’s journeytracker kept issuing directions, though he liked to think he could still remember the way through the maze of streets. E-trikes and bicycles tooted angrily at anything with the audacity to be on the same road. Inside the North Circular Road the CityDrive license fee went up to seventy-five euros. By the time he got around Hyde Park and arrived at the Knightsbridge flat he was paying a hundred fifty.

  Sue hadn’t changed the apartment, at least not the way she’d set about the manor with decorators and interior designers. Half the furniture was new, and he was sure some of the kitchen fittings were different. But at least the rooms remained the same shape. He’d bought the entire top floor of a typical five-story Regency-style town residence, which had seen so much refurbishment and development the only original feature remaining was the white façade.

  Lucy Duke could barely conceal her jealousy as she looked around the rooms with their high ceilings. When she stepped out onto the tiny roof terrace, the tops of the trees in Hyde Park were just visible.

  “This is fabulous,” she said. “It must be worth a fortune.”

  Jeff was peering over the railing at the street below. The traffic here was very light, mostly taxis. “I didn’t buy it to make money,” he said. “I just wanted somewhere to stay when I’m in town. I’ve had a lot of bad experiences with hotels over the years. Even if you ever manage to find a good one, they always seem to change management every six months and you’re back to square one.”

  “I see.”

  He masked a smile. The notion must have matched her sense of efficiency.

  Back inside he checked to see if the housekeeping service had stocked the big fridge. They’d certainly kept the place clean and tidy. There was fresh linen on the bed, even some yellow roses in the living room. “I can provide breakfast for everybody for the next two weeks,” he called out. “Are you staying here?”

  “No,” she said. “My flat’s over in Battersea. It’s not far. I’ll go home tonight.”

  There were three bottles of Krug champagne in the fridge. “Fine.” He hoped it was Sue’s boyfriends who were paying for this stuff rather than his household account.

  The surprise of that thought made him frown. Who gives a fuck, actually? Everything had changed now betw
een him and Sue, totally for the better. They’d spent the last three days together, and it had been pretty damn good. They knew each other so well there was none of the awkwardness that had cast a shadow over his encounter with Nicole. Sue was also hot, bad, and exciting in bed. So good, in fact, he’d actually canceled his next financial review with Nicole.

  “If we could review your schedule,” Lucy said.

  Jeff closed the fridge. “Sure.”

  Lucy had spread her flexscreen over the coffee table. Dark blue script was flowing across it. Jeff sat on the couch and clasped his hands behind his head as she checked her watch.

  “We have three interviews this afternoon, all of them audio,” she said.

  “Ah, radio. That’s different.”

  She looked up, slightly flustered. “Um, yes, I think the companies have direct satellite broadcast capability as well.”

  “Of course.”

  “These are intended as profile pieces. There will be minimum focus on the superconductor research. If you do say anything on that, try and keep it at pop-science level. The target demographic today is fourteen to twenty-five. They’ll only be interested in what it’s like coming back to their age again. What shows you like, Sir Mitch and Stephanie, sports, that kind of thing. Oh, and just be careful with Mike Bashley—that’s the second interview—he enjoys trying to put one over on his guests. He can be very charming, then he’ll slip in questions about which soap starlet you fancy and where you stand on legalizing desktop production of synth8.”

  “I’ll watch for it.”

  “Good. I’ve got a car booked to take you around the studios; we’re doing it live and physical. That makes everybody concerned think it’s an important event.”

  “Everybody all of the time,” he muttered.

  The script flowed quickly across the spin doctor’s flexscreen as she told it to move on. “We’ll be back here for half past four. That gives you ninety minutes to get ready for tonight. The car will pick you up at six. Even if the traffic’s slow, we should be at the Weston Castle Hotel by quarter past.”

  “Jolly good.”

  “I’ve got your new dinner jacket.” She pointed to the plastic-wrapped outfit draped over the back of the couch next to her. “And the shirt is in your suitcase.”

  “Yes,” Jeff said hurriedly when she glanced expectantly at him. It was like being back at prep school, being quizzed by his dorm matron about washing behind his ears.

  “You’ll be on the high table, with the prime minister on your left, and the chair of the joint sciences council on your right. He’s been told Mrs. Baker isn’t coming.”

  “Right.” He was frustrated that Sue wasn’t here, but she needed to sort out her mother’s transfer now that they’d found a place in a nursing home. The annual pure and industrial science council dinner wasn’t exactly Sue’s idea of a fun night out, but then he wasn’t exactly looking forward to it himself. At least having her at his side would have made it bearable.

  “I’ve issued copies of your speech to the media already, so please don’t stray from the text; it ties in quite neatly with the other two speakers.”

  “Right. So no botanist and the butterfly joke, then?”

  “No. And we’ve been invited to an after-dinner party at the Brunel Club; the senior council members and the prime minister’s deputy chief of staff will be going.”

  “Fine.” He wanted to say something like, Why don’t you just morph me in for the news streams? Everything was so predetermined and regulated there was barely any need for him to be there at all. But Ms. Duke lacked any known sense of humor. She’d just give him another tolerant, slightly irritated smile, and carry on with the briefing.

  “Any questions?”

  “I think it’s been organized perfectly,” he said.

  “Thank you.” She rolled up her flexscreen and put it into her embossed black leather Yamin shoulder bag, checked her watch again. “Could we access a news stream, please?”

  “Sure. Which one?”

  “English Newsweb.”

  The big wall screen came alive as he instructed the flat’s domestic computer. Red Live from Downing Street streamers ran across the top and bottom of the image, almost covering the advertising banners. Lucy sat up straight, staring eagerly at the screen.

  Rob Lacey was standing behind the podium in the press room, wearing a pale blue shirt with a slim red tie, his breast pocket bearing a circle of gold EU stars stitched across it. The prime minister was looking professionally relaxed, grinning at the assembled reporters in his best matey style. “I believe that my candidacy is the only one able to offer the inclusiveness which our continent so desperately needs. We all know there are alienation problems in every region; if elected I would devote my presidency to bringing these people back into the family that is a Unified Europe. Only together can we be strong and prosperous. The way to do that is through liberalization. We must reform our institutions so that business and communities are no longer burdened with excessive regulation and tax; we must modernize the civil service and yes, even the European Parliament, so that elected officials can regain the trust of those who elect us.”

  Rob Lacey fell silent for a moment. Bedlam erupted among the reporters as they all shouted their questions at him. Was he resigning as prime minister to run his presidential campaign? Did he favor referendums for countries to withdraw from the EU? Would he order the EuroArmy into the Indian-Pakistan security zone to enforce the peace? How was he going to tackle the Russian illegal immigration problem? Were the last whites in South Africa to be evacuated to Europe? Would there be more rejuvenations? What did his wife think about him standing? How would he tackle the radiation leakage from the Ukrainian reactors? Would he ask Stephanie and Sir Mitch to endorse him? What was his economic policy?

  Rob Lacey held up both hands, still smiling benevolently. “My campaign pledges will be published online at one o’clock this afternoon. That will set out clearly and unequivocally where I stand on all major items of policy.”

  “He’s done it,” Lucy Duke whispered. “He’s declared.” She sounded delighted.

  Jeff gave her a sideways glance. She was still staring up at the screen, back held rigid, an expression of unswerving admiration on her face. He’d often wondered what it would take to get her aroused. “You knew this was going to happen, didn’t you?” he asked.

  “I was briefed that it was a possibility, yes.”

  “Right down to the possible timing.”

  His gaze left the screen as Rob Lacey raised both hands above his head and gave the air a victory punch. His wife had joined him at the podium, clinging adoringly to his side. Jeff’s instant impression was of Lady Macbeth.

  “Is that a problem?” Lucy Duke asked.

  “If I turn up and sit next to him at the dinner tonight it will appear as though I’m providing a direct endorsement.”

  “Not at all. Everybody knows this dinner was arranged weeks ago.”

  Jeff indicated the screen. “Whereas this was purely spontaneous.”

  “Tonight is not an endorsement. You will have total public access. If you wanted to denounce Mr. Lacey and his policies, this would be your perfect opportunity.”

  “He has policies?”

  “It was the prime minister who pressed very hard for you to be the first to receive rejuvenation. That was his policy.”

  “Policy or advantage?”

  “If you feel so strongly, you can pull out. We can announce you have a cold.”

  “I’m not going to give anybody that big a snub, especially someone who’s probably going to be president. All I’m saying is, when you have your early briefings, you might have the courtesy to include me in future. Understand?”

  She nodded. “Yes. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

  “So does he stand a chance?”

  “Yes. A very good one. Brèque won’t get in again; no serving president has ever been reelected, not even the good ones, and he’s given us bad inflation,
increased terrorist attacks, and his foreign policy is a catastrophe. The German chancellor is suffering badly from his party’s cash-for-aircraft scandal. The Italian prime minister is damaged goods after that last clash with the Vatican. The only person who could mount a viable challenge is Cherie Beamon.”

  “The environment commissioner?”

  “Yes. She’s got a high public profile, and she’s Ms. Super-Clean as far as her career is concerned. The media has never been able to dig up anything on her.”

  “Jesus Christ, a politician who behaves herself. Maybe she should stand for pope.”

  “Her commitment is actually her major weakness. She’s a fanatical Green. The clean-emission legislation she’s churned out is hurting companies right across Europe. She’s even opposed to the room-temperature superconductor project.”

  “That’s stupid,” he said automatically. “Nothing is more environmentally sound than HTS.”

  “She thinks anything that can increase energy production is fundamentally flawed. Our efforts should be focused on reducing consumption.”

  “She won’t like me, then?”

  “No. She considered rejuvenation to be a terrible waste of resources.”

  “I guess I’ll be voting Lacey, then.”

  THERE WAS A HUGE CROWD around the Weston Castle Hotel that evening. The police had thrown up a secure zone around the immediate vicinity, complete with barricades. It took Jeff’s limousine thirty minutes to get through the crush. Everybody, it seemed, wanted to get in on the act now that Lacey had announced his decision. There were well-wishers and party loyalists with LACEY FOR PRESIDENT banners, though they were in the minority, and corraled by the police for their own safety. Just about every mainstream and fringe political cause on the planet was represented by a batch of their supporters, determined to make Lacey consider their point of view. They’d come equipped with their own banners, and effigies, and PA systems, and sonic howlers, and spray paint. With the secure zone covered by cameras, a majority of them were wearing Rob Lacey face masks to avoid identification by Europol surveillance. The thin layer of plastic flesh produced a perfect replica of the prime minister’s features.