Misspent Youth (commonwealth saga)

by Peter F. Hamilton

  “Yeah, I guess so.”

  Jeff frowned; the boy sounded terribly weary. “Where are you?”

  “Up on the big road behind the university. It’s not so bad here. Rachel got a dose of the gas the police bastards are shooting at us. We had to take her away from the front line. Some people gave us water to wash her eyes out. She’s not so bad now. We’re taking a breather till we go back.”

  The front line! Oh, Jesus. “Tim, listen to me. The police have called the Europol Riot Suppression Force in. You have to leave.”

  “No.”

  “Tim, you’ve won, okay? They’ve canceled all of tonight’s events; and tomorrow morning’s are under review. One of the organizers told me the government was considering announcing the summit is off. They were hoping that would make the protestors pack up and go home, but I think it’s too late for that now. You have to get out.”

  “Are you leaving?”

  “Not for a while. They won’t let us out.”

  “Then I’m staying.”

  “You can’t, not because of me. Tim, I don’t contribute anything to this. I’m a physicist, I’m just one of the dancing bears, for God’s sake.”

  “No, you’re not, Dad; you’re a lot more than that, you’re the proof that Brussels works. They justify themselves through you.”

  Jeff heard himself groan out loud. This went way beyond standard parental concern. He just knew there was going to be major trouble when the RSF arrived. Tim could very well get hurt, badly hurt, because he was young and stupid and full of hope. And he was going to stay to make his point. Something like the RSF wasn’t part of the equation that Tim and his friends considered, because they weren’t real and bad things didn’t happen to good people, and anyway this was all an exciting game. Eurocrats in their gray suits will listen if we shout loud enough, and the world will become a better place because of it. Jeff realized he was seriously going to have to do something, make some gesture. Tim really was stubborn enough to stay outside because he was inside. And Jeff just couldn’t allow his son to come to any harm. He was surprised by how strong that determination was, like some kind of tectonic force moving him irresistibly. Just like risking so much for Annabelle.

  “All right, Tim, I’ll leave.”

  “What?”

  “Jeff!” Annabelle hissed. “You can’t.”

  He held up a finger, pleading for silence. “I’ll leave. But you have to promise to leave with me.”

  “Do you mean that?”

  “Yes. Do you?”

  “Er, guess so. How are you going to get out?”

  “Leave that to me. Can you make your way up to the Connaught circle?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll see you there.” He ended the call.

  “How do you think you’re going to get to him?” Annabelle asked. “Jeff, this is crazy, it’s a war zone out there.”

  He shivered and glanced down out the window, rubbing his hands against the cold generated by the room’s air conditioning. The police and protestors on the bridge were taking a break. There was about thirty meters between them; the smoke and tear gas had cleared, with the occasional stone or bottle still being thrown. “Not all the time. I’ll just wait for a pause.”

  “What about me?”

  The accusation in her voice was crippling. He circled his arms round her. “I want you to stay here. It’s safe.”

  “No. I want to be with you.”

  “Annabelle, I couldn’t live with myself if both you and Tim get hurt.”

  “I’m not staying here by myself; it’s too scary. What if that mob breaks in?”

  “Natalie and the others will stay with you; they can hardly go out onto the streets. You’ll be safe.”

  “Please, Jeff, don’t do this. Don’t leave me.”

  “I have to go, you know I do. It’s not because I want to prove anything to Tim. It’s because I really do care for him, and I cannot allow him to be hurt. And he will be. The RSF will come storming in and crack as many heads as they can. It’ll be like Bonn and Paris and Copenhagen all over again, but much bigger. I have to go. I’m sorry, but I have to.”

  “Then I’m coming with you.”

  51. COMMITMENT

  LUCY DUKE WAS WAITING in the lobby when the elevator doors opened. Krober must have called ahead to warn her when they were all on their way down.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” she asked.

  “Leaving.” Jeff hopped onto the pedwalk, with Annabelle at his side.

  Lucy and the three bodyguards followed him on. “You’re crazy. Nobody’s allowed out.”

  “It’s a free coun—Oh, no, it isn’t anymore, is it?” He smiled ingratiatingly at her.

  “Why are you doing this? Where are you going?”

  “To collect my son. He’s out there with the others, and your lot have just called in the storm troopers.”

  For once Lucy’s composure cracked at the mention of Tim, and she grimaced in annoyance. “All right, look, let me see what I can do. There are undercover officers out there; they can take him to safety.”

  “Don’t you get it? It has to be me. I’m the real reason he’s out there.”

  “Suppose someone recognizes you.”

  “With the way you’ve handled my profile, I’d be amazed if there’s anyone left out there who doesn’t.”

  “You can’t leave. You can’t. That’s giving in to them, whatever personal reasons you might have. This is what you are, this summit, the superconductor project.”

  Jeff turned and gave her a sad little smile. “But it’s not what I want to be.”

  THE CAMERA CREWS covering the confrontation on the Connaught Bridge found them almost at once. A little knot of disturbance behind the police line, slowly moving forward toward the front rank, where officers were crouched down behind their shields. Lenses zoomed in to see Jeff pushing past the furious officers; Annabelle had her arms around his waist, almost as if she was being towed along behind. In unison, a dozen news anchors yelped: “That’s Jeff Baker.”

  Jeff had to force himself along, every centimeter of the way. It was like being trapped inside a perpetual rugby scrum. Every time he shoved another policeman to one side he was screamed at.

  “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

  “Piss off, dickhead.”

  Awkwardly held batons thumped painfully into his sides. He kept banging his head against the wide helmet collars as officers turned to see what was happening.

  “Fucking moron, what are you doing?”

  The air was heavy with the stench of burnt rubber, mixed with a stronger, more acidic smell: gas. He practically gagged each time he took a breath. His eyes were already smarting, big tears making everything smeary. Something landed on the helmet of the police officer next to him. The man swore as the plastic bottle shattered, drenching him in warm urine. “Little shits, I’m gonna kill me one later.”

  Jeff used a sleeve to wipe the disgusting fluid from his face. The edge of a riot shield smacked across his shin. He held in the squawk of pain, trying to tough it out for Annabelle’s sake. He could feel her arms shaking badly as she clung to him.

  Abruptly there was no more resistance. He’d reached the front row. Police were crouched before him, holding their overlapping shields firm against the tarmac like an ancient army of pikemen. In front of the scuffed and stained plastic was about twenty meters of road, empty apart from the litter of missiles. Then there were the protestors, an ever-moving row of youths with their heads covered in balaclavas or makeshift scarves. They taunted and chanted as they ran a few paces forward in challenge before scuttling back to be absorbed by the mass. There was always someone in the act of flinging an object at the police, sending it in a high arc over the resolute barrier of shields.

  It wouldn’t be long until another full-on clash, Jeff knew. The distance between the two sides was already closing.

  “Now,” he called out to Annabelle. He stepped over the crouched policeman,
shoving the shields aside like some kind of jammed door.

  “Hey, what the fuck—”

  A big gauntlet closed around Jeff’s shoulder. He snapped his head around and stared directly into the goggles of a big policeman who’d grabbed him, seeing the confusion in the other’s eyes. “Take your hand off me, sonny boy, or I’ll smash your teeth so far down your throat you’ll be eating with your ass.” The fingers lost their grip. Probably due to surprise rather than the threat, Jeff reckoned.

  Jeff stepped out through the gap in the shield. It was one of those moments where a single rational thought would have sent him racing back behind the police, desperate for sanctuary. Instead, he just made sure Annabelle got clear all right, then started to walk, striding along as if this was the most normal thing in the world.

  It was only when he’d covered half the distance that he realized what he was actually doing, and muttered: “Oh shit, oh shit.” The youths ahead were the kind he’d spent most of his adult life trying to avoid. Hard-faced and cruel, brought up on some terrifying lawless sink estate, they’d stab him for a single euro. Meeting one was every middle-class boy’s nightmare.

  “Jeff?” Annabelle called.

  “Nothing, it’s okay.”

  Someone up ahead pointed. “Oi, it’s Jeff Baker.” The name rumbled along the crowd like a small roll of thunder.

  Jeff directed a modest shrug toward them. Quite a few people were staring at him now. He was closing the gap quickly, not giving them any time to react, keeping them off balance. The strategy seemed to work: He could see a lot of puzzled frowns above the bright triangles of cloth they wore over their lower faces.

  Just before he reached the first of them, he turned around. With a broad grin, he raised a single stiff finger to the massed ranks of the now-silent riot police.

  Cheers and whoops of delight rolled out from the protestors; several of them started clapping. Someone flung their arms around Jeff in greeting. More hands slapped him on the back. Annabelle was kissed several times. Dozens of people crowded around, wanting to say hello, to welcome him, to say thank you. “We knew you were all right, Jeff.” “You’re one of us, mate.” “This’ll show the bastards.”

  They made their way slowly through the protestors, an osmotic process gradually filtering them away from the front and along the bridge. It was like some campaign rally; he had to shake hands with everyone they passed, to smile and say how much their cause meant to him. He’d never realized the bridge was so long.

  Angry shouting broke out behind him. The distinctive dull thud of tear gas canisters reverberated through the late afternoon sky. Jeff and Annabelle both flinched, ducking down. Nobody was paying attention to them anymore. The conflict had resumed.

  “Come on.” Jeff took her hand and they jogged away from the disturbance. With the other hand he fumbled his PCglasses on, and called Tim.

  “You did it,” Tim cried down the link. “You really did it.”

  Jeff dodged aside of a team of ten or so men with intent faces hurrying toward the skirmish; they looked like military types to him. “Of course I did it. Now where are you?”

  They managed to find each other by shouting locations and directions in a farcical manner. Jeff would have laughed at how bizarre it was, not a hundred meters away and having to go: “Where? How far? Which way?” Except it was all too tragic for real humor.

  Tim, Vanessa, Colin, Simon, and Rachel were all sheltering at the top of the circle’s slip road. Looking at them, Jeff remembered that last barbeque at the manor when they’d all fooled around in the pool and on the lawns. Happy youngsters keen for what the future might hold. It was as if a decade had passed. Tim’s hair was greasy, plastered down on his skull. Misty green dye had settled on his clothes in long streaks, staining his neck and fingers; a long smear covered his nose where he’d wiped a hand. His eyes were dark and very tired. Even his fancy Hi-shot PCglasses were bent.

  He managed a forlorn little smile when Jeff and Annabelle emerged through the running throng. Jeff gave him a quick hug. “You look like shit.”

  “Thanks.” Tim was reluctant to let go; he held up his PCglasses. “We watched it, all of us. Every news stream showed you walking across. I couldn’t believe it.”

  “You’ve got balls of steel, Jeff,” Simon said, grinning with admiration. “I would never have done that.”

  Jeff didn’t take his eyes off Tim. “I had to.”

  “You really came. I…I don’t know what to say, Dad.” He peered around Jeff’s shoulder. “You too, Annabelle. Thanks.”

  “Hi yourself, Tim.” She sounded as if she was about to burst into tears. Jeff put his arm around her, stroking in concern. Rachel was giving them a sardonic look, unnoticed by Simon.

  “So, are you going to live up to your side of the deal?” Jeff asked.

  “Yeah,” Tim said weakly. “None of this is what I expected.”

  “Life never is, son.”

  “Dad?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thank you.”

  52. AN EVENING IN

  SUE BUZZED THE OUTSIDE LOCK as soon as she saw them on the porch’s CCTV monitor. She was waiting in the vestibule when the lift arrived. Jeff was first out. She gave him a quick smile, then looked anxiously behind him. Tim was standing there, looking exhausted. His clothes were filthy and messed up, with broad smears of green dye. She flung her arms around him and squeezed tight.

  “I’m okay,” he said. “We’re all okay now.”

  Sue nodded welcome to the other youngsters. The three girls looked wrecked. The boys weren’t much better. “Come on in,” she said.

  Vanessa, Rachel, and Annabelle claimed the master bedroom with its en suite bathroom. Sue gave them a pile of her casual clothes, and found them some extra soap and shampoo, though she doubted that would be any good against the dye. The boys had taken over the biggest guest bedroom, and were soon larking about as they got ready to shower. She called at Tim through the door, telling him which wardrobe had his old clothes, and that he was to share them out. As she walked away she heard Colin and Simon joshing him about being told what to do by his mum. A secretive grin lifted her lips; it actually felt good looking after them all, as if she’d become some kind of earth mother.

  She found Jeff in the kitchen, swigging down a bottle of premium-strength lager.

  “That was quite something you did this afternoon,” she said.

  He handed her a second bottle. She expertly snapped the top off against one of the granite work tops, then smiled, wishing Tim had seen her do that.

  “Second scare he’s given me in a month,” Jeff said.

  “First one you’ve given me in quite a while. I watched you on the news streams.”

  “Have the government put their spin on that yet?”

  “I think they’re a little busy blaming Brussels for the riot right now.”

  “Never mind, I’m sure they’ll get round to it.”

  “Everybody saw you, there’s not much they can change in people’s minds. And when they find out you did that because you were concerned about your son…You really could run for president, you know.”

  “What a ghastly thought.”

  “And Annabelle went with you. I’m going to have to revise my opinion about that one.”

  Jeff took a big swig. “Go easy on her tonight, she’s had a hard time.”

  “I wasn’t planning on being a bitch, Jeff.”

  “I’m glad you were here.”

  Sue raised her bottle in salute. “Me too.”

  “Right then. Let’s get supper sorted, I’m starving. You have got proper food here, haven’t you, not just that delicatessen crap?”

  Sue stuck her tongue out at him, and opened the freezer. Jeff chuckled appreciatively as they pulled the packets out.

  Once the youngsters were all washed and dressed in clean dry clothes, they sat around the kitchen table and wolfed down sausages and eggs and potato fritters and spaghetti and garlic bread. “Nursery food,” Tim ca
lled it contentedly. “Thanks, Mum.”

  Listening to all the banter and mild teasing going on around the table was almost like old times for Jeff. With one exception. Annabelle never left his side, and he could return the affection in front of Tim and Sue without any hesitation.

  The big screen in the living room was switched to a news stream, and everyone settled in chairs or sprawled over cushions to watch. Jeff sat on the couch with Annabelle curled up beside him. She was nice and warm against his side. He was feeling the cold again, though the others all claimed the room was hot.

  By eight-thirty the first squads of the Europol RSF had arrived from Paris, though none had yet been seen emerging from the trains. Cameras showed protestors retreating from the streets around Kings Cross. Rob Lacey appeared in Downing Street’s Rose Garden for a live press statement, claiming that the nihilists wrecking the streets of our great capital would be brought to justice no matter how long it took.

  “They always say that,” Simon exclaimed. “Any sort of big crime gets committed, and politicians say exactly the same line every time. They never do it, though.”

  By nine o’clock the Metropolitan Police had managed to escort fire engines to most of the blazes away from Docklands. There was coverage of the infernos raging through dozens of buildings, sending flames twisting high into the night sky. News streams competed against one another with dramatic shots of fire crews sending huge jets of foaming water through broken windows and crumbled masonry, trying to stop the spread. Some of the more hysterical reporters were talking about the Second Fire of London, a concept the authorities were eager to quash. Cameras lingered on the somber black ruins of buildings already burned out.

  There was no official curfew, although Scotland Yard kept stressing that law-abiding citizens should not go outside.

  The Brussels Parliament went into emergency session to debate the civil situation. Furious English EMPs rose to condemn foreign agitators for wrecking the capital, claiming it amounted to an invasion force. Continental EMPs protested at the use of such provocative, racist terms. Shouts and countershouts grew louder; objects were thrown across the seating tiers. The speaker called a recess so that tempers could calm.