Misspent Youth

by Peter F. Hamilton

  Once he’d dropped Tim off he zoomed over to Stamford to meet up with the birthday girl in their suite at the George. He couldn’t resist driving her home afterward. Sitting behind the wheel on a warm summer’s night, delectable teenage sex kitten at his side with Bruce Springsteen at level twenty—his quality of life had taken a remarkable quantum leap inside a few short hours.

  AFTER THE YOUNGSTERS HAD DEVOTED a suitable amount of time to worshipping the Jag, Jeff went back into the study while they settled back around the patio. The call came in a couple of minutes early, just like he knew it would.

  “You having a good time?” Annabelle asked. She was in her bedroom at home, a drab box of a room, with ancient burgundy-red curtains already drawn against the night. The single bed she was perched on took up a third of the floor space. The wall behind was covered in posters of Stephanie and Sir Mitch.

  “I just want you to be here,” he said. “I miss you.”

  “I miss you, too.”

  “How about you, are you having a good time?”

  “Oh yeah.” Her face went all petulant. “All my friends are round at your place with Tim. And you’re there, too. School’s finished, I’ve nowhere else to go. I hate it here, Jeff, I really hate it.”

  “I’m sorry. I was there for you this morning, wasn’t I?”

  “I know. I just want to be with you, Jeff.” Her hand reached out to press against the screen. “Can’t we be together?”

  “We can. We will.”

  “I’m being selfish. Sorry. How’s the party?”

  “Hmm.” Jeff glanced out the window at the floodlit patio. “They’re getting ready to watch the football match. It’s going to be a long evening, I’d guess.”

  “Great.”

  “This is getting ridiculous, isn’t it. I want you here, with me, tonight.”

  “I want to be there,” she said mournfully.

  “I’m going to go and tell him.”

  “No, Jeff.”

  “For Christ’s sake, the boy’s got to learn there’s thorns among the roses sometime.”

  “Please, Jeff, you’re drunk, and randy, and tonight is not the night to tell him.”

  “Yeah, maybe.”

  “Jeff, promise me you won’t.”

  “All right, all right.” He waved his arms in a conciliatory motion. “I’ll be good. But you’ve got to promise me we’ll talk about this soon. Creeping around meeting in hotel rooms is fine and fun for a few days, but I want more of you than that.”

  “Really? Do you mean that?”

  “Of course I mean that.”

  “I’ll wait till tomorrow,” she murmured.

  “That’s the whole point. I don’t want to wait.”

  WHEN JEFF GOT BACK OUT onto the patio he just managed to hold off glaring at Tim. If he had, it would have been noticed. His son had avoided any drink other than water and lemonade all evening; he was the only sober one left. Even so, Jeff must have given away some kind of clue.

  As soon as he plunked himself down in the slatted oak chair, Tim leaned over and used a quiet voice to ask: “Everything okay, Dad?”

  “Sure.” Jeff slapped his son’s knee. “Sure. I’m fine.”

  “Here we go,” Colin yelled.

  They’d all pulled their chairs into a semicircle, facing a portable five-meter screen, which Tim and Jeff had wheeled out of the pool building earlier. It was showing the Barcelona versus Chelsea European premier league match, live from Milan.

  Rachel slumped back into her chair next to Jeff. “This is going to be boring,” she muttered, folding her arms over her chest.

  The Five Star Sports access provider logo flashed up over the Milan stadium. Every seat was filled with chanting supporters. Players were running onto the pitch, its grass weirdly bright under the big lighting rigs. A line of ten small grids appeared along the bottom of the screen, providing alternative camera angles. Two of them were carried by the captains, mounted on the side of their helmets. The logo faded out to be replaced by Rob Lacey’s campaign symbol, a white dove flying out of the circle of gold European stars. A streamer scrolled down one side of the screen, declaring that the match’s wideband pan-European access costs were being paid for by the Rob Lacey for President Committee. The ad started in a swirl of music. The main picture and every grid showed shots of Rob Lacey being involved with people, talking to groups of children in several European countries, inspecting a factory, looking out across the sea from the bridge of a EuroNavy destroyer, in shirtsleeves at a head of state meeting where he argued his point. “Rob Lacey,” the announcer said in a magnificently basso voice. “The man who cares about you. Rob Lacey did not come up through the Brussels system, he can see it needs reforming and simplifying. If elected he will do that. Bureaucracy must be cut back, freeing people to reach their full potential. Only Rob Lacey truly values individuals and—”

  Jeff let out a bored yawn. The images that had been flipping up to illustrate how magnificent the candidate was suddenly showed Rob Lacey and Jeff walking around the manor’s garden. The prime minister was listening with a seriously thoughtful expression on his face as Jeff waved his arms around, chattering enthusiastically.

  The youngsters round the patio jeered and booed loudly. Jeff stood up with a lazy grin on his face, and gave them a sweeping bow. “Thank you, thank you.”

  Up on the screen, Rob Lacey was applauding a modern dance troupe from a German inner-city social regeneration project, half of whom were second-generation immigrants from Eastern Europe and Turkey. Jeff sat down as the ad finished with an appeal for inclusive voting, and any donations possible for the election campaign, ten percent of which would be given to the charities so ably supported by Mr. and Mrs. Lacey. He frowned, thinking about the time Lacey had visited the manor. Hadn’t he been talking merely about pruning the sycamores when they were walking around the gardens together?

  “At bloody last,” Simon exclaimed. Both soccer teams were moving into their positions, with Chelsea taking the kickoff. The ball went zooming in a high trajectory across the pitch; players hurtled toward it. There was a brief clash of bodies and legs, and the ball was spat outward, toward the Chelsea goalmouth.

  “I’m amazed they can even see the damn ball in those helmets,” Jeff mumbled grouchily. “What happened to the kit they used to wear?”

  “You mean, when you were young?” Tim teased.

  “Yeah. I mean, a pair of shorts and a team sweater was all they ever used to need. Now look at them.” His elaborate gesture took in the heavily padded and helmeted players scurrying over the pitch. “They’re like bloody American footballers. They can’t run; they’re carrying so much foam stuffing they just bounce.”

  “Got to be like that, Jeff,” Philip said. “Basic safety.”

  “Yeah,” Martin laughed. “The clubs have got to protect themselves against liability lawyers.”

  Jeff took another drink of beer. He knew if he said anything more he’d sound like a reactionary old grandfather. Everything used to be better in the past. It wasn’t true. The old days were enjoyable only from a long way away, and seen through hazy filters. Now was always the truly best time to live in. Now had Annabelle in it, even though she was ten miles away.

  Rachel leaned over on the edge of her chair, an inscrutable expression on her dainty face as she looked at him. “Penny for your thoughts,” she said quietly.

  “Nothing important.”

  “Really? I thought you looked lonely.”

  FOR ONCE THE MORNING AFTER he’d had an enjoyable night, Tim didn’t have a hangover. He felt incredibly virtuous, refusing every alcoholic drink he’d been offered.

  If only Annabelle could have seen me last night.

  But that wasn’t going to happen, not for a while. He was still more than a little disappointed that she hadn’t even acknowledged the flowers he’d sent her on her birthday. Strange thing was, both Vanessa and Sophie had been reticent to discuss her with him last night, although Vanessa had said she’d welc
ome him giving her a call after she got back home to Nottingham tomorrow. He could press her again then, he decided. No way was he giving up on the most wonderful thing ever to happen to him. Just being persistent would make Annabelle realize how much he genuinely loved her.

  Tim pulled on the shorts and T-shirt that were laid out ready for him, and made his way downstairs. There were voices coming from the kitchen. When he walked in, it was just like a déjà vu trip back to that morning when he’d found his mother and father together: two people in bathrobes cuddling up together, carefree smiles as they fed each other toast. He really wished it was his mother again, or even any of the other girls his father had brought home after cruising the clubs. Instead, he just had to square up to the reality of it being Rachel who was perched on the chair next to his father, cooing and smooching with him.

  His legs just refused to move, leaving him stranded in the doorway, gawking at the pair of them. Rachel! Rachel was his own age, and a friend. Not to mention being Simon’s girlfriend! And she’d spent the night upstairs in his father’s double bed. The two of them naked and…Tim jammed a halt to that line of thought before any images started to spring up.

  “Hi, Tim.” Rachel gave him a sunny smile. “Surprise.”

  “Uh. Hi.”

  “Morning, Tim,” Jeff said. He seemed moderately abashed. Not embarrassed, or contrite, not as if he’d done anything wrong. Just ever so slightly disconcerted.

  “Dad,” Tim mumbled. He put his head down and went for the cornflakes. There was no way he could look at the two of them together, not without seeing those images in his mind. His discomfort melted away into resentment for what they’d done, for putting him in this horrible place. Resentment at his father for hitting on a friend. And as for Rachel, what the hell did she think she was doing?

  I mean, why?

  “Something wrong?” Rachel asked.

  “Not with me,” Tim growled back at her.

  “You’re not upset, are you?”

  It was the implication he hated her for. That little trace of elite amusement in her voice that asked: What do you think you’re doing, passing judgment?

  “Is there something I should be upset about?” he asked.

  “No. That’s the whole point.”

  Tim stopped the pretense of searching for breakfast. “Well then.” He turned his back on both of them and started to walk out.

  “Tim, don’t,” Jeff said. There was some genuine worry in his voice, the need to appease. “I thought we talked about this.”

  Tim faced them, exasperation amplifying his surliness. “No, not this, Dad. We did not talk this through at all.”

  “There was no unspoken agreement, Tim, nothing to say I can’t…” He broke off, giving Rachel a glance. She pouted back at him.

  “And that’s the trouble, Dad. You don’t think there’s anything wrong with this. For God’s sake.”

  “Well, why don’t you tell me where the trouble lies, exactly?” Jeff said, his voice hardening. “I’d like to know what you think I should and shouldn’t be doing.”

  “As if you don’t know.”

  “Excuse me,” Rachel said, her voice icy. “I am here and present. And if you speak round me again, Tim, I shall give you a slap that’ll knock your teeth out.”

  Tim’s fury withered so quickly he hunched his shoulders in reflex. “Sorry,” he grumped.

  “I went to bed with Jeff because I wanted to. That’s it. The end. Live with it.”

  He nodded contritely, and retreated from the kitchen.

  Jeff waited in silence until he heard Tim’s feet pounding on the stairs. He let out a low, regretful whistle. “I think we could have done that better.”

  “It was best this way,” Rachel said. “Trust me. Hard and fast, this way he gets over it quicker.”

  “Is that the way to do it?” Jeff muttered.

  “God, you’re as bad as him. If you’re that sensitive, then last night shouldn’t have happened.”

  “I should put you over my knee,” he said.

  Rachel crunched down on a slice of toast, chewing it with exaggerated movements. Her eyes glittered with suppressed amusement, fixing on him like some kind of missile radar lock. “Promises, promises,” she purred.

  THEY WENT BACK UPSTAIRS to bed. For Jeff, it was almost like a so there to Tim. The boy’s reaction had left him mildly depressed. If Tim felt like that about him taking one of his friends to bed, there was no way he was ready for the truth about Annabelle.

  He was actually quite relieved when Rachel left around midmorning. Tim had disappeared, and the Europol team was watching a sports stream in the downstairs lounge they’d commandeered. Jeff went into the study and locked the door with a voice code. His desktop synthesizer was housed in a specially designed drawer in the desk’s left side. Its lock was voice coded as well, clicking open smoothly as Jeff spoke to it. To look at it, the unit wasn’t much, a cube of gray-white plastic fairly similar in appearance to the last century’s laser-jet printers.

  When the first models had started to come on the market ten years ago, the editorial commentators of the DataMail news stream, which considered itself a prominent occupant of the moral high ground to the right of center, had denounced them as tools of the drug barons, which would bring degenerate misery into millions of families. The early models were designed around a couple of programmable molecular sieves that could combine a few base chemicals into an array of drugs. Originally intended to help reduce the stock costs for high-street pharmacies and hospitals, their potential was eagerly exploited by the illegal narcotics trade. Governments responded with their usual mistrust of their citizenship, legislating heavily, and restricting ownership to legitimate licensed medical concerns. Consequentially a huge and prolific black market for pirated machines flourished in tandem with the lawful industry, gradually forcing back the statutory regulations. Along with that relaxation a multitude of new chemical templates for recreational drugs were released into the datasphere, going under the generic of synth8.

  The complexity and sophistication of the desktop machines advanced swiftly, expanding the range of drugs they could produce. Within ten years, the advanced models incorporated a multitude of programmable sieves, capable of churning out all but the most advanced drugs. The DataMail had been right: It was the age of the ultimate designer drug, although their predicted crash of civilization showed no sign of occurring. Any student or qualified neurochemist could generate a synth8 template. There were even self-design programs floating around within the datasphere, where you loaded in your required narcotic effect, and they’d give you a template that should do the trick. Whether you used them depended how keenly you followed the conspiracy tracker sites.

  For the biogenetic corporations, desktop synthesizers represented a huge loss of revenue, although supplying vials of high-purity base chemicals certainly went some way toward compensating. What prevented them from suffering the same fate as the publishing and music industries was the sheer range of the new genoprotein and biochemical products, which, thanks to their enormous complexity, still had to be factory produced.

  Seventeen green LEDs glowed on the top of Jeff’s unit, showing him the base chemical vials were all still over thirty percent full.

  “Click, give me the same Viagra dose I used last time.”

  “Synthesizing now,” the computer told him.

  He’d bought the desktop synthesizer a few years back to supply himself with some of the simpler drugs his anti-aging regimen required. The only time he’d used the machine after he’d returned from his rejuvenation treatment was to churn out some neurofen capsules to take care of Tim’s hangovers. But after his second encounter with Annabelle at the George he realized that his own stamina couldn’t quite match her own natural youthful endurance. Sue had kept him aroused all night with her diabolical knowledge. Those were skills in which he was now methodically instructing a hugely willing Annabelle. But until he’d finished corrupting her, he simply needed a little so
mething extra to keep that initial blissful physical momentum of their sessions going.

  The first time he’d come to the study and instructed a findbot to get him a Viagra template he’d been astonished by the number of results it had fished out of the datasphere. He should have known, of course; it was now a generic name along with Aspirin and Kleenex. Pharmacists had been refining the principle for decades, gradually eliminating side effects such as headaches, loss of balance, constipation, and even tinnitus, until the modern versions could sustain an erection for a very long time with almost no problem. Even with his programming skills it took ten minutes to filter the possible templates down to less than a dozen. After that, he simply took the first one off the list and fed it into the synthesizer. It hadn’t disappointed.

  The desktop synthesizer pinged discreetly. Three blank turquoise capsules dropped into the little dispenser tray. Jeff put them in his pocket, and locked the unit up again. It was an hour until he was due to meet Annabelle for lunch. After coping with Rachel for most of the morning as well as last night, he’d probably have to take two of the capsules with his dessert.

  TIM CAUGHT THE MIDMORNING EXPRESS train from Peterborough down to London. He got off at Kings Cross station and took the tube, using the Livingstone line to North Kensington, which emerged just behind the Royal Albert Hall. From there it was a ten-minute tramp through the streets to the flat, with three of the Europol team walking with him.

  When the lift opened, Sue was waiting for him in the hallway. She gave him a long hug, resting her head on his shoulder. Tim hugged her back, slightly surprised by the intensity of the greeting. But, he had to admit to himself, it was nice to see Mum again. She represented life from before, when everything was easy and routine.

  “You look all right,” she told him as they dumped his single shoulder bag in the guest bedroom. There was a touch of admiration in her voice, as if she’d been expecting a hospital case.