Misspent Youth

by Peter F. Hamilton

  Jeff waded into the deliciously warm sea as she slapped plumes of spray over him. He retaliated, and they began grappling and laughing amid the waves and foam.

  TIM WAS SLIGHTLY SURPRISED his identity smartcard opened the barrier into Tallington Lakes. He must still be listed as a guest of Martin’s parents. He drove carefully around the windsurfing lake, slowing for each of the speed bumps. It was the holiday season, and a lot of people were already out on the water.

  This was Tim’s first time out for nearly a fortnight. He’d spent the first week simply hiding in Alison’s spare bedroom. Like her, he was quite content surviving off junk food takeout. The rest of the time he just lounged about watching pre10 movies and rock concerts. His news-snatch program kept pulling out stories of Annabelle and his father at parties and shows. They seemed to have taken up residence in some parallel tabloid universe of showbiz events and society gossip. Annabelle always wore expensive dresses now. She looked fabulous in them.

  A couple of times when the Manton estate’s resident committee called round he’d muted the volume so he could listen to the argument Alison had with them on the doorstep. When she came in to talk with him, he simply replied with the words he knew she wanted. He was fortunate that he could claim his withdrawal was all due to the media people encamped outside the gates to the estate. But that was just an excuse, a convenient thing to blame for the way he felt, which was zero.

  Nothing in his life had been as good as Annabelle. Being with her had shown him how happy he could be.

  But Annabelle was happy. He knew that now. That morning when he got up, the news snatch was holding a report from Antigua filed by Spacewatch but picked up by the English tabloid streams. Tim had watched in growing disbelief as the camera moved through the private beach party thrown by Sir Mitch. The kind of party he had always dreamed of being invited to. People he wanted to meet having a good time and relaxing together.

  Dad promised me that ticket.

  Tim braked the e-trike outside the caravan. The lock on the secure hut outside opened to his code, and he tugged the Jet Ski out. It was tough getting it down the slope into the water by himself, but eventually it was bobbing about beside the mooring. He didn’t bother getting changed, just pulled his T-shirt off and climbed on. The engine started first time.

  Sir Mitch’s party was a launchwatch. The Texas Spacecraft Corporation’s TX5 was making a flight. It was a dumpy cone with sharp triangular fins radiating out from its base, carrying a pilot and four multimillionaire passengers. It rode up to an altitude of eight miles on the back of an ancient Airbus A310, then fired its own rockets to fly a hundred fifty miles above the Earth. Descent was a long fall with the base of the cone taking the thermal strain of atmospheric entry, just like the old Apollo modules. Once it braked to subsonic speed, five big parachutes deployed and lowered it to a soft splashdown in the sea close to Antigua, where the recovery boat would winch it on board and bring it back ready for the next flight.

  The camera moved through the throng of rich and famous as they drank their wine and ate lobster cooked on an open-air charcoal grill. They were all craning their necks back, looking up into the deep cloudless sky. The Airbus was a tiny glint of silver high above, surfing along on the end of its contrail. It was suddenly enveloped in a puffball of white vapor, like an explosion. The crowd drew its breath, then the TX5 was accelerating hard, its hypergolic fuel rockets blasting out a long tail of flame that wavered to gray smoke as it rose away from the planet.

  Sir Mitch and Jeff Baker stood side by side, both wearing silver sunglasses as they watched the TX5 soar higher and higher. Along with everyone else they were clapping and cheering exuberantly. They shared some joke, laughing together like the best of old friends.

  I could have been there. I could have been a part of that.

  Tim sent the Jet Ski racing around in a long curve. The other riders out on the lake had to take fast action to avoid him. He didn’t care, ignoring their angry fists and shouted curses. The Jet Ski began to kick out a wide arc of spray as it picked up speed. Wind pushed into his face. That was when his mood started to lift; not long now and he’d reclaim that same exhilaration that he’d enjoyed the last time he took the Jet Ski out. He’d become quite proficient at it now, spending several afternoons with Martin out on the water, practicing maneuvers. Eventually they’d both tried jumping the ramp. Tim had succeeded.

  The east shore was dead ahead, so he flung his weight to one side, making a hard turn through a hundred eighty degrees. Now the nose was pointing at the slim spit of land that separated the owners’ lake from the hire lake. He gunned the throttle all the way around, producing maximum revs. The Jet Ski leaped forward, accelerating hard. He’d never ridden it this fast before. Didn’t care. This was for him. Doing what he wanted, and fuck the rest of the world. Finally.

  In amid the barricade of trees and bushes growing along the spit there was one small gap. He lined the Jet Ski’s nose straight at it and held true. He could jump it, he knew he could.

  Standing just beyond Sir Mitch and Jeff, Stephanie was talking to a fascinated Annabelle. The celebrity athlete resembled some statuesque goddess out of legend, but dressed in a modern skintight black and emerald beach dress with short sleeves and shorter skirt, showing off the long limbs that had grand-slammed so many winning balls over the net. She was several inches taller than Annabelle, who was looking up at her with a near-religious devotion. Euan, Stephanie’s one-year-old son, was resting inside a fashionable sling his mother was wearing over one shoulder, dozing contentedly. A wineglass was held in her free hand, and she was nodding with agreement at Annabelle as the two chatted away.

  Annabelle would have been with me when she met Stephanie.

  The trees on the spit were becoming alarmingly tall, a solid wall of greenery. By contrast, the lone gap seemed to be shrinking. Tim held his nerve, seeing the bed of gravel rising up from the water, where the shaggy marsh grass took hold. He hit it head on, and took off. The Jet Ski engine roared as he flew arrow-straight over the greenery, with a few twigs flicking against the bottom of the little craft. Then there was just the water of the second lake below him, and he splashed down hard, kicking up a huge gout of spray. Waves rushed out from either side.

  Tim whooped ecstatically, and shot toward the group of startled beginners who were being instructed by the hire center. He turned again, and headed directly back to the jump spot. Now that he knew he could do it, there would be no problem hopping back into the owners’ lake. He gunned the throttle again.

  Three meters from the spit, the sodden branch just seemed to materialize out of the water right in front of him. He yanked frantically at the handlebars, turning violently right. At the same time he twisted the throttle back, killing the engine. It was the proper maneuver. But it was too late. There was an almighty crunch as the little composite hull disintegrated on impact. Some giant force wrenched Tim out of the saddle, sending him cartwheeling through the air. His world was completely inverted, putting the sky underneath his feet. The marshy ground descended on him, fast and hard.

  LIGHT FROM A SHARP CRESCENT MOON illuminated Hawksbill Bay’s middle beach in a gentle silver shimmer that turned the sand a spectral platinum and the palm fronds a ghostly oyster-gray. Out to sea, the fancy yachts were lit up by strings of colored lights hanging between their solar panels. Overhead, the constellations formed a loose phosphorescent mist sketching the zodiac across space. Little wavelets sloshed timidly beneath them, providing the only natural movement in the dusky seascape as Jeff walked back to the chalet after dinner. He’d taken his sandals off, carrying them in a crooked finger. The soft dry sand flowed over his toes as he walked, still warm from the brutal afternoon sun.

  Both the girls had scampered on ahead as soon as they’d left the restaurant. He could see them as black silhouettes against the lazy silken sea, holding hands as they paddled through the fizzing fringe of surf. They talked quietly together, a conversation occasionally punctuated by one of Ka
renza’s blithe giggles or an exclamation from Annabelle as she pointed at some fresh part of the superb celestial canopy.

  He shook his head softly as he absorbed the scene, laboring to imprint the memory on his mind. This was without doubt the richest world he could ever have wished to be reborn into; every moment of it should be preserved.

  A cascade of shooting stars sliced sparkling contrails across the eastern side of the sky. The girls laughed delightedly at the spectacle. Jeff caught up with them, receiving a kiss first from Annabelle; then Karenza stepped up for an equally amorous clinch. He put his arms around both of them, feeling light-headed from the wine they’d had at dinner and the unique aphrodisiac of the night that was to follow. Annabelle leaned in against him, smiling adoringly, and the three of them angled back across the beach, making for the steps that led up to their chalet. The veranda light was on to guide them, a warm topaz glimmer at the top of the little cliff.

  Jeff’s excitement quickened with every step. Perched on the tip of the promontory, the chalet was isolated from the others. With that came a perfect sense of liberation. Nothing here bothered him, or Annabelle. In the bar earlier that evening the big wall screen had been showing a European news stream. Commissioner Cherie Beamon had belatedly announced her candidacy for president, allowing media analysts to gleefully demolish her chances with sharp sound-bite summaries condemning her as too late, and too ineffectual. A convoy of three refugee ships attempting to cross the Mediterranean had been intercepted by EuroNavy frigates, and was being escorted back to North Africa. Cameras tracked desperate individuals flinging themselves overboard in an attempt to stop the voyage back to purgatory. Marines in fast inflatable boats zoomed through the waves, plucking the flailing figures out of the water.

  Jeff had sipped his chilled Manhattan with a financier called Gore Burnelli who owned one of the yachts anchored offshore, the two of them discussing the industrial-financial implications of the superconductor project while the dreadful images went unwatched. Annabelle was on the other side of the bar, gossiping with the lively Sunset Marina group, telling them all about Stephanie and the beach party. Immersed in the sanctuary of the resort there was no way any of them could engage with the events being portrayed; it was as if they had been relayed from a different, distant planet.

  The chalet’s living room lights switched on automatically when they came in, casting a faint, cozy coral glow across the polished hardwood. Jeff’s PCglasses were on the table, emitting the small ruby-red laser sparkle that indicated a priority call. There was no way the interface management program would let it through unless it was genuinely urgent. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” he complained. When he held the glasses in front of his face he saw the txt icon was from Alison. That was unusual enough to make him hesitate.

  Annabelle’s nose rubbed against his cheek. “Leave it,” she murmured. Karenza was standing at her side, an arm draped over her new friend’s shoulder.

  “Just gimme one second,” he pleaded; three Viagra capsules and furious lust were giving him a huge erection.

  Annabelle and Karenza shared a demure glance. “Okay then,” Annabelle said. “We’ll leave you to it.” They walked arm in arm into the deep shade of the master bedroom. The door was left half open, permitting a sliver of light from the living room to fall across them.

  Jeff hooked the mic down in front of his mouth. “Click, display txt.” Alison’s txt message was curt and to the point, telling him Tim had had an accident on the Jet Ski. The boy had been taken to Peterborough hospital. “Click, call Alison.” The PC-glasses’ standard management display expanded across the lens. On the other side of the crawling neon-glow script the girls began a lingering kiss.

  “Jeff?” Alison said. “Thank Christ you called.”

  “What the hell happened?”

  “I don’t know. He was riding that damn Jet Ski again. I didn’t even know he was doing it, he told me he was out to see friends. I didn’t know, Jeff.” Her voice sounded anguished.

  “Okay, it’s all right, just tell me what happened.”

  “Nobody knows, really. He was riding where he shouldn’t be, or something. There was some sort of crash. The staff at Tallington called an ambulance. They took him to Peterborough’s emergency room.”

  As the kiss finished, Karenza nuzzled Annabelle’s ear and began whispering, her eyes looking back tauntingly at Jeff. Annabelle nodded dreamily in agreement, and they moved deeper into the bedroom, where the shadows folded around them.

  “How is he?” Jeff asked. “What sort of injuries are there?”

  “There was a lot of bruising and grazing, that kind of thing. He’s twisted his ankle badly and dislocated a shoulder.”

  Jeff shifted slightly, one foot pushing at the bedroom door to send the fan of dusky light sweeping across the darkened room. “Alison! How is he now?” The light drifted across Karenza, who had discarded her little black cocktail dress. Her mass of hair flowed freely, cloaking her back. She looked like an erotic ghost.

  “I think he’ll be all right. He was unconscious when they brought him in. But he was awake just before I got here. They’ve put him under observation for the night; they said that was the best thing. He was in mild shock. They thought he might have been concussed, as well.”

  Jeff let out a long breath that fright had gathered inside him. “So he’s going to be okay then?”

  Karenza stood behind Annabelle, and slowly slid the straps of her dress off over her shoulders, letting it slither onto the floor. Annabelle turned around, putting her hands together behind her head, proudly showing off her body.

  “You know doctors,” Alison said. “They won’t commit themselves to anything. The hospital was more interested in what kind of insurance rating he had.”

  “Typical.”

  “When can you get here?”

  Karenza ran her hands sensually over Annabelle’s big breasts, admiring their size; cupping them to find out how full and heavy they were. She smiled slyly as Annabelle’s nipples turned rigid between her skillful fingertips.

  Jeff recognized the heat that had risen to Annabelle’s face. Karenza beckoned.

  “Jeff?” Alison demanded. “When’s the next flight out?”

  Annabelle followed Karenza obediently across the bedroom.

  “Do I need to be there? It sounds like he just took a few knocks, nothing too serious.”

  “Has all that Caribbean sunlight fried your brain? You’re his father, you should be here. And this is the perfect opportunity for the pair of you to patch things up; show him how much you care.”

  Jeff heard Karenza’s husky voice coaxing Annabelle into position, full of reassurance and praise. Then Annabelle’s soft euphoric cries began to fill the chalet, quickly rising in pitch.

  “Probably, yeah,” he said. “But a couple of days either way won’t make that much difference. And getting an early flight out of here is going to be tough. Look, I’ll call you tomorrow and find out how he’s getting on, okay? Maybe you can persuade him to accept a call from me.”

  “That’s not good enough, Jeff, and you know it.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow.” With calm precise movements, he took his PCglasses off and strode into the master bedroom. On the four-poster bed, a blissed-out Karenza was making love to Annabelle. Jeff’s gaze never left them as he unhurriedly removed all his clothes. The girls widened their embrace to welcome him.

  THE HOSPITAL HAD ISSUED TIM CRUTCHES, his case nurse ordering him to keep his weight off his sprained ankle for at least a week. His cuts and grazes were sealed away to heal behind artificial skin. An electronic monitor bracelet gripped his wrist, its sensors linked to the hospital through the datasphere. “Only for another twenty-four hours,” the doctor told him. “We just want to be certain you’re on the mend.” Tim nodded meekly; his head was still woozy from the drugs they’d used to make him sleep.

  He limped out to the taxi with Alison, wincing as he eased himself into the backseat. She sat beside him, watchi
ng him with attentive concern.

  “I’m all right,” he insisted.

  She smiled tightly, and nodded.

  The physical pain was almost nonexistent compared to the hot embarrassment he was feeling. “Thanks,” he said awkwardly.

  “What for?”

  “Taking me back. I was a bit of a fool.”

  Alison lit a cigarette, ignoring the glare the driver gave her in the mirror. She waved the smoke away from Tim. “Actually no, you were a big fool. Don’t ever do anything like that again, do you hear? I’m too old to be getting these kind of shocks.”

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to.”

  “I should bloody well hope not.”

  “Did Dad call again?”

  “Yes.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Not much. He was upset that you didn’t want to talk to him.”

  “Huh!” Tim turned to stare at the landscape through the taxi’s window.

  “Tim, he does love you. More than I do, even. And all this has made me realize just how much you really do mean to me. You’re making him suffer badly by not taking a call.”

  “Good. Maybe he’ll know what it’s like.”

  “It’s not the same, Tim. What he and Annabelle did was pretty awful, I know. But you’re his son, and you were injured, rushed to the hospital. He’s desperate with worry.”

  “Not desperate enough to come back.”

  “That’s not fair, either. It’s difficult, not like when he and I were young, and there were dozens of trans-Atlantic flights every day.”

  “Maybe.” He sank back deeper into the seat, scowling as his shoulder protested. He simply wasn’t used to pain or illness of any kind; whenever bugs got passed around at school he always seemed immune to them. “Was he really concerned?”

  “Very much, yes. Look, you don’t have to say much, just stick your tongue out at him and make a farting sound if that’s what you want. Show him you’re alive and kicking. It would mean an awful lot to me, you know. I hate this whole business.”