Misspent Youth (27 page)

A
FTER A COUPLE OF DAYS
of dutiful attendance at the Houston physics conference they caught the daily American International flight to Antigua out of Miami. Despite the collapse of the Caribbean mass tourism industry, each flight was always full. Ever stricter industrial and bioethic regulations in the developed nations made the relocation of certain specialist core activities to the Windies an attractive proposition for a lot of companies and researchers. The most prominent was of course the private spaceflight operators, even though they were among the smallest financial contributors to the economy of the Caribbean islands.

“I can’t see any spaceplanes,” Annabelle complained as they were on their approach to St. John’s. She was pressed up against the cabin window.

Jeff looked over her shoulder. There was a row of large hangars at one end of the airport, made of geodesic solar panels. “Don’t worry, we’ll see them before we leave.”

“Do you think we’ll meet Stephanie and Sir Mitch as well?”

“It’s a small island.”

T
HEY WERE BOOKED
in at the Hawksbill Bay resort, thirty minutes from the capital across the island’s dilapidated roads. Their Mercedes taxi was ten years old, but thankfully the air conditioning was working well as it slowly negotiated the potholes and crumbling tarmac.

Even before the rising ultraviolet radiation started bleaching tropical vegetation, the island had little land under cultivation since the sugarcane industry collapsed in the late twentieth century. Despite the revenue from the corporate laboratories and restricted heavily automated industrial plants that was paid into government coffers, the locals still lived much the same life as they always had. They fished and tended to their new GM banana trees provided by the UN Tropics Regeneration Office and nurtured small vegetable gardens and harvested natural-growing ganja, activities that left them almost completely disconnected from the global economy.

When they finally started down the last steep slope toward the four coves that formed the resort, Jeff stared in mild astonishment at the clean deep-turquoise water of the Caribbean Sea. It was the kind of landscape he thought couldn’t possibly exist in the real world, belonging instead to some mocked-up tourist brochure. The beaches were composed of pristine white sand that gleamed brighter than snow under the dangerous midday sun. Behind them, a thick swath of GM royal palms and coconut trees marked the boundary between sand and the manky scrub bushes that covered the rest of the island. There was an old dark stone mill tower on one of the promontories, fronting the resort’s main building, a white pavilion-style structure that could have been transplanted from the heart of the British Raj. It contained the reception, restaurant, and bar. Three bellboys in scarlet polo shirts emerged and hurried out to the taxi to collect their luggage.

Brightly colored parrots squawked excitedly from the foliage surrounding the reception-area fountain as Jeff booked in.

“You’re Jeff Baker, aren’t you?”

He turned to see a very pretty girl in a purple bikini and a white sarong skirt standing outside the entrance to the bar, a cocktail glass in one hand. She was in her early twenties, with implausibly long tousled blonde hair that reached below her hips. It must have been extensions, or the result of an exceptionally powerful genoprotein treatment.

“And you must be Annabelle,” she continued. “We heard you were coming.”

Annabelle gave her a slightly flustered smile. “Yes.”

“Hi,” the girl squealed. “I’m Karenza.”

“Pleased to meet you,” Jeff said.

Karenza gave a diffident shrug. “You don’t recognize me. I’m Jewel. From
Sunset Marina
.”

“Oh, right,” Annabelle said. “Sorry, it’s been a long trip.”

Jeff frowned. He was sure he’d heard the soap’s name before. Couldn’t think where. Surely he hadn’t started watching that kind of crap before rejuvenation?

“There’s a whole bunch of us here,” Karenza said. She waved her glass toward the bar, slopping some of the liquid onto the floor. She was seriously drunk, Jeff realized.

“Bunch of who?” Annabelle asked.

“The cast. We’re doing a photo shoot for Pantherlux, their new catalog.”

“Right.”

“Are you coming to the bar tonight? I’d love to talk to you. We all would. I’ve never met anyone as important as you before.”

“That’s a date,” Jeff said.

The resort manager himself, Mr. Sam, led them along the second beach. Behind the sands, a long line of white-painted wooden chalets were tucked away under the palms, almost invisible amid the shadows and lush foliage. Jeff had booked the last one, right atop the promontory opposite the mill.

As they walked along the gentle bluff above the beach, sweating from the tremendous heat, Annabelle got an impression of their fellow residents. Most of them were American, though she could hear several European languages being spoken. Men lazed around in hammocks, bellies hanging over floral swimming trunks, their eyes hidden away behind PCglasses as they muttered constantly to their interfaces. Their womenfolk lay on loungers, tanning themselves under white gauze UV-stopper parasols, or swam through the transparent water.

Out to sea, beyond the angular pillar of black rock just offshore from which the resort took its name, seven big pleasure yachts were anchored in the lee of the distant western cliff, looking like a flotilla of miniature ocean liners. White hulls reflected sunlight across the water, while in complete contrast the long black windows of the upper decks appeared like rifts torn into deep space. All of them had swept-back triangular solar fins sprouting from the top deck, looking like bizarre mechanical flower petals.

“Oh wow!” Annabelle exclaimed. “They are fabulous. This whole place is utterly fantastic.” She cuddled into him, her arms going around his shoulders. “Thank you so much for bringing me here.”

“Hey, this is just as big a kick for me.” He kissed her.

She gave him a beaming smile again, then turned back to the yachts. “Do you think Stephanie and Sir Mitch own one of those?”

“I don’t know. I expect we’ll see the owners in the bar tonight.”

“Along with Jewel,” Annabelle said coquettishly.

“Oh yes. Her.”

She poked him in the ribs, which turned into a tickling match.

“Maybe the owners never come ashore,” he said after he’d caught her, hugging her to his side. “I wouldn’t. There’s no need.” He regarded the nearest yacht with low-level envy. A diving platform had been lowered down the stern. Two children were splashing about in the water beside it, overseen by a young man standing on the platform. Up at the bow, a couple of crewmen were washing the superstructure with long brushes.

“Yes, you would.” Annabelle smiled knowingly. “You’d be bored out of your skull in a week.”

He grinned back at her.

From the outside their chalet looked as if it was nothing more than an elaborate version of the local Caribbean huts, with a broad palm-thatch veranda extending around three sides. Private stairs zigzagged down the small cliff to the beach. Inside, its Western heritage was more prominent. The walls and floor were polished hardwood. Air conditioning hummed efficiently. Big modern sofas were lined up on either side of the central table. There was a flat five-meter screen on the wall in the main room, with a full datasphere interface via the resort’s own satellite uplink. The master bedroom had a huge four-poster bed with broad mosquito drapes drawn up to the ceiling in an intricate rosette. Even the second bedroom had a double bed.

“So much decadent,” Annabelle murmured as she went on into the marble-tiled bathroom. A huge spa bath occupied one corner, while broad patio windows led to an open-air shower. “Unreal in here, too,” she called out.

Jeff thanked Mr. Sam, and managed to slip the bellboys some U.S. dollar notes. The two of them were left alone in the lounge, with just the sound of the small waves breaking on the promontory rocks outside.

“Now what?” Jeff asked.

“Are you kidding?” Annabelle said as she headed for the bedroom. “That water is so much incredible. I’m straight in.” She started opening cases. “Where’s my swimming gear?”

“You don’t need any,” Jeff said. “The fourth beach is for nude bathing.”

She laughed at him and started to pull off her blouse. It swiftly became a race to see who could get changed first.

Annabelle won, slipping on a yellow string bikini and rushing down the steps to the beach. Jeff hurried after her, wincing as his feet hit the hot sands. Ahead of him, Annabelle dropped her towel and ran straight into the low waves, shrieking with delight.

She’d soon recovered from the shock of Tim finding out about them, probably quicker than Jeff had. After that, it hadn’t taken long to adjust to her new world. Lucy Duke’s campaign to get the public on their side had soon hit its stride with a plethora of invitations to A-list parties and events that were nearly all in aid of some charity or another. He attended dutifully, though Annabelle loved all the tabloid stream attention. They seemed more interested in her than him, which he found quietly amusing.

At first, the trip to America had been a welcome relief from the organized socializing: two days in the relative quiet and calm of Houston, where he’d become the focus of the media again. He played his part stoically, delivering a couple of standard speeches, and attending papers that were of limited use to the superconductor project. He was getting back into the swing of the academic world and its vicious small-minded faction fights with a gratuitous show of enthusiasm. It was there, confined to the convention center, where he’d become uncomfortably aware of people’s attitude toward him. There was never anything said to his face, but their stolen looks kept reminding him of what a drunk Alan had confessed:
If I could rip it out of you, I would.

So he was glad when they finally reached Miami, and the surprise present of the holiday he’d booked. Now that they were here on Antigua he couldn’t help but keep congratulating himself. He’d been to the Caribbean once before, for his so-called honeymoon with Sue, but the taste, smell, sight, and sound of the sweltering islands was just a faded and fractured memory. This time the imprint was majestic; the islands were a constant bigger, brighter, and hotter assault on his senses. He was sure that was partly Annabelle’s world-wonder infusing him, allowing him to see everything with the same enthusiasm she did. If that was true, then it was small surprise her cheery nature had returned so strongly in the midst of so much grandeur.

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.

T
IM 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.