Peter Hamilton - Misspent Youth

“What?” a perplexed Tim asked. He wanted to laugh, but Graham looked fearsomely serious.

“Five euros. I think that’s a reasonable fee, don’t you?”

“For what?”

“I wrote the book. I even wrote some of the screenplay. Don’t I deserve to be paid for my time and my craft?”

“But it’s in the datasphere. It has been for decades.”

“I didn’t put it there.”

Tim wasn’t sure what to say; he even felt slightly guilty. After all, he’d once complained to Dad about not raking in royalties from crystal memories. But that was different, he told himself: crystal memories were physical, Dark Sister was data, pure binary information.

“Fear not, Tim,” Graham said. “It’s an old war now, and we were beaten. Lost causes are the worst kind to fight. I just enjoy a bit of agitation now and then. At my age there’s not much fun left in life.”

Tim didn’t believe that at all.

“DO YOU WANT A DRINK, Tim?” Alison asked.

“No thanks.” Tim held his helmet up. “I’m on my e-trike.”

“Good man, Tim,” Graham said. “Don’t touch drink, and don’t smoke, either.” He pulled an undutied Cuban cigarette out and lit up.

“Are you coming to Brussels on Tuesday?” Tim asked. “You haven’t answered any of Lucy Duke’s txts about it.”

“I certainly haven’t. Arrogant little woman. Did you see any of them?”

“Er, no.”

“Someone should teach her to say please .”

“Yeah, I know what you mean. So are you coming?”

Alison sighed, and swirled the ice cubes around in her glass. “No, Tim, I’m not. I’m sorry, I don’t think I can cope with that damn circus.” She gave him a long glance. “You do realize it’ll be a circus, don’t you? Those wretched politicians will hijack every news stream to make capital from this.”

“I know.”

“Well then. Besides, I don’t think I’ll be much of a priority for my big brother. He’ll want to see you more than anything. And your mother.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. I’ll watch the news streams from here.”

“Okay. But Mum’s having a welcome home party for him on Saturday evening. She says she’d like you to come to that.”

“I’ll be there. I do want to see him, Tim, just not under the spotlight.”

“I understand. I wish I didn’t have to do it, either.”

“You’re not worried about meeting him again, are you?” Alison asked gently.

“Well. You know. No.”

“Tim, he’s going to be delighted to see you. Really. You’ve sailed through these last eighteen months. Anybody would be proud to have you as their son. Hell, I’m proud just to have you as a nephew.”

Tim chewed on his lower lip, hating to show any vulnerability. “You think?”

“God, yes.”

“I really missed him, you know. I mean, not that we did much father and son stuff together, soccer and things. He was a bit old for that even with his ordinary genoprotein treatments. But he was always there, you know, he’d listen and try to help. I don’t suppose I told him how much I appreciated that. Not very often, anyway.”

“I’d hope not! You’re a teenager. You’re supposed to spend the entire era in a bad sulk.”

“No way!”

Graham and Alison burst out laughing. Tim blushed, trying not to smile.

Alison patted his knee. “It’ll all work out fine. You’ll see.”

IT WAS A WARM, hazy summer day, with a strange orange-tinted sky as if twilight had started at lunch. They were on one of the manor’s big lawns, just Timmy and himself. Kicking a soccer ball about. Sweaters on the grass marked the goalposts. Timmy was about ten years old, skinny legs sticking out of baggy blue shorts. He ran back and forth, nudging the ball with his toe, swerving around imaginary opponents.

Jeff wanted to run after him. Tackle him. Lose the ball back to him again. As it should be between father and son. But all he could do was stand in the goal, his joints aching from arthritis, too ancient and wizened to move.

Timmy ran toward him, feet pounding, the ball bouncing along in front. He took a mighty kick, and the ball sailed past Jeff as feeble claw hands waved about uselessly in the air.

“Gooooal!” Timmy shrieked. He danced about on the spot, his arms raised high.

Jeff clapped delightedly. “Well done, son. Jolly well done.”

“Let’s play again. Play with me this time, Dad, please, I want us to play together.”

“I can’t, son.” The tears were rolling down his cheeks. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Why, Dad, why?”

And all Jeff could do was stand there, just as he always did at this moment, hands reaching out while Timmy frowned and sulked. Every time the same. Every time he failed his son.

“Jeff?” It was a female voice, disembodied. “Jeff, can you hear me?”

Jeff moaned as the manor and its grounds wavered and darkened. This wasn’t part of the dream. Never before, anyway.

“Jeff?”

There was only the darkness of a foggy moonless night. And pain. An all-over sharp prickling that grew and grew, as if his skin was igniting. A thin wail escaped from his mouth. He could barely hear it.

“That’s it, Jeff, focus now, please. Focus on me.”

The darkness was fading out, as swirls of bright light emerged from all over. Jeff blinked furiously. He’d been dreaming, so this must be waking, he realized. Damn, it hurt. His skin was still inflamed, and now he could feel a deeper ache in every limb warning him not to move any muscle.

“What?” he gasped feebly.

His one simple word was greeted by a lot of people cheering. Idiots, couldn’t they see he needed help?

“Jeff, don’t try to move. Just keep calm. You’re fine. The suppressants are going to take a while to wear off.”

Soft tissues dabbed at his eyes, soaking up the moisture. The world resolved around him. Unsurprisingly, he was in some kind of hospital room, with a bank of equipment at one side of his bed. Two people dressed in medical smocks were bending over him, electronic instruments in their hands. More people stood at the end of the bed. He frowned, and concentrated on one of them.

“Timmy?” For some reason his lovely son was different. Older. His face was wound up with nervous apprehension.

Memories began to seep into Jeff’s sluggish thoughts.

“Hiya, Dad.” Tim’s voice was choked up with emotion.

“Hello, Jeff,” Sue said politely. She was standing next to Tim.

“Uh… what happened?” He worried he’d had some kind of accident.

“Can you tell us?” one of the medical people asked. His voice had a German accent. “Do you remember the treatment you were scheduled?”

The memories were welling up now. The meetings, endlessly sitting around conference tables with oh-so-serious doctors and geneticists. The agonizing week they gave him to make up his mind, the indecision and fear. He found some of them frightening. Back in the public eye again after so long in modest obscurity, reporters from every news stream pounding incessant questions at him. Politicians, hordes of the bastards wanting to be associated with the project. Slick spin doctors circling in vulture flocks. He wanted to stop remembering, to keep the bright images and sounds sealed away, but the torrent had begun now.

“Jesus wept,” he moaned. His hands were shaking uncontrollably as realization swept him along. Judging from Timmy’s age, he must have been in the tank for months, more than a year. That must mean it was over, complete.

“It’s okay, Dad,” Tim promised anxiously. “It worked. You’re fine. You look great.”