Peter Hamilton - Misspent Youth

“Pleasant dreams,” Sue murmured as she left.

Jeff’s own bedroom was at the end of the house, with a big veranda looking out over the rear lawn. The wide glass doors were shut, and the curtains closed against the night. His pajamas were laid out on the big double bed, ready for him. He barely got his shoes off before he flopped back on the mattress. Sue was walking down the stairs, talking to her bodyguard.

It truly had never bothered him before. She’d always played by the arrangement rules, being discreet for the sake of Tim. Maybe she hadn’t been the absolute best mother in the world, but then again, he’d hardly been the best father, and at least she’d always been there for the boy, which was the whole point of the arrangement in the first place. Back when he’d made the offer to her, that was all that mattered to him. He’d left having a child so late it had almost become a lost hope. When he thought of his first disastrous marriage, then all the affairs there’d been after he became famous, the way he’d been so full of himself as the years rolled on unacknowledged, it could so easily have not happened. He hadn’t even realized he’d wanted children and the comfort of continuity they brought until he was in his late fifties and saw all his contemporaries with their grandchildren. That was when the awareness struck hardest. Money had come to his aid, and he did have a decent amount of it despite the philanthropy for which he was so well known. So Tim was born. A somewhat cold method of bringing a life into the world, as he’d be the first to admit. However, the boy had given Jeff a sense of pride and satisfaction that was worth any mere financial price.

With that achieved, he could actually look forward to a hopefully prolonged and reasonably graceful old age that permitted him to watch the boy grow up. He’d always expected to see Tim’s twenty-fifth birthday. The idea that he could well see the boy’s one hundredth birthday was something his mind could now barely fathom. After all, why stop at one rejuvenation….

Jeff pulled the tie from his neck and said: “Click.”

The three-meter screen on the wall opposite the bed lit up with the picture of HAL9000’s lens in the middle—he’d thought that quite droll when he set it up originally.

“Domestic computer online,” the HAL voice said.

“What’s on telly tonight?” he asked.

“Do you mean current entertainment feeds, Jeff?”

“Er, yeah, I suppose so.”

“Would you like English, European, American, or other international?”

“English.” The lens vanished, replaced with a ten-by-fifteen grid of different video images. “Oh bloody hell,” Jeff muttered. He’d never kept up with cable shows before the treatment. Now the grid was full of crime soaps, comedy soaps, drama soaps, sci-fi soaps, cowboy soaps, historical soaps, game shows, quiz shows, RealTime life professions with cameras in police cars and fire engines as they raced to their call-outs, a dozen different news streams, and a whole load of sponsored sports. Basically, he mused, Saturday night telly never changed, it had always been crap, and by the looks of things always would be. At least when he was younger he could count on a semidecent film being scheduled. It saved having to think. If he wanted one now, any one at all, he just had to describe it to the domestic computer’s search engine. “Okay, let’s go for…” He squinted at the grid’s title. “ Sunset Marina .” The images looked less hectic than the others, and one of the actresses was quite young and pretty.

Sunset Marina expanded to fill the big screen. The image was all pastel colors because it was set in a gently lit bedroom. The young actress slipped her dress off, and said how sensual she felt in her new range of silk Pantherlux underwear. Her beau took his trousers down and asked if she liked his Patherlux briefs. She said yes, but preferred him out of them. The background music began to drum loudly as they moved together.

“Click! Cancel that.” The grid reemerged, absorbing the soap. Jeff stared at the multitude of total crap on offer. “Dearie dearie me, is this really all my fault? Okay, click, just give me…something classic, and easy. I know: Four Weddings and a Funeral .”

“What edition?”

“Standard.” It came out almost as a plea.

Jeff sank down into the pillows with a wan smile as Hugh Grant fumbled around for his alarm clock. Even this was crap, but it was reassuringly comfortable to watch.

So Nicole had been interested in him, had she?

MONDAY MORNING NINE-FIFTEEN was the CNN interview. Lucy Duke spent most of a late breakfast briefing Jeff on technique, how not to smile too much so you don’t come over smug, not to use excessive scientific terms, the right clothes to wear (she’d brought a shirt, tie, and jacket—which sparked a big argument with Sue), the right humor and jokes to deflect the wrong questions, verboten topics. She also offered guidance on how to focus on the topics she thought would be best for him to mention. Such as how only Europe had the political ability to pursue such a project. How the prime minister had personally supported rejuvenation and pushed for Jeff Baker to receive it against a list of other European worthies. How the booming European economy could easily support such massive projects without placing an undue strain on the taxpayer.

“I’m not sure I can talk total bullshit for fifteen minutes solid,” Jeff muttered to Sue as they followed the young spin doctor to the conservatory where the camera crew was setting up. “And when did we start all this America-bashing?”

At eleven o’clock it was the LA Central news stream session, at eleven forty-five they went into the garden for the Nippon Netwide team. In the afternoon he did Warner America, Chicago Mainstream, Washington Tonight, Seattle Hiline, Toronto National News stream. Texas Live wanted a family interview, which Tim was finally coaxed into performing by Lucy Duke, who by the end of that conversation was ready to either slap him or burst into tears.

On Tuesday it was the turn of South America and several Pacific Rim nations. Wednesday was China and Africa. Jeff had been videoed alone chatting to the interviewer; he and Sue chatting to the interviewer; if the crew was very lucky they got Tim as well. He’d been videoed “working” in his study; there had been everyday domestic scenes in the kitchen, walking around the garden (the Langleys lent them Katie, their ridiculously soppy Great Dane, for a more cozy family image), kicking a ball about with Tim, playing tennis with Sue—his coordination was dreadful. Questions had ranged from the standard “How do you feel” to “What do you think of the situation in Nepal,” and “Has pizza topping improved over the last seventy years,” to “Do you approve of the death penalty.”

Thursday was back to the European media. By happy coincidence, Rob Lacey paid him a visit on Thursday afternoon, to see how he was progressing. The prime ministerial convoy of five huge limousines clogged up Empingham’s main street, giving local kids a great opportunity to try to dodge the bodyguards to let down the tires. When the PM left, he passed a huge homemade banner along the side of the road saying: FREE ENGLAND NOW! The windows on the limousine darkened even further as it drove by the fluttering fabric.

That evening Jeff sat on the sofa in the living room and hopped through the news streams, each of which had ad banners running constantly across the foot of the screen. Right from his very first press interview thirty years ago, he’d always hated seeing himself on the telly, but tonight he forced himself. It was the interview with Berlin Newswatch, where he’d been sitting outside on one of the patio’s oak chairs.