Peter Hamilton: Misspent Youth

“That does it,” Jeff said. “I’m calling Tim again. He’s got to leave.”

“Do you think he will?”

“I don’t know, but I can’t just stand back and do nothing.” Despite the bedlam raging round the Marshall Centre, the datasphere interface with Jeff’s hotel room was perfect. The call went through immediately. There was a lot of noise and background shouting coming through the link; Jeff automatically raised his voice. “Tim, are you all right?”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

Jeff frowned; the boy sounded terribly weary. “Where are you?”

“Up on the big road behind the university. It’s not so bad here. Rachel got a dose of the gas the police bastards are shooting at us. We had to take her away from the front line. Some people gave us water to wash her eyes out. She’s not so bad now. We’re taking a breather till we go back.”

The front line! Oh, Jesus. “Tim, listen to me. The police have called the Europol Riot Suppression Force in. You have to leave.”

“No.”

“Tim, you’ve won, okay? They’ve canceled all of tonight’s events; and tomorrow morning’s are under review. One of the organizers told me the government was considering announcing the summit is off. They were hoping that would make the protestors pack up and go home, but I think it’s too late for that now. You have to get out.”

“Are you leaving?”

“Not for a while. They won’t let us out.”

“Then I’m staying.”

“You can’t, not because of me. Tim, I don’t contribute anything to this. I’m a physicist, I’m just one of the dancing bears, for God’s sake.”

“No, you’re not, Dad; you’re a lot more than that, you’re the proof that Brussels works. They justify themselves through you.”

Jeff heard himself groan out loud. This went way beyond standard parental concern. He just knew there was going to be major trouble when the RSF arrived. Tim could very well get hurt, badly hurt, because he was young and stupid and full of hope. And he was going to stay to make his point. Something like the RSF wasn’t part of the equation that Tim and his friends considered, because they weren’t real and bad things didn’t happen to good people, and anyway this was all an exciting game. Eurocrats in their gray suits will listen if we shout loud enough, and the world will become a better place because of it . Jeff realized he was seriously going to have to do something, make some gesture. Tim really was stubborn enough to stay outside because he was inside. And Jeff just couldn’t allow his son to come to any harm. He was surprised by how strong that determination was, like some kind of tectonic force moving him irresistibly. Just like risking so much for Annabelle .

“All right, Tim, I’ll leave.”

“What?”

“Jeff!” Annabelle hissed. “You can’t.”

He held up a finger, pleading for silence. “I’ll leave. But you have to promise to leave with me.”

“Do you mean that?”

“Yes. Do you?”

“Er, guess so. How are you going to get out?”

“Leave that to me. Can you make your way up to the Connaught circle?”

“Yes.”

“I’ll see you there.” He ended the call.

“How do you think you’re going to get to him?” Annabelle asked. “Jeff, this is crazy, it’s a war zone out there.”

He shivered and glanced down out the window, rubbing his hands against the cold generated by the room’s air conditioning. The police and protestors on the bridge were taking a break. There was about thirty meters between them; the smoke and tear gas had cleared, with the occasional stone or bottle still being thrown. “Not all the time. I’ll just wait for a pause.”

“What about me?”

The accusation in her voice was crippling. He circled his arms round her. “I want you to stay here. It’s safe.”

“No. I want to be with you.”

“Annabelle, I couldn’t live with myself if both you and Tim get hurt.”

“I’m not staying here by myself; it’s too scary. What if that mob breaks in?”

“Natalie and the others will stay with you; they can hardly go out onto the streets. You’ll be safe.”

“Please, Jeff, don’t do this. Don’t leave me.”

“I have to go, you know I do. It’s not because I want to prove anything to Tim. It’s because I really do care for him, and I cannot allow him to be hurt. And he will be. The RSF will come storming in and crack as many heads as they can. It’ll be like Bonn and Paris and Copenhagen all over again, but much bigger. I have to go. I’m sorry, but I have to.”

“Then I’m coming with you.”

LUCY DUKE WAS WAITING in the lobby when the elevator doors opened. Krober must have called ahead to warn her when they were all on their way down.

“What do you think you’re doing?” she asked.

“Leaving.” Jeff hopped onto the pedwalk, with Annabelle at his side.

Lucy and the three bodyguards followed him on. “You’re crazy. Nobody’s allowed out.”

“It’s a free coun—Oh, no, it isn’t anymore, is it?” He smiled ingratiatingly at her.

“Why are you doing this? Where are you going?”

“To collect my son. He’s out there with the others, and your lot have just called in the storm troopers.”

For once Lucy’s composure cracked at the mention of Tim, and she grimaced in annoyance. “All right, look, let me see what I can do. There are undercover officers out there; they can take him to safety.”

“Don’t you get it? It has to be me. I’m the real reason he’s out there.”

“Suppose someone recognizes you.”

“With the way you’ve handled my profile, I’d be amazed if there’s anyone left out there who doesn’t.”

“You can’t leave. You can’t. That’s giving in to them, whatever personal reasons you might have. This is what you are, this summit, the superconductor project.”

Jeff turned and gave her a sad little smile. “But it’s not what I want to be.”

THE CAMERA CREWS covering the confrontation on the Connaught Bridge found them almost at once. A little knot of disturbance behind the police line, slowly moving forward toward the front rank, where officers were crouched down behind their shields. Lenses zoomed in to see Jeff pushing past the furious officers; Annabelle had her arms around his waist, almost as if she was being towed along behind. In unison, a dozen news anchors yelped: “That’s Jeff Baker.”

Jeff had to force himself along, every centimeter of the way. It was like being trapped inside a perpetual rugby scrum. Every time he shoved another policeman to one side he was screamed at.

“Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

“Piss off, dickhead.”

Awkwardly held batons thumped painfully into his sides. He kept banging his head against the wide helmet collars as officers turned to see what was happening.

“Fucking moron, what are you doing?”

The air was heavy with the stench of burnt rubber, mixed with a stronger, more acidic smell: gas. He practically gagged each time he took a breath. His eyes were already smarting, big tears making everything smeary. Something landed on the helmet of the police officer next to him. The man swore as the plastic bottle shattered, drenching him in warm urine. “Little shits, I’m gonna kill me one later.”

Jeff used a sleeve to wipe the disgusting fluid from his face. The edge of a riot shield smacked across his shin. He held in the squawk of pain, trying to tough it out for Annabelle’s sake. He could feel her arms shaking badly as she clung to him.

Abruptly there was no more resistance. He’d reached the front row. Police were crouched before him, holding their overlapping shields firm against the tarmac like an ancient army of pikemen. In front of the scuffed and stained plastic was about twenty meters of road, empty apart from the litter of missiles. Then there were the protestors, an ever-moving row of youths with their heads covered in balaclavas or makeshift scarves. They taunted and chanted as they ran a few paces forward in challenge before scuttling back to be absorbed by the mass. There was always someone in the act of flinging an object at the police, sending it in a high arc over the resolute barrier of shields.