Peter Hamilton: Misspent Youth

Over forty thousand protestors were still camped out amid the ruins of the university campus. They were surrounded by seven thousand RSF troops, who waited patiently for them to surrender, their orders now to simply starve them out of the smoldering desolation that they had created. It took another three days until the last die-hard activists were hauled away in prisoner containment carriers. The political blame-throwing went on for a great deal longer.

WHEN TIM LOOKED AROUND the front of the manor he was almost surprised that nothing had changed. So many other aspects of his life had altered it seemed unreasonable that the façade and gardens remained the same. It was another standard high-season afternoon, a roasting sun turning the air so thick that it soaked up any sounds.

He pushed the e-trike’s parking legs down onto the gravel, and took his helmet off. The Jag was sitting outside the garage. One of the younger boys from the village had just washed it, and was now rubbing down the gleaming bodywork with a leather cloth. Tim gave him a hurried wave before pulling his sunglasses on.

The front doors were open. He went into the hall, where the air conditioning was losing its fight against the encroaching heat. Natalie Cherbun was in the small living room watching the monitor screens. She gave him a small authentic smile. “Hello, Tim.”

“Hi. You’re all okay, then?”

“I wasn’t out on the streets, no. I had the easy duty in the hotel. Especially after your father left.”

“Ah. Right. Good.” He found it tough to look her in the eye, especially as he was so conscious of the dye stains still marking his neck. It was a week since the last of the protestors had been picked up, a week in which every English news stream and current affairs show had been filled with vitriolic demands that the disgrace that was Europol should be disbanded at the very least, and President Brèque thrown into jail along with the force’s senior officers. The foreign animals who’d run amok should be tried in England by English judges; there was even talk of bringing back the jury system. Agreeing with such claims was easy when they were on screen, but when facing a Europol officer in the flesh it was a mite more difficult. “I’ll, er, go through then.”

“Good luck.”

Annabelle was sunbathing topless out on the terrace, wearing the world’s smallest bikini thong. Tim approached her slowly, still a little unsure how to behave toward her. She was lying on one of the sunloungers under a floppy ultraviolet filter parasol. He’d never seen her such a dark shade before. Naturally, Annabelle’s skin didn’t merely go brown; her tan gave her a wondrously healthy golden hue.

Someone was sitting on the sunlounger beside her. Another girl, the two of them chattering away and laughing.

Tim almost backed away. Then Annabelle saw him and let out a happy cry. “Tim!” She bounded up off the sunlounger, her smile wide and welcoming. Just the way he always remembered. “How are you?” she demanded.

“I’m okay. Suppose.”

Her expression settled into something close to serious. “It’s nice to see you again.”

“Yeah, same.”

“I’m glad you’re here and cool about it,” she said. “Last week changed a lot of things for all of us, didn’t it?”

“Yeah.”

“So? Friends again?”

“Sure.” Tim gave her a lame smile. It was all he ever could do with Annabelle, just get washed along in her wake trying desperately to keep his head above water. Her hair was different now, he noticed; she’d had it straightened, although it looked very natural. She’d lost a few kilos as well, which made her body look even fitter than before—if such a thing were possible. The overall effect was to keep her appearance girlish, but with a touch of sophistication she’d previously lacked.

He couldn’t recall exactly who’d said it was better to have loved and lost than never loved at all, but they’d clearly never stood in front of a near-naked Annabelle remembering what it had been like….

Annabelle darted forward and kissed him before he had time to react, or dodge. There was just the hint of a tease to her smile. “I want you to meet someone,” she said, beckoning the other girl. “This is Yoni.”

“Hi, Tim,” Yoni said. “Pleased to meet you. I’ve heard all about you.” She giggled wildly.

At first Tim thought she was drunk. Her voice was childlike, and the way she looked at him was so spaced out she could have been a groupie to his rock star. She was a couple of years older than he and Annabelle, and quite beautiful. Raven-black hair licked around a long oval face with perfect expressive green eyes. She was slimmer than Annabelle, but just as tall. He could see that. A tight black leather T-shirt thinner than cotton was molded to her torso; there was a broad strip of taut abdomen visible between that and a micro skirt, with a couple of gold waist chains looped around her waist, chink ing softly at every movement. Clusters of bracelets skittered about on her bare arms. Tim held back on a frown: Who wore leather in weather like this? But it belonged to what she was, some uber -trendy city girl.

Yoni planted a big kiss on Tim’s cheek. He squirmed, not wanting to shove her away, but really…

Her hands clapped together. “Oh, he’s so cute.”

Panic froze Tim’s smile in place. “Thanks. You, er, look sensational.”

“I do? Wheeee!” Her whistle could have split stone.

Annabelle was grinning at his discomfort. “Yoni’s from the agency. She’s my chaperone when I go on assignments.”

“Right,” Tim said. It opened up a whole file of questions, which he simply refused to ask.

“Fibber!” Yoni protested. “I’m more than that to her, Tim. I do makeup, and I’m developing my talent as a stylist. I want to get behind the camera as well. I’m going to show the whole industry I’m more than just eye candy.”

“That’s nice.”

“Oh, you’re so desperately eatable. What’s your star sign?”

“I’ve no idea.”

“Let me guess, I’m good at this.” Her hand slapped against her forehead as she squeezed her eyes shut. “I’m getting it. You have a strong aura.”

Tim gave Annabelle an accusing look. She winked back.

“You’re a Virgo,” Yoni announced. “You have to be.”

“Dead on. You got me.”

“I knew it! Yes! I’m an Aries, and I was born in the afternoon.”

“Excellent.”

“Isn’t it just. So are you doing anything tonight? We could double date with Jeff and Annabelle if you wanted. The club scene in Peterborough isn’t bad. They showed me round at the weekend.”

“I don’t think we want to do that,” Annabelle told her kindly.

“Ow.” Yoni frowned. “You’re so like Jeff, too. It would be such fun.”

“Another time,” Tim said. He hated people like her, never respecting anyone else, always an embarrassment in public—and private.

“Back in a sec,” Annabelle told Yoni. She inclined her head, and Tim walked with her out onto the lawn.

“She’s from an agency,” Tim said thoughtfully. “I heard you were doing some modeling.” Sue had mentioned it. His news snatch no longer fished out items concerning her and his father; he’d changed the programming.

“Yes. I couldn’t really turn that kind of money down. I’ve already done one shoot for Harice. Docini have booked me for next week. And I’ve got a catwalk gig coming up, too. It’s fantastic.”

“Congratulations.”

“I’m not going to live off him, Tim. I’m not like that.”