Peter Hamilton - Misspent Youth

IT WAS ONE OF THOSE HOSPITAL ROOMS that could pass itself off as a decent three-star hotel room. The furnishing and décor were new with carefully neutral colors; a band of double-glazed windows provided a pleasing view out over the broad expanse of parkland that circled the Brussels University Medical Centre. Medical modules were all built into a tall wooden bedside cabinet, with a row of small high-resolution screens on top that monitored his body. There were sensor pads stuck on most parts of him, sprouting fiber-optic cables that snaked out from under the thin bedclothes to merge with the electronics. A single intravenous drip stood guard at the head of the bed.

Physically, Jeff was perfectly comfortable. He suspected part of that sensation was due to the sedatives. But his body temperature was constant and normal now. And there were no more headaches and chest pains and muscle tremors. It had taken the medical team the best part of a day to stabilize him after the EuroAir Defence Force emergency flight delivered him to Brussels. The symptoms he displayed were relatively easy to treat and contain with conventional drugs.

The cause of the problem… that was something else altogether.

It had taken two days of tests before the delegation shuffled into his room, led by Dr. Sperber. In his stuttering broken English the good doctor had slowly explained what they’d found, the implication. He’d looked fearfully at his patient and creation as the news sunk in.

All Jeff had done was smile faintly and thank them. After all, what else was there?

At his own request, they’d left him alone after that. Annabelle had stayed, of course; beautiful, terribly young, and fragile Annabelle. She lay on the bed beside him, hardly moving for hours, just looking at him in that adoring way she had. It made him feel guilty, which was a first.

A love like hers, he reflected, was such a strange emotion, so completely beyond any form of control. Half curse, half blessing; and always so desperately unfair in the pain it inflicted.

“I’m so sorry,” he whispered to her. “I wish I could undo ever meeting you. You deserve so much more. I can’t stand the idea of this hurting you. That’s what I truly hate about this, the only regret.”

She squeezed his hand in hers, bringing the fingers up to touch her cheek, smiling dreamily at the feather-light contact, the reassurance it brought. “I don’t regret it. And I would never change a single moment.”

“I don’t know what I did to deserve you. Nothing in this life, that’s for sure.”

“A million things in this life.”

The next time Dr. Sperber came in he was by himself. “How do you feel?”

“It hurts when I laugh.”

Sperber frowned in concern. “Where?”

“English sense of humor, Doc. Ever watched Fawlty Towers ?”

“No. I’m afraid not.”

“I’m actually quite comfortable, thanks. I think the drugs are working.”

“That is good. We are putting together a treatment schedule for you.”

“Speaking of drugs, I’ve been taking a few nonprescription ones recently.”

“I know.” Dr. Sperber’s expression never changed. “Our analysis uncovered traces of Viagra in your blood. It was easy to find, the traces were quite large.”

“I was wondering…did that trigger this?”

“No. That is not possible.”

“Ah. Pity, really.”

That actually managed to shock Sperber. “A pity?”

“Yeah. Now that would have been true rock and roll.”

“I understand.”

“I really am feeling a lot better. I’d like to go home now, please.”

“Of course.”

GRANADA’S ONE COMMERCIAL AIRPORT had once caused a war simply by being built. The Pentagon deemed that its main use was not for tourist jets, but to act as a base for Cuban fighter planes. As conflicts went, the world’s most powerful superpower squaring up against a small Caribbean island was somewhat one-sided. The badass Commie puppet government was ousted, and the land made safe for democracy again, all inside of a week.

Coming in to land at that same airport over fifty years later, Jeff found it hard to believe the whole event had ever taken place. That a single strip of crumbling concrete could be the cause of a military invasion now seemed ludicrous. In fact he couldn’t really be sure if the whole thing wasn’t some perverse trick of his memory. Time’s distance made such a thing so unlikely, more like a pre10 film rather than real life. He was sure Clint Eastwood had starred in it.

“Are you all right?” Annabelle asked. She was in the seat next to him in the first class section of the late-model Boeing SC. They’d flown from Heathrow to Miami again, and caught the only scheduled flight out to Granada.

“Sure,” he said, looking out the little window as they finished their approach circuit. “I’m just not sure my memory is right about this place.”

“Do you want to check? The plane has an interface.”

He grinned at her. “And I certainly don’t care that much.”

After they landed they found their clinic transfer car at the front of the ancient terminal building, a modern maroon-colored Mercedes with a beefed-up suspension to cope with the island’s roads. There were several similar vehicles lined up outside with the dilapidated local taxis. It was a twenty-minute drive to the clinic, which had taken over an old resort hotel. The main accommodation block and the beach bungalows had been refurbished for clients, while its medical work was conducted in a purpose-built facility apparently modeled on a Californian condo.

Jeff and Annabelle were shown to their room in the main block. Their balcony was directly above the pool, overlooking the small curving bay. When she opened the big sliding glass doors, a humid breeze ruffled her hair. “This beach isn’t as good as the ones at Hawksbill Bay,” she said.

Jeff came over to stand behind her, his arms going around her waist. “Nothing could be. Do you remember the night we went down to the beach?”

“Yes. The third night with Karenza. You said you’d never had sex on the beach before.”

“Well, I have now. That whole time was perfection. And it was all thanks to you.” He felt her trembling again, and suspected tears.

“I’m sorry,” she said with a muffled voice. “I want to be strong, especially now.”

“You are. You’re the only thing keeping me going.”

“Don’t say that.” She leaned back into his embrace. “What now?”

“Now, we have a light snack for supper, then go to bed. I’m just about asleep now. I never get any rest on planes.”

“And in the morning?”

“In the morning, we go and see my old friend Dr. Friland.”

IT WAS ALMOST TWENTY YEARS since Jeff had seen Justin Friland. The last time he’d been at the clinic, Friland was the second deputy geneticist. Now he’d risen to the head of the genetics department, which gave him a big office that was on the top floor of the clinic’s medical building. There were two long mirror-glass windows behind his wide expensive desk, providing a breathtaking view of the rugged coastline. He rose to greet Jeff with the kind of effusive near-greed that Jeff was growing accustomed to from anyone in the medical profession. But then, here of all places, he was likely to be regarded with extreme interest.

Friland had aged well, Jeff thought; genoprotein treatments had maintained his thick chestnut hair, and kept his skin firm and wrinkle-free. Only his slightly sluggish movement indicated that he was actually well into his sixties.

“A pleasure to see you again, Dr. Baker,” he said as he gestured them to the long leather sofa at the far end of the office. “A true pleasure, especially for me. It’s quite magnificent what my profession has achieved with your treatment.”