Peter Hamilton: Misspent Youth

“Thank you.”

“And your son, how is he?”

“Tim’s okay. He’s off to Oxford University at the end of the week.”

“Good, good.” Dr. Friland gave Annabelle an awkward little smile before looking back to Jeff. “And, the reason for your visit? It is to be similar to last time?”

“I hope so. Do you still have my sperm in storage?”

There was a minute change in the doctor’s attitude. He remained pleasant and eager, but Jeff could tell his curiosity had been aroused.

“Yes, we do,” Dr. Friland said. “I reviewed your file when I was informed of your appointment. I believe the deposit was originally made as a safeguard in case of… problems.”

“Yes. I wasn’t getting any younger, not in those days, anyway. My sperm count was falling. I think it was you who advised me to use storage. Standard procedure, you said. In case I wanted another child, or even a posthumous one. So, is it still viable?”

“Dr. Baker, I have to tell you it is unusual to utilize such an old sample. Even cryogenic storage cannot hold back entropy forever. I can’t imagine you have a problem with your sperm count today.” He managed to avoid looking at Annabelle.

“It must be the old sample that’s used for the procedure,” Jeff said levelly.

Dr. Friland’s smile was becoming forced. “I see. Well, if that is what you require, then I’m confident we can facilitate that for you. We might not pioneer such earth-shattering breakthroughs as your rejuvenation, but I’m not exaggerating when I say we are the leaders in our own quiet little field of endeavor. The range of improvements we can offer are considerably larger today than they were for Timothy’s conception.”

“I’m glad to hear it.”

“And Ms. Goddard, you are to be the mother?”

“Yes,” Annabelle said softly. “I’m to be the mother.”

EVEN THROUGH a good thick coating of factor-sixty sunblock, the high, late-morning sun managed to tingle Jeff’s skin as they walked along the private beach together. He began to wish he’d put on something more than a T-shirt and trunks. It didn’t seem to bother Annabelle, and all she was wearing was a bikini with a short sarong skirt. But then something as simple as sunlight shouldn’t affect her. That was the part of her that exerted the strongest attraction, the vitality that accompanied youth.

Other couples were strolling across the sands. They kept their distance here just as they did in the clinic’s restaurant and lounges. Even so, he’d glimpsed a couple of moderately famous faces.

“Everyone always used to say how Tim looked just like you,” Annabelle said. She squeezed Jeff’s hand and turned to look at him. “Is he a clone?”

“No. But nor is he a natural split between me and Sue, either; more like three quarters of me.”

“And enhanced.” Her free hand gestured at the main clinic building. There were institutes like it scattered all over the world, most of them sited in small impoverished countries that had no laws concerning human genetic modification. Outside the strictly regulated environments of Europe, North America, and the Pacific Rim nations it was easy to buy what the tabloid news streams called designer babies. Wealthy couples went to the overseas clinics to have their in vitro child’s health improved; and there was a growing trend for clones, especially among people who had founded successful corporate enterprises, establishing a new style of dynasty.

“Yes,” Jeff admitted. “I had him modified.”

“Does he know?”

“Oh God, no. Although he’s very smart, naturally smart, I’m proud to say. They hadn’t mapped out the full neurological functions twenty years ago. He’ll work it out eventually. There’s no way he can’t notice. He’s got a much better immune system than me or Sue; he’s highly resistant to cancer, his heart isn’t susceptible to disease, his hair won’t ever thin and recede, his bones are strong, his teeth don’t decay. There was a hell of a lot they could offer to do for us, even back then. Now, of course…” Before they’d left his office, Dr. Friland had given them a brochure containing all the possible modifications the clinic could make to an embryo’s DNA. It was a long, long list of traits that they were able to splice together. Everything that could give a child the best possible chance in life. Reading through it was the ultimate in temptation. As a prospective parent you just wanted to say yes to everything.

“How much do you want altered in our child?” she asked.

“I’m not sure. All the health stuff, I guess.” He gave her a questioning look, and she nodded. “What about appearance? They claim they’ve got every feature mapped out.”

“No,” she said. “Leave that alone. I want that part of her to be genuinely us, what we give her from ourselves. She should be able to look in the mirror and know where she came from and who she is.”

“Her?”

“Yes.” Annabelle smiled, and kissed the tip of his nose. “Her.”

OXFORD CAME AS AN ABRUPT TRANSLOCATION SHOCK after the quiet semireclusive life of a retirement estate in Rutland. Tim greeted university life with the same initial heart-flutter of reservation that all the millions of freshmen before him had undergone. It passed soon enough as he struggled bravely through the wall-to-wall parties that traditionally characterized freshmen week. His determination not to drink faltered on several occasions, though he never went back to the kind of destructive intake that had blighted his last few terms at Oakham. He could see that happening all too clearly among the other eighteen-year-olds who were experiencing their first true taste of away-from-home freedom, using it to reach maximum excess. So he merged into the mainstream with a minimal number of hiccups and gaffes.

The term played out against a backdrop of a classic autumn, with England’s climate once again shifting dramatically over a mere two weeks. After arriving when the daytime warmth lingered long into the twilight, he soon found himself digging out thicker clothes to survive days of bitingly cold wind and rain, and others of bright, low, yet strangely heatless sunlight. Trees succumbed to the encroaching frosts, shedding their leaves across the city to form a water-slicked shawl that made cycling and trike riding a dangerous adventure before the council crews cleared the gutters.

Tim went to most of his lectures. He signed on for soccer and badminton. He steered well clear of the youth wings of major—and minor—political parties. He tentatively started to make new friends. Everybody knew who he was, of course, which was somewhat unnerving. But he learned quickly enough to distinguish between who was interested purely in his mild celebrity status, and those who didn’t mind that. He discovered which pubs and clubs to go to.

To his credit, he called his mother almost once a week, and sent her txts most days. Alison, too, was on the contact list. As was Vanessa, though that dropped away as the term progressed—she was at Bristol University. The old crew from Oakham sent circular avtxts telling each other how they were getting on, though those were none too frequent. But he did stay in touch with Jeff. Nothing deeply significant, or emotionally meaningful—thank God. Tim found he got on best with his dad if they just swapped trivia: what he’d done today, what he’d eaten, lectures and essays. It was all perfectly normal, or at least as normal as it was ever going to get between the pair of them now. He was content with that. He even dutifully managed the occasional txt to Annabelle, whose modeling career seemed to have stalled.