Misspent Youth

  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.”

  “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 beco
ming 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.

  And of course there was Jodie. Tim met her at the last party of freshmen week. She was taking computer sciences, and liked almost the same music as he did, though her taste in pre10 films was truly atrocious. Her hair was white-blonde, and came down below her shoulders. She was tall, and pretty, and came from a public school in Suffolk. Her family owned a lot of property in various European cities. All those little details locked together easily; with their similar backgrounds they could be very comfortable around each other. At first they were just friends, because he was still calling Vanessa on a daily basis. But then he decided that was stupid, he and Vanessa were never an item, not really—just a pleasant summer romance. It wasn’t long after that realization that they wound up in bed together.

  NEITHER TIM NOR JODIE heard the first tentative little knock on his door. They were together on his room’s elderly leather sofa, squirming around in a reasonable approximation of a wrestling lock. He’d already got her blouse open, while his own trousers were down around his knees.

  The knock came again.

  Tim’s head came up, giving the door a worried look. For all he’d settled confidently into university life, he was still scared of the bulldogs who ruled the college. Prowling through the cloisters and quads in their black suits and hats, ever alert for recidivist activity, they inspired the same level of fear in the current student body as they had for centuries.

  “Just a minute,” he called.

  They hurriedly pulled their clothes back together. A last quick check with Jodie, who was now sitting primly on the sofa, and Tim opened the heavy oak door, a neutral smile in place.

  Annabelle stood outside.

  Tim just gaped dumbly at her. She was dressed in a black blouse with a vivid scarlet tartan skirt, all visible through the open front of a fawn-colored camel hair coat. Long looping gold necklaces completed the ensemble, making her appearance tremendously chic in comparison to the students her age. Tim very quickly damped down that tho
ught.

  “Hi, Tim,” she said. Her voice was quiet, almost shy.

  “Hi. Er, come in. Please.”

  Annabelle and Jodie looked at each other, then their gaze fell in unison to the bright pink fluffy sweater that was lying on the floor beside the sofa. Tim knew his face was red as he made the introductions.

  “Sorry to barge in on you like this,” Annabelle said. “But I had to see you in person.”

  “Why?” Tim asked. She was acting very strangely.

  “You have to come home with me. I brought the car. I can take you now.”

  “Home? Why?”

  Annabelle bowed her head, as if she was no longer strong enough to hold herself upright. When she spoke he could barely hear her. “Jeff’s ill, Tim. Really ill.”

  “He never said. I spoke to him a couple of days ago.” He was almost indignant with her: Such a thing couldn’t happen to his father.

  “He hasn’t said anything to you; he didn’t want you to be upset. You know what he’s like.”

  “What’s wrong with him?”

  She simply shook her head. Tim was shocked to see a tear running down her cheek.

  “What?” he demanded; her reaction was making him nervous, which he tried to cover by sounding annoyed.

  “Tim!” Jodie warned.

  “Sorry. Look, Annabelle, what is all this?”

  “You have to come home.”

  He looked to Jodie, who nodded encouragingly.

  “Okay,” he said, holding his hands up in surrender. “I’ll get my coat.”

  “Thank you,” Annabelle said. She dabbed at her cheek with a tissue.

  “What did the medical team say?”

  “He won’t let them in the house.”

  “Jesus.” Tim was starting to get worried now. “What is wrong with him?”

  “He wants to tell you himself.”