Misspent Youth

13. BOY’S EYE VIEW

TIM WRAPPED A BIG TOWEL around his shoulders and sat on one of the sunloungers at the side of the pool. Even though the pool doors were flung open, it was too early in the year, and the sun too low in the sky, to be lazing around outside yet. Colin and Simon claimed the loungers next to him, leaving Philip and Martin splashing about in the water with the girls.

“Did you see the Newton’s Arrow flight last night?” Colin asked.

Tim cracked open a can of lemonade. He would have liked to make it a beer in front of the boys, but he had a lot of study work to do later. “Yeah. Sir Mitch held it at Mach 15 for eighty seconds.” Like everyone, Tim was fascinated by Sir Mitch Lock-heart’s efforts to win the X-orbit prize. About eight groups around the world were competing to put a reusable passenger-carrying space vehicle into orbit and claim the sixty-million-dollar prize—not that the money would pay a fraction of the development cost for any of the teams. Half of them were operating out of the Caribbean alongside Sir Mitch, where all the commercial semiballistic craft flew, catering to the ultrarich space tourists who paid a hundred thousand dollars to be rocketed up to a hundred miles above the Earth, where they experienced their fifteen minutes of freefall. It was going to be a close-run thing; the Mojave group had already gotten their single-stage Starchaser up to Mach 20. Tim was sure someone would claim the prize before the end of the year.

“They were interviewing Stephanie again before the flight,” Simon said. “She’s changed her hair. There’s a scarlet streak in it now. God, she looked gorgeous.”

“Better than Rachel?” Colin asked.

“Different,” Simon said. “I wouldn’t say no.”

“Because she’s so much bound to ask you,” Tim scoffed. Stephanie and Sir Mitch were the most amazing power-glamour couple in the world. Every news stream on the datasphere vied to run stories on them. After their marriage, access figures for the Newton’s Arrow test flights more than quadrupled. And they were still rising.

“I wonder if Sir Mitch and Stephanie will be at the Million Citizen Voices,” Simon mused. “She never transferred to the Euro beach volleyball squad, and everyone knows he’s flying from the Caribbean because of the EuroFederal airworthiness regulations. They’ve got to be anti-EFU.”

“He’ll be too busy with the flight testing,” Tim said. “This is the third time he’s rebuilt the orbiter stage. He’s got to make it work now.”

“Well, I’m definitely going,” Simon said. “It’ll be a massive turnout. They say anyone who’s ever wanted a withdrawal referendum will be supporting one way or another.”

“I’ll be there,” Tim said. For the last couple of months the Separatist sites had been highlighting the London summit—some big event planned by Brussels on how to best control the introduction of new technology into society. Technocrats denying a democratic debate. “How about you?”

“I want to,” Colin said.

“Won’t your mum let you go?” Simon sneered.

“It’s not like that. We’re going on holiday. I might not be here.”

“That’s okay,” Tim said quickly. “If you are, you can come with us.”

“Thanks,” Colin said gratefully.

“So how did Saturday go for you?” Simon asked.

If there was a note of laughter in his voice, Tim couldn’t detect it, and he always listened for it with Simon.

“Bloody amazing, actually. Sex and drugs and rock and roll maxout the whole time.”

“Yeah?” Colin was keen for detail. “What happened after you guys split?”

“I don’t know how many clubs we hit,” Tim said. Although they’d gone out a lot, Annabelle was never around much at the weekends; she was always busy with coursework and visiting her cousins up in Yorkshire. “To give me a break from Dad,” she’d explained. So Saturday night had been essentially their first proper date. To mark it he wanted to do something different than cruising around Stamford, so he and Annabelle had joined Colin and Danielle and taken the train over to Peterborough. They’d stayed together for a drink at a pub, then split up.

It had been a lot more than amazing for Tim; it was greater than any first date the universe had ever known. For a start Annabelle had worn a short tight top and even shorter shorts. She’d looked staggeringly sexy, so much so she was frightening. When she’d opened the door and he saw her for the first time that night, he’d almost reverted to his wretched old self, intimidated and tongue-tied. It was simply impossible for him to have a girlfriend so magnificent. But there she was, dressed in the most in-your-face come-on clothes he’d ever seen.

After the pub they’d hit club after club, seeking out different music each time. It was as though Annabelle was determined to sample every era that had ever produced its own sound, from Mersey beat to acid thrash right up to post10 macromixing. Tim was sucking down intube doses all evening, a neat little synth8 that pushed his usual pathetic self out of sight. With the music ripping into his ears and the alien molecules singing in his blood he could dance properly. Out on the floor he was king of the beat, he had the moves, he had the energy, he took the rhythm and made it his own. They drank liters of water from bottles held high above their heads, laughing as it splashed over them. A tight perfect unit of movement in the middle of a hundred seething bodies.

It was past three in the morning when they walked through the sodium glare of the city center streets back to the station and caught the train to Uppingham, arm in arm, leaning happily against each other the whole way. Every word he whispered to her was pure poetry. The looks she gave him in return were those of complete adoration.

Uppingham’s ancient winding streets were devoid of life in the gray nonlight before dawn. And somehow on the way back to her house they’d melted into the thick shadows behind an ancient oak tree. The kiss had gone on and on, while his hands slowly and sensually moved up to caress her breasts. As she groaned in delight Annabelle had snaked her own hands into his trousers, and Tim cried out in ecstasy. They were one. It was heaven.

“So did you get to shag her?” Simon asked.

“Even if I did,” Tim said, “hell would have to freeze over before I told you.”

“You didn’t,” Simon declared. “Christ, Tim, you ought to be by now. It’s been weeks since you started dating. I’ve only been going out with Rachel for a fortnight, and we spent all of Saturday night in bed together. Jesus, she’s hot. I lost count of how many positions we tried.”

The boys turned to look at Rachel, who was toweling herself off at the side of the pool. Tim held back the comment that’d popped into his head. Simon and his bullshit bragging and his needle comments truly didn’t bother him anymore, not after Saturday. The world was too perfect for that now.

“No shit,” Colin said glumly.

For once Tim had the experience of pitying someone else when it came to girls. He was the winner now, at the center of the inner circle looking out at the envious. It felt superb. “I did spend the night at Annabelle’s house,” he said modestly.

“Yes?” Simon tried not to show how eager he was for information.

“Nothing like that. My e-trike was parked there, and it was past four o’clock in the morning when we got in. But get this.” He leaned in toward them. “Her father was still up.”

“What?” Colin was disbelieving. “You mean, like, waiting for his daughter to get home?”

“No. Nothing like that. He didn’t even notice when we finally rolled up. He was watching the entertainment feed, some New Zealand drama soap or something.”

“At four o’clock in the morning!”

“Yeah! I’m not kidding. He was completely wasted.”

Simon dropped his voice, contributing to the prosecution case. “He’s been like that for years, Annabelle said. He was doing the freak routine when I was going out with her. Like he’d make toast and jam, then deep fry it for lunch.”

“Deep fry it?” Colin yelped.

“Yeah. Dead on.”

“With jam?”

“Yeah. He thinks it’s like supernormal. I reckon he’s got an old desktop synthesizer stashed in the house somewhere.”

“The guy’s not had a job in years,” Tim said. “Annabelle told me. He used to be some kind of forensic accountant, which is like the top of the profession. He was on the team investigating one of the Italian sea solar plants they built outside Venice lagoon, and it all got political with the Mafia involved and everything. Brussels crashed the report.”

“Unserious?”

“Dead on. He just spends the whole time in front of the screen now.”

“That’s why Annabelle’s the way she is,” Simon said wisely. He gave Tim a friendly smile.

Tim could relate to that, though the way Simon said it typically made it sound almost insulting. It was the simplicity of Newton’s law; for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction. Kids with seriously dippy parents were often the stable type, while kids from perfectly normal homes frequently went wild. Happened at school all the time. I wonder where I fit into that?