Misspent Youth (6 page)

“I know.”

“Well then. Besides, I don’t think I’ll be much of a priority for my big brother. He’ll want to see you more than anything. And your mother.”

“You sure?”

“Yes. I’ll watch the news streams from here.”

“Okay. But Mum’s having a welcome home party for him on Saturday evening. She says she’d like you to come to that.”

“I’ll be there. I do want to see him, Tim, just not under the spotlight.”

“I understand. I wish I didn’t have to do it, either.”

“You’re not worried about meeting him again, are you?” Alison asked gently.

“Well. You know. No.”

“Tim, he’s going to be delighted to see you. Really. You’ve sailed through these last eighteen months. Anybody would be proud to have you as their son. Hell, I’m proud just to have you as a nephew.”

Tim chewed on his lower lip, hating to show any vulnerability. “You think?”

“God, yes.”

“I really missed him, you know. I mean, not that we did much father and son stuff together, soccer and things. He was a bit old for that even with his ordinary genoprotein treatments. But he was always there, you know, he’d listen and try to help. I don’t suppose I told him how much I appreciated that. Not very often, anyway.”

“I’d hope not! You’re a teenager. You’re supposed to spend the entire era in a bad sulk.”

“No way!”

Graham and Alison burst out laughing. Tim blushed, trying not to smile.

Alison patted his knee. “It’ll all work out fine. You’ll see.”

I
T WAS A WARM
, hazy summer day, with a strange orange-tinted sky as if twilight had started at lunch. They were on one of the manor’s big lawns, just Timmy and himself. Kicking a soccer ball about. Sweaters on the grass marked the goalposts. Timmy was about ten years old, skinny legs sticking out of baggy blue shorts. He ran back and forth, nudging the ball with his toe, swerving around imaginary opponents.

Jeff wanted to run after him. Tackle him. Lose the ball back to him again. As it should be between father and son. But all he could do was stand in the goal, his joints aching from arthritis, too ancient and wizened to move.

Timmy ran toward him, feet pounding, the ball bouncing along in front. He took a mighty kick, and the ball sailed past Jeff as feeble claw hands waved about uselessly in the air.

“Gooooal!” Timmy shrieked. He danced about on the spot, his arms raised high.

Jeff clapped delightedly. “Well done, son. Jolly well done.”

“Let’s play again. Play with me this time, Dad, please, I want us to play together.”

“I can’t, son.” The tears were rolling down his cheeks. “I can’t. I’m sorry.”

“Why, Dad, why?”

And all Jeff could do was stand there, just as he always did at this moment, hands reaching out while Timmy frowned and sulked. Every time the same. Every time he failed his son.

“Jeff?” It was a female voice, disembodied. “Jeff, can you hear me?”

Jeff moaned as the manor and its grounds wavered and darkened. This wasn’t part of the dream. Never before, anyway.

“Jeff?”

There was only the darkness of a foggy moonless night. And pain. An all-over sharp prickling that grew and grew, as if his skin was igniting. A thin wail escaped from his mouth. He could barely hear it.

“That’s it, Jeff, focus now, please. Focus on me.”

The darkness was fading out, as swirls of bright light emerged from all over. Jeff blinked furiously. He’d been dreaming, so this must be waking, he realized. Damn, it hurt. His skin was still inflamed, and now he could feel a deeper ache in every limb warning him not to move any muscle.

“What?” he gasped feebly.

His one simple word was greeted by a lot of people cheering. Idiots, couldn’t they see he needed help?

“Jeff, don’t try to move. Just keep calm. You’re fine. The suppressants are going to take a while to wear off.”

Soft tissues dabbed at his eyes, soaking up the moisture. The world resolved around him. Unsurprisingly, he was in some kind of hospital room, with a bank of equipment at one side of his bed. Two people dressed in medical smocks were bending over him, electronic instruments in their hands. More people stood at the end of the bed. He frowned, and concentrated on one of them.

“Timmy?” For some reason his lovely son was different. Older. His face was wound up with nervous apprehension.

Memories began to seep into Jeff’s sluggish thoughts.

“Hiya, Dad.” Tim’s voice was choked up with emotion.

“Hello, Jeff,” Sue said politely. She was standing next to Tim.

“Uh…what happened?” He worried he’d had some kind of accident.

“Can you tell us?” one of the medical people asked. His voice had a German accent. “Do you remember the treatment you were scheduled?”

The memories were welling up now.
The meetings, endlessly sitting around conference tables with oh-so-serious doctors and geneticists. The agonizing week they gave him to make up his mind, the indecision and fear.
He found some of them frightening.
Back in the public eye again after so long in modest obscurity, reporters from every news stream pounding incessant questions at him. Politicians, hordes of the bastards wanting to be associated with the project. Slick spin doctors circling in vulture flocks.
He wanted to stop remembering, to keep the bright images and sounds sealed away, but the torrent had begun now.

“Jesus wept,” he moaned. His hands were shaking uncontrollably as realization swept him along. Judging from Timmy’s age, he must have been in the tank for months, more than a year. That must mean it was over, complete.

“It’s okay, Dad,” Tim promised anxiously. “It worked. You’re fine. You look great.”

Jeff tried to raise his head. Both of the medical staff pressed him down again.

“Mirror,” Jeff said. “Give me a mirror.”

Sue nodded at Tim, who moved closer. The lad held up a mirror.

T
HE
E
UROHEALTH
C
OUNCIL
originally began the research project back in 2023, dispensing grants to universities across the continent, then tying in various corporate laboratories as well. It was exactly the kind of forward-thinking, benefits-the-people endeavor that Europe’s ruling classes were keen to pursue, and even keener to publicize. Officially, the Eurohealth Council called the project “multilevel synchronous replacement vectoring.” To the news streams it was simply rejuvenation. The concept took genoprotein treatments several stages past organ enhancement and cosmetic improvement. Researchers were aiming for the ability to vector new and complete DNA strands into every component of the human body. It was DNA copied from the patient, then engineered back to the state of late adolescence, before they began losing telomeres and suffering replication errors. Young DNA.

In theory, the next generation of cells reproduced within the body would be those of an adolescent. The patient’s entire body would grow progressively younger. But there are billions upon billions of cells in the human body. To produce a new, and perfect, gene for every single one and insert it correctly was immensely difficult, and fabulously expensive. By 2036, when the project leaders announced it had reached fruition, and that they were ready for their first human subject, the dedicated Eurohealth Council budget for rejuvenation was larger than that of the European Space Agency. With such generous resources distributed among seventy universities and over nine thousand biomedical subcontractor companies, it was possible for the project to rejuvenate one European citizen every eighteen months.

Before Jeff went into the suspension womb, the Brussels University Medical Centre had stopped him from taking the genoprotein treatments that kept his bones thick and strong, and maintained his glossy skin. They extracted his ceramic teeth, withdrew his retinal implants, and canceled the vectors that helped sustain his major organs. The cold turkey purged his body of the alien biochemicals and aptamers that had kept him fit and active. His true seventy-seven years of age had crept up on him in less than a fortnight, terrifying in its humbling. He had come to know the wintertime grip of wheezy asthmatic lungs, stiff painful joints, labored arthritic movements, the degradation of soiled pants and misty vision. He had watched his skin dry and shrivel, veins protrude, liver spots bloom like invading bacteria cultures; seen virile silver hair fade to gray and fall as dead and desiccated as autumn pine needles to contaminate his collar.

Jeff had discovered then exactly how much he hated old age. It frightened him badly. The incontinence, the weakness, the frailty, all reminding him he was mortal, a reality from which a great many of his generation had successfully hidden themselves away.

He could quite clearly remember the last sight of his wrinkled, decrepit face before he went into the suspension womb; but he had to swim back through decades of compacted and jumbled memories to reach the face in the mirror, and even that didn’t fit perfectly. When he had been twenty, his mouse-brown hair had reached fashionably down to his shoulders. Now he looked at this foreign youth’s firm jaw, small pale lips, shocked gray eyes, baby-smooth skin, downy stubble, and a short punky fuzz of hair.

Nonetheless, this face belonged to him.

He was afraid to reach up and paw at the mirror in case its mirage shattered; it seemed fairground trickery. Rejuvenation treatment was a modern alchemy: Close your eyes, a long blank second while the wizard waves his staff, open your eyes, and you’ve been reborn.

Then his personality began to pull together, skittish thoughts calming. This young face, he noted, had slightly thinner cheeks than he recalled himself having fifty-eight years ago. That must be due to diet; the suspension womb would have fed him a perfectly balanced nutrient supply rather than the junk food and bar snacks he lived off during his student days.

Jeff Baker grinned at himself, revealing teeth that were perfectly straight and white. Then he started to laugh, despite the pain.

T
HE
E
UROPEAN
C
OMMISSION’S
central briefing arena was a semicircular chamber with seating for more than three hundred people. Like most European government facilities, it was grandiose and expensively furnished. Projection and display equipment was state of the art, capable of providing absolute proof that policies and edicts were working and tax money was well spent. It needed to be; the hardened Brussels political press corps still hadn’t been tamed into the meek complicity that the EMPs and commissioners would prefer.

For once, though, the press corps actually emitted an expectant buzz as they filed into the arena. This afternoon, in the same place, they would be covering the launch of an initiative to tackle small town transport infrastructure decay in the Group3 northeastern countries. Tomorrow there would be two presentations, one on offshore energy subsidies, and yet another on agriculture. Yesterday Brussels had been dominated by the auditors refusing to sign off on the commission accounts for the fifteenth year in a row. But this was different; this was a human story, this was the official discovery of the fountain of youth.

A long table had been set up on the raised stage, complete with the traditional glasses of water and silver microphones. Behind it, a huge screen was displaying a colorful double helix that writhed and twisted like a tormented serpent. The senior press officer looked across the audience of familiar cynical faces, took a deep breath to calm his fluttering nerves, and announced that they were ready to begin. President Jean Brèque walked onto the stage first. The press corps politely rose. Rob Lacey, the British prime minister, was next, producing his standardized lopsided smile for the newspool feed cameras.

Jeff Baker appeared. The arena was silent for a moment, then the press broke into thunderous applause. Jeff was slightly taken aback by the response, but recovered to give a quick wave before sitting down. His family followed him in. Sue, of course, looked beautiful, dressed stylishly in a ginger-pink silk suit with a high collar. Cameras zoomed in eagerly. Tim didn’t quite slouch, but he did give the theater a sullen glance. He was wearing a vivid higlo Union Jack T-shirt. The English reporters chuckled at that. Standing next to his father, it was as though they were brothers with barely a couple of years separating them. A lot of reporters commented on how similar they looked. With Sue in the group, appearing at most five years older than Jeff, it was hardly a standard family picture.

President Brèque leaned forward to the microphone, smiling broadly. “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen, and welcome to what I consider one of the most momentous conferences of my tenure. As you can see, Jeff Baker is alive, well, and looking in very good shape. Very young shape, I should say.”

The press applauded again. Jeff gave them a thumbs-up.

“There have been many critics of our rejuvenation project,” the president continued. “Both inside our community, and especially abroad. Today, I consider our persistence to be utterly vindicated. Dr. Sperber, who heads the project, tells me that Dr. Baker has an effective physiological age of a youth in his early twenties. We have been extraordinarily successful. As a result, only Europe is in a position to provide this treatment for its citizens. America, with its increasingly isolationist foreign policy and Religious Right cultural dominance, is a long way behind us in this field. Our unquestioned leadership in this field can only be seen as an endorsement of our social inclusiveness. Ours is the culture in which the promotion of human life can flourish to its full potential.” He inclined his head graciously. “But enough of my dull old speechifying. It is my pleasure and privilege to introduce Jeff Baker, father of the datasphere.”

Jeff grinned round, mildly embarrassed, but unable to hide his sense of wonder. In twenty-four hours he’d managed to walk in a reasonable fashion, though his muscles were still woefully weak. But getting used to what he looked like—what he
was
now—that was difficult verging on impossible. He was beginning to think the human brain was fundamentally incapable of understanding the transformation.

“Dr. Baker, congratulations on your successful treatment, and welcome back,” the Berlin Stream news stream reporter said.

“Thanks.” Jeff knew these were going to be desperately dull and sanitized questions. He’d even been shown them in advance so he could prepare answers; Lucy Duke had sat with him that morning, making suggestions. It didn’t particularly bother him; the kind of tough interrogation the old newspaper reporters back home and thirty years ago used to dish out was a hell of an ordeal. He wouldn’t be able to face that kind of session right now.

“I know this will sound somewhat trite,” the Berlin Stream man went on, “but could you please tell us how you feel?”

“Easy enough: I feel as if I’ve been caught up by a miracle. Even when I was going into the suspension womb there was some little part of me that refused to believe this would work. I’m rather glad to be proved wrong. But trust me, it takes some getting used to. And on a personal note, I’d just like to express my public appreciation to Dr. Sperber and his team at the university for both their dedication and professionalism.”

“Dr. Baker, what will you do first now that your treatment is complete?” the woman from Monde asked.

“I’m going to take things easy for a while, build my strength back up—just like the doctors tell me to. I might have new muscles, but they’re not used to doing any work right now. Same with my stomach, unfortunately. Before I went into the treatment I made a long list of fabulous meals I was going to eat when I came out. That’ll have to wait a few days as well now; I’m on simple stuff to start with, nursery food basically. But most of all I’m just looking forward to being home with my family.” He put one arm around Tim’s shoulder, and smiled warmly at Sue. She replied with a fond look. “This has left me pretty disoriented. I just need to get my feet back on solid ground.”

“Sue, can you tell us how you feel about having your husband back like this?”

“It’s hard to describe, really. Like every dream I’ve ever had coming true all at once. Now, I just want him home where he belongs, and we can have our life back.”

“How about you, Tim?”

“It’s good.”

Jeff laughed lightly. “That’s it?” he joshed.

“Well…” Tim glanced suspiciously around the theater. “He’s my dad, you know. ’Course I want him back. I really missed him badly. And this…I just…He looks pretty amazing, that’s all. It’s going to be great.”

This time Jeff gave him a strong hug. Tim turned bright red and managed a limp smile for his father.

“Dr. Baker, we’re all very impressed with your physical appearance,” the Line Telegraph reporter asked. “But it has cost an awful lot of money to give one person something the majority will never have. Do you really think it’s justified?”

Jeff kept smiling; he didn’t remember this question being on the list. From the corner of his eye, he caught Lucy Duke frowning. “You’re asking the wrong person for an objective opinion, I’m afraid.”

“But rejuvenation is never going to be available to everybody, is it? Don’t you think this project is raising false hope?”

The president leaned forward, giving the reporter an angry glare. “Absolutely not.”

“If I could answer this,” Jeff said. “The most obvious parallel is penicillin. When it was first developed at the start of World War II, there was so little of it that the doctors wouldn’t have been able to treat both Churchill and Roosevelt had they needed it. Today there’s so much penicillin and antibiotics that super-bug resistance is a real problem for the doctors. Of course, my treatment cost a lot. I’m the first, there is no production line. And I don’t suppose it will ever be easy, or get to the point where it’s refined down to a simple pill. But thanks to today’s pioneers across Europe and the support we give them, it will gradually become more available and cheaper. And I haven’t even mentioned the hundreds of spin-off techniques that are benefiting the biogenetics industries. All in all, I’m afraid you asked a bit of a pointless question. People have a right to hope, and this project is certainly justified in giving them that hope.”

There was some scattered applause, led by the president and prime minister.

“Have you met Dr. Schrober?” the Polish Star asked.

“No,” Jeff said. He was struggling to recall his quick briefing with Lucy Duke. Dr. Katerina Schrober was the next rejuvenation subject. She was some kind of molecular biologist, a Nobel laureate. He tried not to smirk at how obligatory the choice was: female and German. So politically correct it was almost parody. “But I certainly wish her well. I hope her treatment goes as smoothly as mine.”

The Lisbon Web reporter asked: “How is your mental state, Dr. Baker? Do you believe you are up to the job you were given this rejuvenation for?”

“Good question,” Jeff said earnestly. “I’ll be undergoing memory assessment for the next few days. I can certainly remember most of my life, as much as any seventy-eight-year-old can. There will be sections missing, that’s inevitable. It’s also essential, because I now have another half century of life to fill those new neurons with. I need the room! As to my intellect and rationality, that seems to be working, although I’ll also be undergoing evaluation tests to map my cognitive processes. Once I’ve settled back in with my family, I’m convinced I’ll be able to do the job. Just don’t ask me specifics on superconductivity at the moment. I’ll need to bring myself up to speed on current research.”

“So you think we should soon have high-temperature superconductors?”

“I think it’s a little unfair to ask Dr. Baker about deadlines,” Rob Lacey said. “We all know he was chosen for this because of his unrivaled knowledge and expertise in solid state physics. The research effort to produce a room-temperature superconductor will be pan-European, much the same as rejuvenation.”

“That’s right,” Jeff said. “It won’t be one person that brings about a commercial superconductor; this is about mounting a team effort. I’m not even the team leader. I’ll be one of a thousand people contributing.”

“A contribution we shall all value, Dr. Baker,” the president interjected. “A room-temperature superconductor will be of enormous advantage to every European, indeed everyone on this planet. And its effects will be felt immediately. Ecologically and economically each one of us will benefit. Less power will be lost through transmission cables; it will be possible to build more efficient generators and motors.”

“The world needs new energy and new ways of handling that most precious resource,” Jeff said. “And this is the most promising method of all.”

“High-temperature superconductors have been a goal of the physics community for over fifty years, Dr. Baker,” the New European Scientist reporter said. “Don’t you think that if it was possible, we’d have it by now?”

“Practical rejuvenation has been a goal ever since we discovered the DNA molecule. It took us this long to get it right. And there’s a lot of time, effort, and money being channeled into the problem right across the world, not just in Europe. America was doing some superb work on nanonics before I went into treatment. I’m very keen to see where that’s leading, and how much is applicable to our own effort.”

“I don’t know about anyone else,” Rob Lacey said cheerfully. “But I’m confident that having Jeff here on our team will give us in Europe a hell of an advantage. And as prime minister I’m proud that it is one of our citizens, a man whose fame is based on his notorious generosity, who will be providing our premier technological project the impetus it needs for success. We are at the core of Europe, and I hope we can now become its powerhouse.” He looked round contentedly at the reporters, searching out their approval, while somehow managing to avoid the eye of the president, whose tight smile was frozen on his face.