began using the genoprotein when she was twenty-three. Two years’ apparent physical aging in fifteen chronological years. Oh yes, it was worth the money, no matter how much he grouched and cursed.
Skin and its texture, though, provided merely the first of the new products to emerge from the biogenetic laboratories. Men might have claimed not to care quite so much about their wrinkles and liver spots, but when it came to receding hairlines male vanity knew no bounds—nor cost barrier. Follicle genoprotein sales levels were second only to those of skin treatments.
Sue used only the very best of both, along with similar treatments for nails and teeth, and most definitely anticellulites targeting her hips and thighs. To be on the safe side she also used bone and muscle treatments, and a very specific group of genoproteins to prevent her breast tissue from becoming flaccid (the second most popular purchase for women after skin genoprotein). She’d never used the treatment to stimulate breast growth—there was a suspected link to cancer blooms, although most women ignored that. One of the reasons she’d never quite made it to supermodel status was her generous bust size.
All of her treatments were supervised and administered by a private hospital in Stamford devoted to bodyform courses. As they were combined with a wholesome diet which she stuck to with iron discipline, and a fitness regimen which impressed even the gym staff, her appearance was locked permanently in her midtwenties. Despite every miserable day, emotional and financial letdowns, arguments with Tim and with Jeff, bad holidays, depressing news reports, her mother’s frail condition, and faithless lovers, she could always look at herself in the mirror and be utterly satisfied with what she saw. Not only was she a match for any of the girls currently cavorting around the swimming pool in their skimpy costumes, but thanks to her modeling experience she had a much better dress sense than the lot of them put together. Men appreciated that.
Tim’s friends left around seven, catching the Rutland Circuit bus back to Oakham. He simply grinned and nodded to Annabelle as she and Sophie waved good-bye.
“So what happened to Zai?” Sue asked after the door closed behind them.
“Oh, er, she couldn’t make it.”
She tried not to smile. Even after eighteen years of upbringing by her and Jeff, he made a bad liar. “Okay, Tim.”
He gave her a curious look, then shrugged. “Got some course work to finish. I’ll be upstairs.”
Lucy Duke cleared her throat. Both Tim and Sue turned to look at her as she stood at the bottom of the stairs.
“Hi there, Tim. I’m afraid I need to talk to you about security arrangements,” Lucy said. Her carefully casual attitude made her sound incredibly patronizing.
“What about them?”
Even Sue was impressed by how quickly he slid from reasonable human being to petulant teenage grouch.
“Well, as you know, we’ve been installing several new systems around the house in anticipation of your father’s return. And there are some further requirements we need to implement.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. You see, it’s not just his safety we need to consider. The whole family is included.”
“You mean me?”
“Absolutely. I’m afraid the Separatists aren’t particularly pleasant, nor choosy about the people they target.”
Tim slouched and sneered at the same time. “I know. I put myself on their newstxt subscription list.”
“I see.” Lucy Duke’s mouth tightened slightly. “Tim, this is a little more involved than a few student revolutionary slogans.”
“You got something against students?”
“Not at all. But the people that Lieutenant Krober and his team are concerned about can be a serious problem.”
“Only to foreigners who steal our taxes and oppress us.”
“Tim, we’re assigning you a bodyguard.”
“Don’t want one.”
“I appreciate that this is difficult.” She smiled bravely. “And it won’t be very, um, cool, for this to happen at school, will it. I’m sorry about that, but we wouldn’t do it unless we thought it was essential. Your mother’s having one as well.”
“So?”
Lucy Duke’s humor was fading. “Tim, these people are evil and violent. You need protection from them. The Europol officers won’t interfere with your life.”
“You mean they’ll help me score my synth8?”
Sue almost laughed out loud at the appalled expression on the spin doctor’s face. “Do you know how much your father’s treatment has cost the federal government?” Lucy Duke asked curtly.
“I’m not sure. How about: the price of the prime minister getting elected president of Europe?”
“That has absolutely nothing to do with this,” the now furious young woman said.
“Then why are you here?”
“Look. All right. I know you don’t want me or any of us here, but we
“Fine. Move in here with us then, I don’t care. I’m not having a bodyguard.” He slithered around her and took the stairs two at a time.
“You are,” Lucy said firmly. “They will be with you when you leave the house tomorrow morning.”
Tim might have grunted a reply; it was difficult to tell. He stalked off along the landing. His door slammed shut.
“Told you so,” Sue murmured dryly.
“Oh my God,” Lucy exclaimed. “I wasn’t briefed on this situation. Is he like that all the time?”
“Not at all. Sometimes he can be a real pain in the ass.”
6. THE RESTORATION PROJECT
THE JET SKI WAS A TWENTY-YEAR-OLD KARUDA, sleek silver and purple bodywork wrapped around a powerful marine combustion engine. Quite why his father had bought it, Tim never knew. He certainly couldn’t remember the machine ever being used. His mother hadn’t been able to shed any light on the mystery other than saying: “Probably a midlife crisis.”
It had spent most of two decades stored in a polyethylene bubble in one of the manor’s many fusty outbuildings. Then Tim and his friends had decided to resurrect it for some fun when the warm weather arrived in April. They carried it over to the stable, which had been converted into a workshop for the gardener, and stripped the protective polyethylene off. The bodywork had lost its luster over the intervening years, but the engine had been well oiled before it was cocooned. Now the streamlined machine was clamped on top of a long carpentry bench with a frame of crude wood. Body panels had been removed, exposing the framework, and various dismantled parts were lying around it. The engine was held upright in its own clamp, allowing them to strip it down as best they could.
On Saturday morning they all gathered around to do a couple of hours’ work on it before going out. A big old flat polycrystal screen was fixed to the wall behind the bench, displaying the engine’s service manual. Tim and Martin were looking at it, trying to match the neat drawings to the oily metal components they were attempting to reassemble onto the block.
“I’m surprised they’re not in here with you now,” Simon said. He was sitting on a battered old leather sofa at the other end of the workshop, below a big poster of Stephanie Romane wearing her UK team beach volleyball costume and a lot of body oil. “Then they can make sure we’re conforming to Brussels working practice directives.”
