Dad promised me that ticket.
Tim braked the e-trike outside the caravan. The lock on the secure hut outside opened to his code, and he tugged the Jet Ski out. It was tough getting it down the slope into the water by himself, but eventually it was bobbing about beside the mooring. He didn’t bother getting changed, just pulled his T-shirt off and climbed on. The engine started first time.
Sir Mitch’s party was a launchwatch. The Texas Spacecraft Corporation’s TX5 was making a flight. It was a dumpy cone with sharp triangular fins radiating out from its base, carrying a pilot and four multimillionaire passengers. It rode up to an altitude of eight miles on the back of an ancient Airbus A310, then fired its own rockets to fly a hundred fifty miles above the Earth. Descent was a long fall with the base of the cone taking the thermal strain of atmospheric entry, just like the old Apollo modules. Once it braked to subsonic speed, five big parachutes deployed and lowered it to a soft splashdown in the sea close to Antigua, where the recovery boat would winch it on board and bring it back ready for the next flight.
The camera moved through the throng of rich and famous as they drank their wine and ate lobster cooked on an open-air charcoal grill. They were all craning their necks back, looking up into the deep cloudless sky. The Airbus was a tiny glint of silver high above, surfing along on the end of its contrail. It was suddenly enveloped in a puffball of white vapor, like an explosion. The crowd drew its breath, then the TX5 was accelerating hard, its hypergolic fuel rockets blasting out a long tail of flame that wavered to gray smoke as it rose away from the planet.
Sir Mitch and Jeff Baker stood side by side, both wearing silver sunglasses as they watched the TX5 soar higher and higher. Along with everyone else they were clapping and cheering exuberantly. They shared some joke, laughing together like the best of old friends.
I could have been there. I could have been a part of that.
Tim sent the Jet Ski racing around in a long curve. The other riders out on the lake had to take fast action to avoid him. He didn’t care, ignoring their angry fists and shouted curses. The Jet Ski began to kick out a wide arc of spray as it picked up speed. Wind pushed into his face. That was when his mood started to lift; not long now and he’d reclaim that same exhilaration that he’d enjoyed the last time he took the Jet Ski out. He’d become quite proficient at it now, spending several afternoons with Martin out on the water, practicing maneuvers. Eventually they’d both tried jumping the ramp. Tim had succeeded.
The east shore was dead ahead, so he flung his weight to one side, making a hard turn through a hundred eighty degrees. Now the nose was pointing at the slim spit of land that separated the owners’ lake from the hire lake. He gunned the throttle all the way around, producing maximum revs. The Jet Ski leaped forward, accelerating hard. He’d never ridden it this fast before. Didn’t care. This was for him. Doing what he wanted, and fuck the rest of the world. Finally.
In amid the barricade of trees and bushes growing along the spit there was one small gap. He lined the Jet Ski’s nose straight at it and held true. He could jump it, he knew he could.
Standing just beyond Sir Mitch and Jeff, Stephanie was talking to a fascinated Annabelle. The celebrity athlete resembled some statuesque goddess out of legend, but dressed in a modern skintight black and emerald beach dress with short sleeves and shorter skirt, showing off the long limbs that had grand-slammed so many winning balls over the net. She was several inches taller than Annabelle, who was looking up at her with a near-religious devotion. Euan, Stephanie’s one-year-old son, was resting inside a fashionable sling his mother was wearing over one shoulder, dozing contentedly. A wineglass was held in her free hand, and she was nodding with agreement at Annabelle as the two chatted away.
Annabelle would have been with me when she met Stephanie.
The trees on the spit were becoming alarmingly tall, a solid wall of greenery. By contrast, the lone gap seemed to be shrinking. Tim held his nerve, seeing the bed of gravel rising up from the water, where the shaggy marsh grass took hold. He hit it head on, and took off. The Jet Ski engine roared as he flew arrow-straight over the greenery, with a few twigs flicking against the bottom of the little craft. Then there was just the water of the second lake below him, and he splashed down hard, kicking up a huge gout of spray. Waves rushed out from either side.
Tim whooped ecstatically, and shot toward the group of startled beginners who were being instructed by the hire center. He turned again, and headed directly back to the jump spot. Now that he knew he could do it, there would be no problem hopping back into the owners’ lake. He gunned the throttle again.
Three meters from the spit, the sodden branch just seemed to materialize out of the water right in front of him. He yanked frantically at the handlebars, turning violently right. At the same time he twisted the throttle back, killing the engine. It was the proper maneuver. But it was too late. There was an almighty crunch as the little composite hull disintegrated on impact. Some giant force wrenched Tim out of the saddle, sending him cartwheeling through the air. His world was completely inverted, putting the sky underneath his feet. The marshy ground descended on him, fast and hard.
43. DECISIONS, DECISIONS
LIGHT FROM A SHARP CRESCENT MOON illuminated Hawksbill Bay’s middle beach in a gentle silver shimmer that turned the sand a spectral platinum and the palm fronds a ghostly oyster-gray. Out to sea, the fancy yachts were lit up by strings of colored lights hanging between their solar panels. Overhead, the constellations formed a loose phosphorescent mist sketching the zodiac across space. Little wavelets sloshed timidly beneath them, providing the only natural movement in the dusky seascape as Jeff walked back to the chalet after dinner. He’d taken his sandals off, carrying them in a crooked finger. The soft dry sand flowed over his toes as he walked, still warm from the brutal afternoon sun.
Both the girls had scampered on ahead as soon as they’d left the restaurant. He could see them as black silhouettes against the lazy silken sea, holding hands as they paddled through the fizzing fringe of surf. They talked quietly together, a conversation occasionally punctuated by one of Karenza’s blithe giggles or an exclamation from Annabelle as she pointed at some fresh part of the superb celestial canopy.
He shook his head softly as he absorbed the scene, laboring to imprint the memory on his mind. This was without doubt the richest world he could ever have wished to be reborn into; every moment of it should be preserved.
A cascade of shooting stars sliced sparkling contrails across the eastern side of the sky. The girls laughed delightedly at the spectacle. Jeff caught up with them, receiving a kiss first from Annabelle; then Karenza stepped up for an equally amorous clinch. He put his arms around both of them, feeling light-headed from the wine they’d had at dinner and the unique aphrodisiac of the night that was to follow. Annabelle leaned in against him, smiling adoringly, and the three of them angled back across the beach, making for the steps that led up to their chalet. The veranda light was on to guide them, a warm topaz glimmer at the top of the little cliff.
Jeff’s excitement quickened with every step. Perched on the tip of the promontory, the chalet was isolated from the others. With that came a perfect sense of liberation. Nothing here bothered him, or Annabelle. In the bar earlier that evening the big wall screen had been showing a European news stream. Commissioner Cherie Beamon had belatedly announced her candidacy for president, allowing media analysts to gleefully demolish her chances with sharp sound-bite summaries condemning her as too late, and too ineffectual. A convoy of three refugee ships attempting to cross the Mediterranean had been intercepted by EuroNavy frigates, and was being escorted back to North Africa. Cameras tracked desperate individuals flinging themselves overboard in an attempt to stop the voyage back to purgatory. Marines in fast inflatable boats zoomed through the waves, plucking the flailing figures out of the water.