One Billion Drops of Happiness (3 page)

‘I never really knew much about old Zeb,’ Reginald continued, helping himself to a chair. ‘He was a bit peculiar I gathered. Wrote pangrams in his spare time. But a brilliant mind, oh yes. The trouble is, who is going to replace him? I’m pretty sure he’s not coming back, I spoke to Ernesta. She’s pretty ashen by the whole thing. Ironically I think her Suppressitor is starting to go a bit haywire.’

Henry had resumed his explicit attention upon the astral sphere. Dusty clouds were shifting around bobbing planets from distant solar systems, leaving spindly gossamer trails in their wake.

‘What we have here is the perfect opportunity.’ He enunciated slowly and quietly as if these words marked a milestone.

Reginald snapped out of his garrulity.

‘That liquid we were working on, Ophelium…’ Henry started.

‘…happiness in a jar?’ Reginald interjected, suddenly beaming, before remembering to click.

Their latest project was without a streak of doubt their finest. After innovating a string of helpful but not earth-shattering products for New American households which had done exceedingly well on the market, Henry had decided it was time they focus on something that would provide them with a legacy. By now the company had more than enough money to splash; it was time they put their good name to use.

Upon hearing of Zebediah Voss’ disappearance, Henry’s first thought had not been along the lines of ‘ah, the poor man, what are we going to do,’ but along the rather more calculating route of ‘excellent – a vacancy in the market at long last.’ Their scientists had presently been working on a liquid form of contentment with a view to one day having it course through the veins of every citizen alive. Lately however, Henry had been thinking differently, on a far more powerful scale. Despite not being a scientist himself and possessing a rather impractical mind, he could still visualise staggering inventions which he promptly put forth to his scientists to make real. Often his wish was their command, and these inventions did indeed become real. Henry was a dogmatic leader; his will was always done.

‘Yes, that same liquid. Now if only there was a way to spread it, to diffuse it…’ Henry paused, distracted by a glowing ember sagging somewhere beneath Neptune.

‘Go on…’ Reginald was watching his son with intrepid fascination. His mind could work wonders.

‘Yes, then there would be no need for Suppressitors, the whole world could be perfectly content.’ He said. ‘Can you see it now? No more having to click all day. It could serve the same purpose as these devices, but without glitches. There would never be glitches. Imagine pumping it out into the air all day every day, we could make a fortune…’

Reginald’s eyes were orbs. ‘Oh boy…That’s genius, oh, eureka!’ His mind whirled with the wheels of money-making. ‘And how about we charge everybody for it, almost like a breathing tax; with the revenue we could make more and more. An endless supply. There’d never be a sad person in the world again!’

‘But what we need to do now,’ Henry continued thoughtfully, almost dismissing his easily excited father, ‘is to find out how we can do this. And more importantly, if they’ll let us.’

‘Who, the bigwigs? We have them in the palm of our hand.’ Reginald replied dismissively, ‘leave it to me. I’ll speak to Okadigbo, he’ll approve the whole thing. He says yes to anything, we all know how pliable he is. Oh this could really be something, old peach!’ Getting slightly carried away with himself, Reginald puffed as he relocated his Suppressitor again and gave it a couple of taps.

‘Fine. Develop the product and then we’ll see. At present it’s only in liquid form, we need to explore the potential. Get the scientists to stay after hours, I don’t care how many, we’re working to a deadline. The opportunity must be seized before either Zebediah comes back or the people decide they don’t need Suppressitors anymore.’

‘Good stuff, good stuff,’ bumbled Reginald, having regained his focus. ‘I’ll get on to them now.’ He chuckled as he walked out of the room. ‘Just think…Ophelium: happiness in a jar! Now if only we could stop the rain…’

On the Upper West side, Harvey Ebb was having a terrible day and he could not put his finger on why. He was feeling irritable and unsettled and had done so for a couple of weeks now. His colleagues had joked about it being his age. True, he was approaching one hundred and thirty years old, nearly the age when people stopped being as efficient, nearly the age when they relegated you to lesser jobs. But as one of the top judges in the law courts for over seventy years, losing him would be unwise unless a stellar replacement could be found. People developed more slowly these days, the oldest generation often grumbled. Just because there are more years to live than ever before in history, does not mean we should go at it with a leisurely pace.

The doctors had not found much wrong with him, they never had. Modern medicine was almost redundant nowadays. The number of vaccinations he had received at the start of New America was flabbergasting. In these modern times, illnesses were extremely rare. They had thought of vaccines for every malady under the sun, and could now give a simple, single injection at birth. Sickness only juddered the wheels of society.

Ultimately, having not found anybody new, Ebb had been stuck with his job, spending his days deciding who was innocent of alleged crimes and who was guilty and could therefore be slung into prison. There was only one prison, an almost fantastical place defying all Old World cornerstones of human rights. There had been much kerfuffle when the concept was introduced, but after tireless rallying around it was agreed that fine, if people committed crimes, society should not pay for them to languish for a one hundred and fifty year lifespan. It was such backward thinking of the Old World to mollycoddle those who had erred. Ebb was firmly in favour.

The prison of New America was a large underground cellar. Prisoners, once committed, could never come out. This was a surety. Upon entering, they were administered a concoction of drugs which transformed their consciousness into a semi-comatose stupor. Food was not required to nourish the prisoners and the drugs’ effects were so universal that there were never any miscreants for whom the dose had not worked. Therefore less manpower was required to run the prison and instead far more energy could be expended on prioritising further civilisation.

Ebb, at times, had personally been all for extinguishing the prisoners ‘in a humane manner, of course.’ He had seen his country go through so many changes in his lifetime; he no longer saw the shock factor in mass disposal of criminals. They had the Vapour now, after all. It would be all too easy to relieve the planet of their criminal stain. And it wasn’t like the prisoners would ever be the same again if they did get released. Such mind-distorting drugs had a permanent effect on the metabolism. Luckily, it had never come down to this. Harvey Ebb was always correct in his sentencing.

Today the courtroom buzzed with added anticipation. The next case he was due to sentence was that of two men who had been accused of stealing their manager’s Suppressitor. The evidence, however, was scant. Either these men had committed the crime so deviously, so conscientiously, that they had not left a trace, or they simply had not committed the crime at all.

Forensic evidence in 2114 was mind numbingly exact. It made Ebb’s job easy, almost to the point of monotony. If there was evidence, it meant a crime had been committed and the person was guilty. No evidence, no guilt. He almost missed the olden days when evidence was not infallible; it was like solving a good jigsaw puzzle. It had been satisfying.

He scrutinised today’s suspects amidst the din of the courtroom. Dark scruffy hair, both of them. Unkempt. He was feeling strange again suddenly. Look at their facial hair, never trust a man with facial hair, he slurred inwardly. He massaged his Suppressitor waiting for its calm release. None came. Now this really was not good enough, he had paid good money for this thing!

The two men were revealed to be recent immigrants to the New World. Ebb snorted inwardly. It was mostly Old World immigrants who committed crimes. Not quite used to their Suppressitors, their former venomous urges would strike them down and urge them to tear up civilisation. Having said that, the worst criminals he had seen were the murderers who used their Suppressitors like clockwork. With the serenest of manners, they operated so calculatingly, so calmly. Feelings of remorse were out the question when all feelings could be quaffed with a Suppressitor. But it was hard enough to kill someone these days if they’d had the jabs. Death was extremely rare unless you were Signed Off.

‘Quiet, please.’ Ebb waved the courtroom authoritatively. It was time to decide. But why was he feeling so strange? He mopped his brow trying to concentrate. There was no evidence, he thought rationally, therefore no guilt could be assumed. But a creeping voice kept nagging inside his head. This was a hate crime, it hissed, a crime against our very nation, hate against progress, hate against the future! The voice turned into a roar. Ebb clutched at his Suppressitor, beads of sweat pooling at his temples. Hitting a man where it hurts the most, depriving him of his serenity! Destabilisation of society! Malice! The voice was screaming now.

‘Enough!’ Ebb bellowed, slamming his fist on the bench. ‘Guilty! Case closed.’

With that he shrunk into his chair kneading his unresponsive Suppressitor. Several colleagues whisked over to him with the gravest severity before leading him away. The two unfortunate defendants appeared at first astounded and then grieved to their very core as they were mauled away briskly by the guards, away to their impending purgatory, away to a place they could no longer plead hoarsely: ‘No, no! Please! We’re innocent! Please, somebody do something!’

But nobody heard, for the courtroom had erupted into mass confusion. Ethereal projections of similarly shocked miniatures appeared all around as people had reached for their cell chips and were babbling away blindly in bewilderment. Although they could not see mirages which did not pertain to them, they could still very well hear the external commotion.

‘Not a scrap of evidence.’

‘…Totally out of character…’

‘…seemed almost savage’

‘Usually so rational…’

‘So emotional…’

‘…Like someone from the old days…’

‘What’s going to happen?’

* * *

Olivier Okadigbo was beetling around his office quite contentedly when his phone rang. He answered immediately; he was yet to realise that this made him appear constantly unoccupied. A miniature vision of Reginald Excelsior filled the room, appearing to be walking down a street of absolute mayhem.

‘Mr. Okadigbo,’ he bellowed through the hubbub.

‘Speak up, speak up, I can’t hear you. Where are you?’ Okadigbo peered at the three dimensional vision desperately trying to work out the landmarks. Despite having lived there for a number of years, the layout of the city was still a profound mystery to him. Reginald turned off onto a quieter side street. ‘Okadigbo?’

‘Speak to me, sir.’ It was ironic that he addressed those who were supposedly inferior to him with the utmost respect – essentially the entire population of the country – but it was a respect which he had never received in return. Would it kill these high-powered bureaucrats to utter the word ‘President’ here and there, every now and again?

‘Have you heard? It’s bedlam here. Ebb went crazy and sent two men to prison, and now everyone is panicking like hell, hallucinating glitches in their Suppressitors, paranoia everywhere!’

Okadigbo instinctively reached to check his was still secure. It had cost more money than he would like to remember. ‘Yes, yes, I had heard all that,’ he replied defensively, ‘where is Ebb now?’

‘They took him to the hospital, they have some spare Suppressitors but it may take a few days to get in tune with him. He’s not talking to anyone. He’s gone completely nuts, ravaged, like an animal.’

‘And was it definitely a glitch?’

‘For sure,’ Reginald replied confidently. He may not have known anything for certain but he knew this was his chance to gain the President’s support for his new venture.

‘Oh strewth.’ Okadigbo murmured suddenly looking fearful. His Suppressitor instinctively seemed to have sensed the change in mood for he felt a wave of calm wash instantly over him.

Reginald registered the bewilderment in the President’s voice and decided it was time to swoop. ‘Look here. Since Zebediah took off, the inevitable has happened. People’s Suppressitors have gone a bit cranky shall we say. And it’s no surprise. We all knew it was a matter of time; he was the brains behind the whole idea. It was a fragile arrangement at best. Now with nobody to update the software and fix the devices, we have to think of alternatives. Society is already quaking in its boots!’

‘Yes, quite. Let’s see…’ offered Okadigbo, stalling for time.

‘Well, we did have one idea…’

Reginald was delighted with the progress of their new Ophelium liquid. The Excelsior Incorporated scientists had, true to their form, delivered on Henry’s order. Night after night they had remained in the laboratory, causing all sorts of stinks and bangs, until finally one day, one of the senior scientists had calmly left his perch in search of Henry. The rest was history.

‘Yes, quite, quite,’ he prompted, grateful.

‘You see, President,’ Reginald’s face suddenly came close, filling the whole mirage. ‘We can’t keep jeopardising society like this. We need a new idea that will work forever; we need a new way. Look at what happens when the Suppressitors go wrong; they make a highly respected man go absolutely mad. These wanton emotions caused him to jail two perfectly innocent men, and now it’s all a bit too late to fix. We have to do damage control, there’s uproar outside!’

‘Do we? Ah yes, of course. And what of the two gentlemen?’

‘Too late,’ he replied grimly. ‘By the time they could have been retrieved the damage would already be done.’

‘This looks bad, what can we do?’ Okadigbo pleaded, fearing for his reputation. Sales in memorabilia featuring his pudgy face would surely plummet after any slur on his good name.