One Billion Drops of Happiness Read online

  * * *

  The fourth President of New America, Olivier Okadigbo, had just been hastily informed by his subordinate that Zebediah Voss, introvert inventor of the Suppressitor, had quite disappeared.

  ‘What do you mean disappeared?’ spluttered Okadigbo, highly miffed and a little embarrassed that he had by no means been the first to know.

  ‘His apartment was found empty, completely stripped. All that was left was his Suppressitor on the dining table,’ the subordinate replied sluggishly. He had been through this charade with many other people already.

  ‘This is the 22nd century, you can’t just lose someone! I don’t understand! What does this mean? Will someone tell me what this means?’ Okadigbo leapt to his feet, furiously jabbing at his 24-carat-diamond Suppressitor. This seemed to have the desired effect for he immediately shrunk into his chair again resignedly. ‘Did he have a life partner? Damn it, I only saw him three weeks ago. We dined at The Claude and he said he thought it remarkable that leopard goulash could still be served so sang-froid.’

  The subordinate looked vaguely amused. He was used to the pint-sized Okadigbo and his fluctuant moods. Only yesterday in sheer aggravation had he spat reams of water at him mid-sip upon discovering that there had been yet another meeting scheduled without his knowledge. Okadigbo struggled for power; he sometimes felt that he would be more important if he were not President, like the runners-up of major competitions who in the long-run always seemed to have more success than the over-hyped winner.

  Okadigbo, too, had been an immigrant when the new society was officially inaugurated. He had been particularly zealous with his proclamations of ‘this wonderful new civilisation, so very forward, so very modern,’ that thanks to his remarkable gift of sycophancy he had rather quickly worked his way up to become President. Even today he still tingled with pride upon reading his name in official government documents; he had made it.

  The plain and ordinary citizens gave him much unquestioned support, but if he was very honest, he felt more decorative than functional. In the flushes of emotion before his Suppressitor kicked in he sometimes registered pangs of insufficiency, of frustration. But what were those words in this modern age? The Suppressitor had all but made them redundant! Long live the Suppressitor, long live New America - but where had Zebediah gone?

  * * *

  Building 2506, Floor 41 – erstwhile home of Zebediah Voss - had indeed been left in a threadbare state, as discovered by Ernesta Wan, chief executive of the largest Suppressitor factory midtown. Upon arrival at the residence, she had called his name numerous times and then some more just in case he was hiding from her, before she realised that she was not five anymore, and that this was a serious situation.

  For a man of such advanced intellect, one who could feasibly fathom and manufacture such an invention as the Suppressitor, Zebediah Voss despised virtual communication. He had grumbled that his ideas could not translate over a telephone line, despite being able to see and hear the other person as a perfect three dimensional ethereal miniature. Therefore every week Ernesta Wan would zip over to his building, and with much help from her own Suppressitor, simpered and pandered to the inventor and his infuriating manner until he finally revealed precious nuggets of expertise. It was worth it if she could keep the company merrily afloat.

  Wan was a ruthless woman. Ninety years old and top of her game, she wore her hair parted severely down the midline as if her brain had been prised apart meticulously and sewn back together with a resultant scar. But the flaw with her company was that it was only Zebediah Voss who truly knew what he was talking about. Yes, they had employed scientists with the highest accolades, but practically speaking it was Zebediah who ran the show and she knew he probably suspected so.

  The factory computers powering the machines to produce Suppressitors were all fed by a complex program written by Voss. Some of the most lauded minds in the country had worked together to try to decipher this program but all had been left scratching their heads in bewilderment. Zebediah’s mind was truly a labyrinth in a field of its own.

  Hence a delicate balance had been struck. The company depended on Zebediah’s cooperation, and in turn he seemed to amuse himself tinkering with the devices. Suppressitors were by no means perfect yet; often the devices would adopt glitches, malfunction at any crucial moment or simply throw a wobbly that only Zebediah knew how to fix. He would receive news of any problems with a wry smile as if the granite slabs were small errant children.

  Voss was paid an extortionately large sum of money for his ideas, but curiously his living abode did not seem to contain a great deal. Wan’s intuition had suspected his enthusiasm had been waning in recent months and she had been tiptoeing extra gently around his every whim.

  But if he were truly gone, what would happen to the company, and more importantly, what would happen to the country when all the Suppressitors stopped working?

  * * *

  Henry Excelsior stood engrossed, quite literally with the world at his fingertips. Amongst the lavish interior of his 143rd floor office, the bespoke Hercules Rodolfo soft furnishings slung insouciantly on chairs and sofas in fashionable shades of quartz, the centre-piece of the office was an enormous astral sphere.

  Made of the purest slabs of gold, this dome-like object hosted a live representation of the universe. Left to right, top to bottom as far as the eye could see, illusory planets suspended themselves in colours of brilliance. Stars swirled and glittered, and sometimes, if the right moment was caught, a death could be witnessed albeit in wispy slow motion.

  ‘Not today,’ barked Reginald Excelsior striding briskly into the office. ‘Zebediah is gone and we need to get ourselves in gear!’

  Henry calmly turned to face his father as if he had been expecting him. ‘Father, relax, have a click.’

  A cloud of distilled irritability crossed Reginald’s face as he fumbled around on his clavicle for the plain granite device. Click, click. The job was done. Reginald sighed.

  Biological fathers were unheard of these days seeing as life-synthesising serum could be concocted in a laboratory. Therefore it made sense that Reginald Excelsior was not actually Henry’s father. He had been his mother’s life partner until the love draught they shared needed a booster and she had suddenly acquired cold feet. He had not seen her since and for split seconds had felt distraught until the urgent batterings of his Suppressitor took effect. However, as he had grown a business affiliation with Henry over the years, setting up the multi-billion enterprise firm Excelsior Incorporated, it made sense for the two to stick together. And for many years, they had done just that.

  ‘I tell you, son. Call it my hundred-year-old paranoia, but ever since the fool took off I swear these things have lost their pizzazz.’ Reginald inspected his Suppressitor with great suspicion as though it had been swiped in the night and replaced with a shoddy placebo. ‘How’s yours working?’

  ‘Fine,’ said Henry shortly. He had been born into the world after the dawn of these devices and had consequently never suffered the same pangs of withdrawal as his elders. He shared the same innate calmness as the rest of his generation. Nursed by a Suppressitor since being a newborn, it had almost injected a pandemic aloofness across the country.

  Reginald was one hundred and three years old, so had been born during the first flushes of the former century. He had experienced decades of life hindered by his own primitive emotions. They had made him lose control; they had dominated him, taunted him. Activating his Suppressitor was less of a habit but more as an act of insecurity. He could remember the surges of excess emotion from the Old World and hid from their ominous shadow in fear of their return. He had wholeheartedly embraced the Inauguration of New America in 2080 with its modern new gadgets and ideals. Too right, emotions got in the way of life. They impeded the progress of civilisation. They had caused wars, hysteria and general disarray. If you had feelings you’d certainly fritter your potential to feeding them, as in an old leaky engine or a parasite and
its encumbered host.

  Cool logic was the modern objective in life. Factory machines churned out a phenomenal output every day. These magnificent objects had never been burdened by emotion, they were never distracted. Think of everything humans could achieve if they were the same! And then there would never be hurt, or sadness, or masses of people taking umbrage at the world. Equally there would never be ebullient joy, but everybody knew that whatever goes up must come down, and with a tremendous fall-out to boot.

  ‘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…’

  THREE

  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 scrutinis
ed 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!’