Ersatz

A Story by Davy

Short, quite philosophical, sci-fi story

Nicholas walked out of the church last, his desire to remain in the building extending far beyond that of the rest of the congregation; those who had actually been using the church for its intended purpose. He was not a believer and was forced to squirm hopelessly if his new associates discussed their faith in front of him or suggested he also come along to one of their prayer meetings. It was something a little like nostalgia that had been drawing him to the church for the previous few Sundays. The religious buildings and the religions themselves were perhaps the institutions that had changed the least in the past years and Nicholas had found himself desperate for some kind of constancy. The architecture of the church in 4:8:18 reminded him a little of the church he had been taken to once or twice as a child and so he’d selected that one after passing it one morning as a service had been about to begin. He had been surprised at himself for the decision and more so for the wistful feelings that had prompted it. Nicholas Stafford had always been a modernizer, famously so, and to find regressive impulses appearing in his consciousness, quite uninvited, had been more than a little disturbing for him. He’d put it down to tiredness; a lifetime of initiating change had left him exhausted by the turmoil and seeking something unwavering.

Nicholas always walked home after his infiltration of Sunday worship, another concession to his recent nostalgic desires, since he could comfortably have afforded the more expensive class of public transport that would not have seen him virtually asphyxiated between the pressing hordes of commuters. His walk took him directly past the shop that served the whole of 4:8:15-30 and he looked in to buy his essentials for the month. Space had undoubtedly been saved by reducing the number of shops in each district to just one or two but it had been necessary to partially compensate by massively increasing the size of each shop. 4:8:B-Shop was over two kilometres in diameter and Nicholas resolved to visit the EAT section last, once he’d picked up what he needed from CLEAN and HEAL, as this meant he could leave by the exit closest to his apartment. Shoppers were conveyed by a constantly moving belt between all the major sections but he still found the experience demanding and was grateful when it was almost over and he was finally paying for his goods. Almost everything was strenuous for him now. As an afterthought he handed a confectionery-bar to the sales assistant as she vacuum-packed his other purchases, shrinking them to a fraction of their size; choosing one with a striking yellow wrapper. “Thanks,” he muttered to the girl.

“And thank you for choosing 4:8:B,” she replied, presumably perfectly aware that the nearest alternative ‘choice’ was almost forty kilometres distant.

Nicholas only had a little further to shuffle to his apartment but so close to the shop the density of human traffic meant the crowd was almost impenetrable, particularly to someone of his age and stature. He didn’t know quite when or how he had become old; all he knew was that it couldn’t now be doubted that he was. Bodies were aging less rapidly than they had in the past and, though elderly, he was hardly ancient. Many of his age would still be working full time; his retirement had been conspicuously early. It was probably a state of mind, Nicholas told himself; he was fed up with it all. Despite the best benevolent efforts of which he had once been a part, despite all the problems they had managed to solve, things still didn’t seem right somehow. There were just too many people and it was impossible to care for them all. For all their efforts to protect people, to keep them from harm, even to help provide a little pleasure in their lives, they couldn’t give them meaning or real satisfaction. Worse, he was beginning to think that some of the solutions had brought further problems of their own; that the efficiencies and reductions that had theoretically improved everyone’s quality of life so vastly might also be contributing to the loss of purpose that now seemed endemic in the population. He leant his frame against the wall of a tower block as he surveyed them milling about like idle drones. Like cattle. “Why was it impossible to help civilization without also harming it?” he demanded fatuously, of nobody in particular. He peeled apart the wrapper and bit down angrily on the confectionery bar.

“But none of this really matters,” Nicholas thought suddenly, relishing the heightened cocoa-14 flavouring as he took another bite. “What a great fuss I’m making about nothing.” He considered that, whatever happened to him in the future, there was no prospect of his being turned out of his home, or forced to go without food, heat or light. He was in no danger or pain; even the few physical aches that did trouble him occasionally could only cause momentary discomfort and there was so much more to be content about. Society provides, he realised, feeling a huge burden lifting from him, society would always provide. But Nicholas Stafford resisted this thought, though he didn’t know why. As almost every impulse of his mind entreated him to enjoy the greatest peace he had known in years, one primal instinct desperately defied the descending glow. “Isn’t this just the opposite of what I had been thinking mere seconds ago?” he asked himself. “That it is not enough to simply be free from pain and blessed with pleasure; that something is still missing?” He tried to formulate and clarify his thoughts but found himself unable; his brain, delighting in its liberation from worry, refused to concentrate on anything. Again, he put forward an effort of will, attempting to recall what had prompted the feeling of hopelessness he had been feeling a few moments ago. Was sure he’d been feeling. His mind didn’t all seem sure, didn’t seem to be in any agreement; the greater part of it just demanded to be free from such tiresome worries. Blissfully, he released it.

A morsel of the cocoa essence snack stuck in his trachea for an instant and he choked, bringing up the piece and spraying the adjacent wall with crumbs and sugary spittle. The numbing cloak that had been enveloping his consciousness seemed to lift a little, just enough for him to realise what its source must have been and what he must do to purge himself. Unconcerned for either his dignity or the pain in his chest that he knew would certainly follow, Nicholas crouched in the shadow of the building and forced two bony fingertips into his throat. Gagging only awkwardly and artificially, he could at first produce only a disgusting trail of umber saliva. In the seething mass of population nobody stopped to help him; only stepping around to avoid collision and the dirtying of their shoes as he finally expelled the remainder of what he had eaten. Eyes streaming and ribs aching from the effort, he drew himself back to a half-standing position as his full capacities and dissatisfaction began to simultaneously flood back to him. Realisation did not dawn; he had already known, though his faculties had been ebbing from him, what the sensation was. As such, he was quite possibly the only person in the world who would have reacted with hostility to the serenity that had been arising within him. He knew exactly what it meant and where it had come from. And who it had come from. And he knew that he too must bear at least some of the blame. He looked down at his wrinkled hands, felt the discomfort in his ribs after his abuse to his throat and stomach, and felt more weak, tired and useless than he ever had. “But you’ve got to at least try, Nick,” he told himself. “You’ve got to try to end it, because you might be the only one who can. And because you’re behind it all, in so many ways, and it’s your responsibility to redeem yourself and what you were striving for; to stop the corruption of noble motives. And just because you should.”

Nicholas walked home as quickly as the gridlocked street would allow him. In truth, arriving five minutes earlier could make no possible difference to his chances of success but nevertheless he pushed his sore joints to move as fast as they physically could and almost screamed in frustration as he found himself repeatedly unable to sidle through the homogenous shambles of shifting flesh. The urgency he felt was a consequence, not of any time pressures, but of his honest recognition of his own potential importance; his connections and history that meant that, at the very least, he would not be ignored. As the east-moving stream of humanity finally passed his apartment block, he broke from the crowd, mustering all his strength to do so, and took the elevator to his own home; Apartment 5:+24. He was wealthy by any standards, indeed even after he had retired from his lucrative government post he had been much in demand as a speaker at elite functions and had found himself frequently receiving large sums by automatic credit that he had had no recollection of earning. He was by no means flamboyant however, and had not taken advantage of one of the privileges of his position, which would have allowed him to purchase a residence greater than regulation size. Neither did he use his fortune to adorn his apartment with anything of significant value. His wife had been dead for several years before he bought it and his own needs and wants were few; functionality was all he really desired from a home. One periodical had run a series of articles praising his frugality and fine example until he had paid them to stop; which not only served its purpose as a bribe but also posed a challenge to their very claims about his spendthrift ways. He had paid the extra for a high plus-value apartment though, and the accompanying possibility of natural light that was denied to the subterranean dwellers; he had allowed himself to satisfy that one basic need.

Without removing his coat or shoes, Nicholas activated the comms-screen and punched in Kieran’s number. The contact request would have been automatically refused if it had been initiated by almost any other device; the Minister for Provision did not speak to just anyone. This was no smirch on his character; to take general calls would have been simply impossible. Nicholas should know; the position had been his previously. The screen brightened instantly and Kieran’s beaming and curious face filled it. Standing in front of his desk, he had clearly risen as soon as he had recognised the incoming number.

“Sir Nicholas!” he began warmly as Nicholas sighed inwardly at his formality. “What a pleasant surprise. My letters haven’t finally tempted you to come out of retirement in an advisory capacity have they?” Nicholas edged subtly to the right so that he shouldn’t see the manifold sheets of officially headed paper visibly protruding from his waste receptacle. He came to the point immediately.

“Kieran, I’ve tried one of the government’s new edible innovations, I know that it was your idea, you’d already shared it with me, and I know that you’ll have had no small part in the production. We need to discuss this.” Kieran didn’t look perturbed or even particularly surprised, merely thoughtful.

“It would have been one of the new bars, I suppose. Yellow or pink?”

“Yellow.” He nodded slowly at this.

“I didn’t want them released now, I’m not so foolish as that. It was a mistake not to countermand the order.” He sat down now, still facing Nicholas through the screen. “It would be far more productive to discuss this in person with you, Sir Nicholas, and I do not deny that I would also enjoy your company.”

“You really don’t need to call me Sir Nicholas,” Nicholas began.

“Nonetheless I do. I will book you onto the next shuttle that stops at the under-terminal of your block and ensure that there is a space in the first-class carriage for you. Do not attempt to argue, Sir Nicholas, you deserve the relaxation, and I will give unequivocal orders to the pilot and attendants that your comfort is my personal concern and that they must insist on you partaking of the available luxury. Come straight up to my office when you arrive. You are familiar with it of course,” he joked, “it was once yours after all.” He flicked a finger lazily across another screen to his left and reported his findings. “A shuttle will pass your terminal in ten minutes; I will be happy to book another for you if you miss it but why not try and get this one?” He tapped thrice on the second screen to confirm the booking and payment and Nicholas nodded before deactivating the comms-link, sealing his door and returning to the elevator.

Several other denizens of Nicholas’ block were waiting in the terminal and just about managed to crush themselves into the few remaining apertures within the standard-class carriage by breathing in deeply and twisting their necks and bodies through the most unnatural angles. Nicholas stepped into the first-class section, one of the only remaining semi-public areas where a person could anticipate both space and, even more of a rarity, recognition. In standard-class transport, on the streets, in a shop, everyone was perfectly anonymous; there would be no “Sir Nicholas” there, something he certainly did not resent. In the first-class carriages by contrast, the attendants were well aware that most travellers would be paying the extra fee both to have as much space as possible to stretch and unwind in, with as few fellow human-beings near them as possible, and to receive highly personal service and fawning. The fulfilment of these not wholly congruent desires was far from easy and most services required their auxiliaries to spend each journey remaining in the staff area; either shouting their obsequious flattery through the open doorway or making use of the individual headsets that were issued to each premier voyager so that they need not have their valuable space invaded. If anyone ordered something to eat or drink, the valets generally sprinted in and deposited the order next to the customer and left swiftly by the opposite door, before dashing by in the other direction a few minutes later to sweep payment off the table.

On Nicholas’ own ‘flight’ the attendant had engaged in an ill-conceived attempt to further lessen the need for additional human presence in the carriage by steering a small, remotely-operated trolley with drinks and a compartment for cash through the coach. This worked tremendously well until, three minutes into the journey, the trolley proved to have rather questionable manoeuvrability and crashed into a table leg. And caught fire. The attendant rushed on and necessarily expended considerable time and effort to extinguish and remove the offending, and distinctly sorry-looking, machine; causing far more inconvenience than his serving in person could possibly have done. In fact, visibly embarrassed by his robot’s failure, he was now forced complete the service personally anyway in order to provide the expected luxury and made efforts to compensate by being even more accommodating than was usual. When Nicholas accidentally trod on the young man’s foot while standing up he found himself receiving, rather than giving, an apology and another wealthy traveller was offered a complimentary glass of champagne because the seat he was sitting on clashed with his waistcoat. When the attendant brought it in he was so nervous that he dropped it and spilled it all over the carpet, and consequently increased his offer to a month’s free travel for everyone in the carriage. When Nicholas tried to help him clear up the mess he stated that whilst he was profoundly honoured by this gesture, he could not permit such an esteemed patron as Sir Nicholas to demean himself in such a way. Upon Nicholas’ response that he was perfectly capable and comfortable with clearing up a spillage, the aide just stared at him with the terrified and tactful concern of someone faced with a valuable client who appeared to be having a mental breakdown.

Nicholas did not resent the inconvenience and inefficiency; the sheer stupidity of it all. In fact, a worryingly large part of him was pleased by it, actually cherished it; all the more because he knew the farce could only be a temporary one, the short-lived period of asinine adjustment as the drive for greater efficiency suffered teething problems, made inevitable by the reliance for its actualisation upon creatures who had not yet had every impulse towards chaos and creativity subdued. Nicholas realised he was coming to love them; these increasingly rare occasions when the mission failed; when realisation was far less than regal or ruthless; when, as theory was carried into practice, the sublime really did become the ridiculous. These moments would not last; measures would be taken. A standard would be set for those few activities that did not yet have one; a proper way of doing things, such that behaviour could be judged according to its adherence to this paradigm; such that deviation was deviancy. It would be done with the best of intentions, of course, and no brutal enforcement of the rules would take place; none would be necessary. The rules alone would be enough; the new strict possibility of success or failure in matters that had never been subject to such rigid criteria before would provide enough of a deterrent; nobody wanted to fail after all. Indeed there would come a time when everything, every action or state of affairs that could take place, was determinably either correct or incorrect; with nothing beyond and nothing in between.

Upon arrival at the lowest floor of Kieran’s building, Nicholas refused a personal escort up the two steps to the entrance and greeted the doorman by name.

“Kieran still a good employer, Jonathon?”

“Absolutely, sir. He’s expecting you in his office.” The door was unlocked and held open for Nicholas as he passed onto the factory floor. Another contribution to greater efficiency in production and use of space had been to minimise needless physical divisions between different aspects of the same process and so the office of the Minister for Provision was directly above one of the largest food-factories in the country, along with the offices of his detachment of civil servants and the former industrialists who acted as his advisors. The floor was almost entirely taken up with a score of huge metal vats and, with no space needlessly wasted; there was only a single winding path between them to the elevator that a person could fit through. Nicholas had only rounded one vat when he found a familiar figure blocking his way. Liam Mitchell had been one of his own aides in the Provision Ministry for several years before he had shown an interest in and aptitude for greater direct involvement in manufacture and had been transferred and subsequently promoted to the role of a factory overseer.

“I had to come down to the floor when I heard you were coming, Sir Nicholas,” Liam voiced breathlessly. “It’s so good to see you again.”

“Please just call me Nick, Liam; we’ve known each other long enough, haven’t we? How’s work?” Liam grinned.

“Busy of course, Nick. There’s so much experimentation involved now and Kieran just brims with ideas. He’s an inspiration to us all. Just as you were, Nick.” he added earnestly. They had reached the elevator shaft now and Liam left him to carry out the occasional physical inspection of the bubbling vats that was still necessary in an increasingly unmanned factory. “Anyway, I won’t patronise you by showing you the rest of the way to your own office” he said as he departed. Nicholas looked down on the vats as the glass elevator ascended; the pink, chunky fluid in the nearest would be multiplied a hundredfold with the use of both cell-stimulation and hydrocarbon supplementation in the process of Extension, before it was turned into sausages, steaks and sundries, though a tiny proportion would be reserved and distributed almost pure to fill tubs of Emperors’ Pâté, one of the most ostentatious of luxury goods. He left the lift on the ninth floor and crossed the corridor to the office Kieran had inherited from him. He knew that he would not need to knock.

As predicted, Kieran opened the door with a command word exactly at the point that Nicholas drew up to it. The elevator only emitted a dull hum but it was possible to hear it from the office and anticipate a visitor, if one had the inclination to do so. Nicholas smiled at him from behind his desk in front of the opposite wall and gestured to an armchair facing him that was kept for visitors. His PA sat in the corner of the room to the right of the door; a man named Stuart whom Nicholas had only met once or twice, his induction coinciding with Nicholas’ retirement. The office was practically identical to when it had been his own, except for two additional water coolers besides the one actually containing water; each of the others containing a viscous coloured liquid, one yellow and one pink. Kieran began as soon as Nicholas took his seat

“Firstly, Sir Nicholas, I’m very grateful for your coming at such short notice and I can fully understand your apprehension. It occurred to me after our earlier conversation concluded just what you must have thought your experience with the yellow bar signified, and I can certainly provide some reassurance in that regard. You believe, do you not, that I have successfully pursued our fanciful talk about how the Ministry of Provision could contribute to the government’s response to disorder and blind anti-establishment sentiment, and that the bar you tasted today is an instrument of mind-control?” Nicholas did not contradict him, though he did raise a hand in protest at the formality. “You must have thought very little of me,” Kieran continued, “not only that I would have been immoral enough to devote myself to totalitarianism and subjugation, but also that I would have been foolish enough to think such a measure necessary. There will never be a revolution or significant uprising again,” he emphasised. “The population are just about rational enough to realise that their standard of living is as high as it could be, and that it is the efforts of this government that maintain that; with this Ministry playing its part not only by satisfying their most basic needs but even by creating a little pleasure in their lives. If the food is not revolting than neither are the people,” he finished, smiling as he repeated the Taste Division’s motto.

Nicholas did not believe that Kieran was lying and yet the fact of his experiences was in no doubt. “The yellow bar does do something to control certain impulses and thoughts, doesn’t it? It certainly seemed very much like what you suggested in what I had presumed was a hypothetical discussion.”

“Indeed,” Kieran replied, “but then it would seem like that to you simply because of the expectations that that past conversation had engendered. And the chemical composition of the active ingredient really is comparable, though less concentrated and with significant amendments to the formula I had postulated. But it is the motive, not the method that represents the real change. How could you think I would seek to dominate my fellows?” Kieran demanded, though more inquisitive than angry, “Am I not the same person who worked with you in Food Extension and what amounted to the rescue of most of the world’s populace from deprivation? Of course you deserve most of the credit, Sir Nicholas, I was a mere technician in comparison, but between us we not only halted a slide into mass starvation but reversed it. With a population still increasing not just exponentially but astronomically, we’ve now reduced world hunger to below the levels of several decades ago, when it was largely confined only to the less prosperous continents. I would not betray our good work; I am continuing it.”

“You’re going to have to clarify that for a slow old man.” Nicholas requested. Kieran chuckled at the self-deprecation.

“Do not put yourself down so. In fact, you retired too early; your mind is still agile and your expertise invaluable. You would be welcome back. But think about what our purpose was in increasing the food yield. Not merely to sustain our fellow humans; to preserve them from the approaching calamity and keep them hanging on to life, if only by their fingertips. We wanted them to live, not merely survive; to have lives that at the very least enjoyed greater pleasure than pain and we were determined to do all we could to accomplish that. I am loyal to those noble goals; that is the true purpose of the new constituents, my meta-seasonings.” He gestured with a casual wave at the gelatinous substances behind him.

“Serenity and Joy; that is what we have managed to bottle and distribute into foodstuffs, nothing less. You were mistaken in saying that the yellow bar you sampled controlled some of your impulses, it simply calms certain harmful ones. The effect of the Joy formula and hence of the pink bar, as well as many other goods, is similar but accompanied by an accentuation of the most mirthful feelings and remembrance of the most pleasant past experiences of the subject. There is no planting or supplanting of any feelings in the consumer, nor any sought; only the guidance of their own feelings for their own greater good. That is all I want, the furtherance of the same goal we worked for before. Do not think of me as some insane dictator of dystopian fantasy, Sir Nicholas; my only secret agenda is human happiness. And this is to be the greatest achievement that there has ever been in that most noble of all fields.”

“But they do control, even if there is no controller. I couldn’t think about the meaning that was missing from society while I was eating,” Nicholas argued.

“No, they limit,” Kieran insisted. “They provide a service that people would perform for themselves if it could be consciously done. You say that you were prevented from searching for a deeper meaning to life. Has that search truthfully brought you an iota of enjoyment or gratification in all your days?” He read the negative answer in Nicholas’ face. “It is precisely thoughts of that nature that create the intransigent, pervasive dissatisfaction in humanity that we have been unable to alleviate through any other means. Even when providing intensive care to test-subjects in laboratory conditions it frequently proved impossible to combat the desire for a greater meaning than truly exists; it was the most we could do to assuage it slightly through distraction and the fulfilment of more specific interests. We simply cannot offer that kind of individual attention to everyone in our vast global population. So we do not make futile attempts to feed that insatiable demand; we nullify it. We restrict it and other harmful, pointless, sorrowful instincts and release their parasitic clutches on their hosts. We restore the liberty of the troubled souls to once more pursue their own happiness and, in the case of foods containing the Joy formula, also give them a helping hand in recognising the sources of pleasure in their lives.”

“It’s not liberty,” Nicholas remonstrated desperately. “You’re taking away freedom of choice; you’re undermining the mind and preventing people from making their own decisions.”

Kieran had been speaking with fervour earlier but his tone became suddenly playful.

“Remember when we worked together, Sir Nicholas, and you had rather less qualms about reducing the role of our citizens in the decision-making process?” Nicholas shook his head.

“The two things are incomparable.”

“Remember what you gave the green light to, what you permitted to be used as a base for so many of our foods?” Kieran was clearly enjoying himself, “Do you think it would be so popular if everybody knew what was in Emperors’ Pâté?”

“It was common sense,” Nicholas began wearily but determinedly. “For all our efforts with Extension, we still needed more base material; particularly protein. Meat was increasingly unavailable anyway and the inherent inefficiency in its production had prompted the clearing of almost all pastoral land and massive reduction of livestock numbers; we hadn’t then recognised the full potential of Extension and how animal cells would prove more responsive. There was only one animal species whose numbers were still increasing. We didn’t kill a single person,” Nicholas entreated, “we just worked with the natural death rate. There wasn’t space for the bodies anyway so we provided a free disposal service.”

“And ‘disposed’ of them into a mincing machine,” Kieran added cheerfully. Nicholas ignored him and resorted to counting off the justifications for their scheme on his fingers.

“We found an available, nutritious and popular food which, when Extended, we could use to feed a starving population; we offered another meat product, which the traditionalists and tabloids were demanding; and we recycled the corpses that were being generated in greater numbers than we could deal with - bodies that were threatening to spill out onto the streets and spread disease. We allowed the dead to serve the living; it was sensible and necessary.”

“You know I don’t disagree with you, Sir Nicholas,” Kieran interjected, “that you are preaching to your most ardent disciple. Though it was the chemistry of Extension that won you the most of your well-deserved plaudits; the sheer elegance of this secret project made it, also, one of your finest hours. We did not shy away from overturning one of the most ancient taboos and I was proud to be a part of it.”

“I wasn’t,” Nicholas replied gravely. “We did what was required for the clear good of humanity but there could be no enjoyment in it, at least not for me. I still believe that we were justified and that misleading people was a necessary evil, but it was still an evil and we should regret having had to commit it. And what you are doing now is infinitely worse. There’s a directness to this restraint on reason and violation of free-will that makes it more damaging and reprehensible than a lie; you’re taking away personhood.”

There was a dismissive exasperation in Kieran’s features which revealed that he had anticipated this challenge from Nicholas but was nevertheless disappointed in his interlocutor to actually hear it being made.

“You are saying that only because of your experience this morning with one of the bars. As you might have guessed, the bars contain the most concentrated dosage on general sale, meant only as a litmus test for the discernability of higher strengths than standard. It would have been a far more useful test, and my personal preference, to wait until the more dilute formulae, soon to be present in almost all victuals, had been in circulation for a few weeks, such that there would have been a far less marked contrast when people did try the more potent examples. When the stronger doses are shown to not be too obvious, we shall build up a reserve to prescribe in case any develop a resistance to the weaker measures. We have received no other feedback; I suspect that it was only because of your background that you recognised the ingredients. And did not welcome them,” he added bitterly. “A man who could not bear to be at peace. Nevertheless I shall now recommend…” He corrected himself. “I shall insist that we withdraw and withhold the bars for a time. My influence in government is unprecedented for a Minister for Provision, even exceeding yours, Sir Nicholas. It might interest you to know that I am being tipped for the top job now.”

“Not particularly,” Nicholas lied.

“I will be the first to reach the pinnacle directly from Provision. Did you know that, before our time, the ministry was once split into Agriculture and Fisheries and all sorts of other components that were then considered discrete? And that each one was near the bottom of the governmental hierarchy, ranking far below the Exchequer or Defence, for example? As though money were a more fundamental need than sustenance; or missiles more vital than daily bread.” Kieran stood and walked to the coolers, “I could give you a dilute sample of either of my ‘magic potions’ now,” he proposed, “a fair representation of what we are endeavouring to do for humanity. You will find the restriction far more subtle and the whole experience nothing but pleasant.”

Both duty and preference motivated Nicholas’ refusal and each informed the other. The repulsion that tempered his curiosity told him that there truly was something he had a responsibility to oppose in Kieran’s creation and the knowledge of his obligation meant he could not desire to give into temptation and the bliss that he knew he was being offered.

“You’re making a dreadful mistake, Kieran. Whatever the nature or motivation of the restrictions, they are wrong. You can’t help people in this way because it won’t be people that you’re helping. You can’t reduce humanity to swine and then proclaim yourself its saviour because it isn’t submitting complaints any more. Nothing is worth the transmogrification into a world of dumb animals or dull automatons; you have to let slip the reins even if it means your children grazing their knees and hurting themselves and others. And you. Even with the unhappiness involved, people must be free to reach their full potential. It’s better…

“Do not tell me that it’s better to be Socrates dissatisfied than a fool satisfied, or better to be man dissatisfied than a pig satisfied,” Kieran glowered. He had indeed pre-empted Nicholas’ next plea. “Socrates is the fool if the use he puts his abilities to is to make himself unhappy. And it is only for the sake of crude insult that happy man is compared to a pig. A comparison made by the elitists who categorise pleasures just so that they can degrade some and resent them. I would help humanity to be a bird in flight; they would have it a philosopher chained to a rock, as the tide comes in. If the philosopher is cleverer, he is not better off. Or better.”

Kieran continued, now crouching in front of Nicholas’ chair, concerned to offer him the full outline and unveil the full beauty of his project. “Even without stimulation of the internal sources of pleasure, even with only the restriction of destructive and self-destructive urges that the Serenity formula provides, these new initiatives represent the most magnificent and encompassing fulfilment of the utilitarian goal imaginable. They defeat the despicable violent instincts that persist in the depraved and stops them impinging on the happiness of others. They will stop people dwelling on ineliminable suffering and forlorn quests for fictitious deeper meaning and prevent them devastating their own chances at achieving the ecstasy and exhilaration that is available in life. It would be an atrocity for me to not put these initiatives into full practice and supply the greatest deliverance from suffering that the world has ever known. There is no controversy or confusion in my reasoning; lasting contentment must come not from the fulfilment of desires, but from their restriction. The most enlightened minds of philosophy recognised that, as did the great Eastern religions. That restriction is something we can now offer on a grand scale; we are finally in a position to dispense mass-produced happiness and we must not shirk the task.”

The proposition was one that they had both known must come soon and Kieran stooped even lower before Nicholas, so that he gazed upwards at him like a beseeching puppy. “My letters were not mere courtesies or half-hearted general fancies, Sir Nicholas; I had this in mind. I want you on side. There is so much you could offer to the project and thus to our whole species; your experience and ingenuity is unparalleled and your mind is not nearly as old or jaded as you pretend to yourself it is. We both know that the genius and the passion to do great things are still within you and this will be greatest of all. It will be a far, far better thing we do than we have ever done.”

“No Kieran, this is not great or good. And stop calling me ‘Sir Nicholas’ for heaven’s sake,” Nicholas snapped suddenly. “It is a perversion of religious and philosophical traditions to associate them with this project. The restriction of desires they recommend must be personal; it must be willed. It must be chosen to have any value at all. I cannot endorse this plan nor have any part in it; it signifies not the improvement or absolution of personality but its annihilation.”

“Obviously I believe you are mistaken,” Kieran sighed, “but I appreciate your candour; I do not agree with your decision but I respect it. I am very disappointed though,” he continued, “and very sorry. More than you can ever know.” A dull hum emitted from behind Nicholas as the door sealed.

Nicholas glanced over his shoulder to see, as he had known he would, the figure of Stuart standing between him and the exit. It was an utterly pointless gesture; Kieran alone could have easily overpowered him if he had needed to and the door could not be unlocked without the complicity of the minister whose office it now was. There could be no question of physical resistance.

“This is foolish, Kieran, you cannot remove me without a trace. There’s too much risk involved; you’ll jeopardise the whole initiative.” Kieran, now once more standing behind his desk, looked down at him with genuine pity and surprise at his naivety.

“Do you have any idea how many unsolved disappearances there were, even decades and centuries ago when the population was so much smaller and individuals far more likely to be missed. I’ve looked into it; bodies used to show up in rivers for goodness’ sake. Any illiterate hoodlum could potentially get away with murder. Do you not think that this sophisticated government can disguise a single termination now that you have forced one upon us? There is an additional difficulty in that Sir Nicholas Stafford is not an unheard of personality but that it hardly insurmountable. Your autopsy is already complete; I took the precaution of contacting the Health Ministry as soon as our comms-link conversation ended. It concludes that you suffered a fatal heart-attack in this building as you revisited it for the sake of reminiscence. Jonathon Carter, Liam Mitchell and Stuart Howarth,” he nodded to the figure towering over Nicholas, “were all witnesses to the event and the celebrated Minister for Provision even viewed the body himself once he was alerted to the tragedy. Naturally, your next of kin made no objections to your wishes concerning your death, for your body to be government-disposed and recycled, being carried out without further delay.”

“Naturally,” Nicholas repeated, through gritted teeth. Kieran strolled over to his desk and removed three syringes; one filled with a transparent liquid and two empty. Somehow, despite everything, Nicholas hadn’t expected him to do the deed himself. He began to sweat and, examining his trembling, frail arms with despair, wondered if he might yet make a feeble attempt at escape. Kieran read his mind. “Please sit still,” he requested, as he filled one of the empty syringes with the yellow fluid from the cooler behind him. “It really will make everything much easier. In fact,” he filled the final syringe from the second container, “the experience need not be remotely unpleasant.”

Nicholas did at last attempt to stand but found Stuart’s powerful hands holding him down, squashing him oppressively into the chair. “I may be able to ease your mind,” Kieran proffered. “I sense you feel some responsibility for my plans; for all that will follow afterwards. Don’t. I owe more to you than to anyone else but there is no necessity about what is done with an inheritance. I saw far by standing on the shoulders of a giant, but it was still my decision where to look.” He approached Nicholas and placed one hand on the arm of the seat, holding the first hypodermic in his other hand, primed with the pink liquid. “This is how the first human testing of the formulae was done, of course, with criminals already condemned to die. So humane; no easier passage could be possible.

“Don’t do this, Kieran,” Nicholas implored warningly, desperately. “Don’t allow your passion and goodness to serve atrocity because you followed too fanatically the ideas of a ridiculous old man. Don’t abuse yourself in this way; you’re a decent, kind soul and,” he finished defiantly, “whatever happens I will always love you.”

“And I you.” For the first time Kieran’s voice broke, as he moved the needle into position. “But Sir Ni…, father, you are leaving me with no choice. It would be so much better if you would reconsider, if you would join me again; we could achieve so much.” Nicholas shook his head.

“I cannot go against what I know is right.”

“And neither can I.” Kieran leant over to kiss his father’s forehead as he pressed in the first syringe.

The second and third injections must have gone in shortly after the first but Nicholas did not feel them. His mind was lit too brightly to notice such insignificant pangs of darkness. He certainly could not have said which had contained the lethal drug and which, as he faintly heard Kieran explaining, would provide an extra level of calm to complement the Joy formula he had been given first. Kieran said something about the concentrations and purity of the serums he had been injected with, but the content of his speech was unimportant to Nicholas. All he felt, as he surveyed his clever son’s face and heard his soothing voice, was immense pride at his past achievements and those yet to come. Kieran Stafford would be Prime Minister, his plans would be the salvation of an unhappy world and his glory would certainly far outstrip Nicholas’ own; a thought that gave him nothing but pleasure. And he, Nicholas, was now released; to be untied from the prisons of his aging body and his ludicrous venerable status, and happy in the knowledge that he had passed on the torch; that his life’s work would be sustained and rejuvenated by someone with the youth and passion to extend it beyond all that had once been dreamt of. He thought of their shared experiences as Kieran first began to work alongside him; the brilliance he had demonstrated even then, and all the happiness and recognition he had wanted for his son; things he was now certain to achieve.

“Isn’t this simply marvellous?” Nicholas was dimly aware of Kieran breathlessly asking, “That a person can experience nothing but bliss at their own death?” And as Nicholas Stafford faded away; to an accompaniment of elation, he had to agree that it was.