Tucker kept to the shadows as he made his way through the darkened alleyways; dressed from head to foot in black, a briefcase held to his chest for protection. A HoverTaxi glided past,six feet off the ground, blasting water in all directions.
As soon as it rounded a corner, Tucker sprinted across the road, almost slipping on the cobbled pavement opposite.
A Police car suddenly appeared, sirens wailing,and he dived behind some trash cans. For a moment he was bathed in a blue light, then the Police car had gone.
Tucker cursed his carelessness. Opening the briefcase he took out a small red phial, glancing at the contents. There was an old dictum about a pusher never eating his own shit. In this case it didn't apply.
He swallowed the phial and waited for the degradable plastic to melt inside him. Within five minutes he was in a cold sweat, glancing up and down the street for any sign of a Police car. He hated this particular emotion; but without fear he could walk headlong into a Police trap, a mistake that would cost him ten years of his life in a labour camp.
He proceeded with caution, his nerves churning his insides up. Emotions were his stock in trade. Few of his 'clients' wanted to experience fear, although enough of them did to warrant its continuous production. In this age, emotion was a rare commodity and people were willing to pay a fortune for a whiff of fear, or a moments happiness. For the so called 'Emotion Merchants' - men like Ralston Tucker - there was a fortune to be made ... and, occasionally, a price to be paid.
*
Almost thirty years earlier, during the winter of 2061, a scientist had announced his findings to the Heads of State. Several explosions in outer space had thrown a comet off its eliptical course, and there was little doubt that, on its passage close to the earth, it was going to crash headlong into the moon. To avoid panic a moratorium had been placed on the information.
Ill-prepared for the disaster, millions died as shards of moon and comet bombarded the planet; causing floods and earthquakes, leaving millions dead and plunging the survivors into a perpetual winter of darkness. The extent of this disaster soon became apparent; Women could no longer carry children. If desperate measures were not taken, Mankind would die out at the end of the present generation. The solution, when it came, had been an obvious one; A race of artificially reproduced humans. The throwback to this was that they were born without emotions. The limbs, organs, flesh and matter had been easy to recreate, but the brain is a little more complex; intelligent as they were, their artifically reproduced brains could not stimulate anything in the way of human emotions.
As with everything, the black market wasn't too far behind. Stimulants were created to bring out these emotions. Certain substances could make people feel happy, in much the same way as illegal drugs had done in the last century. But soon it wasn't enough.
'Let us sample human emotions in all their glory,' came the demand, and the scientists immediately set to work. But there were side effects; people had been thrown into murderous rages, once again bringing homicide to the streets. The Governments had ordered these stimulants banned. That was when 'The Emotion Merchants' came on the scene, mood sellers like Ralston Tucker who made people feel as good, or bad, as they liked ...as long as the price was right.
*
This night, Tucker was meeting up with a young couple who wanted to experience love. At a thousand crotons , it was the most expensive stimulant in his cannon.
He ducked down back alleys, crawled in shadows, hugged corners. He began to wonder if he hadn't made himself too afraid. Then a Police cruiser glided past an alley he was walking through and he knew that his exaggerated caution had been for the best.
*
He found the address he'd been given. Ever wary of a trap he watched the house from the shadows, eyes scanning the street for any sign of a red uniform.
It was over three quarters of an hour before he felt safe enough to make his approach.
He rapped on the door with confidence, the mild dose of fear starting to wear off. Admitted into the house, he placed his briefcase on the table, opened it, and displayed his wares to Chrissie and Jeremy Golding, going into his patter like the salesman that he was:
"Emotions. Who can live without them, hey? Me, I got the lot. Perhaps the lady would like a touch of the blues sometime. And you , sir, how about a taste of fear? Clammy palms, a cold sweat on your brow. It makes life worth living. As you can see, all phial's are colour-coded to assist you; Blue for ...well, the blues - a mild touch of melancholy; Red for anger, but you don't want to ingest too much of that; And green. Make the lady Jealous as hell of her neighbours new wallpaper."
He laughed at his own joke, but without the use of a stimulant there was no way to appreciate the humour.
All houses, all over the world, looked the same: Same size, same furnishings. Even cars were uniform in a way that Ford would have approved of: 'Any colour you like, Lady - as long as its black!' As liking was an emotion, nobody objected to the colour scheme: Boredom was an emotion too. Nevertheless, Tucker trotted out the rest of his patter to an unsmiling client.
"And there you have it. Every emotion under the sun and at a price fairer than anywhere else. What do you say?"
Golding stepped forward, regarding the dozen or so phials. He was clearly cautious, a man who would take a little persuading.
"These are banned substances, are they not?"
"Yes."
"What are the risks?"
"Hardly any risk at all, sir. Addictive? Sure they are. But used in moderation they can be a blessing. Take melancholy. A touch, and you have a pleasant dose of the blues. Too much, suicidal depression. It's the same with everything; moderation in all things is the only way to benefit from it. I'm not selling you love everlasting. I'm just offering you the chance to experience one of life's most beautiful emotions. I have a wide clientele and they have come to rely on me. I look after them. No customer of Ralston Tucker ever OD'd or became hooked on any particular substance.
I know the limits, you see. And I don't let anyone go beyond those limits, no matter how many croton's they try to offer me. Believe me, I have a reputation to protect."
The Golding's were hooked. Ten minutes later, Tucker left the house with a one thousand croton note in his pocket. It had been a good night.
Beyond the city boundaries he was able to relax, walking the streets like a man without a conscience.
*
It was like entering a war zone. Cross the border for safety, keep your head down whilst in enemy territory, don't let the Redcoat's see you. It was more like a game to him now. Some things are not motivated by emotions; The need for a challenge, the necessity to relieve life's dull routines. The days and nights were uniform, continuous rain and continuous dark. Every bland, unemotional face he saw was almost a mirror image of his own. The overhead traffic - not allowed to hover below two hundred feet at this time of night -was dull as well as silent, cautiously driven by owners with no thirst for the excitment of speed. And the streets, the houses, the places of work ... all the same, everywhere you went. .
He stopped by a mobile Korean restaurant, suddenly hungry, and ordered a sweet and sour chicken with rice.He ate from a silver carton with a wooden fork, relishing the meal. Tucker would go for long periods of time without taking food. When he did eat, he preferred exotic meals.
*
Fate can sometimes work in unexpected ways. His route home took him down Cerdan Street. Had he not stopped for food he would have crossed it fifteen minutes earlier. Fifteen minutes isn't much, but it can sometimes change a lifetime. On this night, stopping for a meal was to be the undoing of Ralston Tucker. Just a few yards in front of him a door burst open and a gang of youths tumbled out ontothe street, swearing and fighting. Tucker cursed; this was all he needed! He tried to run past them but a man turned on him, forcing Tucker to get involved in the affray, flooring his assailant with a solid punch to the jaw.
Suddenly, the night came alive with the sound of Police sirens, shouting, flashing blue lights. Tucker turned and ran, the street suddenly swarming with Redcoats, the Police on his back all the way. After all his caution he'd been caught in the wrong place at the wrong time, but if he could just get rid of the evidence ...
He ran up the fire escape of a building, sure-footed on the wet metal steps. Onto the roof, a dozen Police Officers clambered up the fire escape after him.
"Time to eat shit!" he said. Laying the briefcase before him, Tucker opened it up, scooped the remaining seven phial's into his hand, and then swallowed them all before the Police arrived.
"Officer's," he greeted them, "sorry I ran. I thought those hooligans were after me."
*
Tucker had often said that a pusher should never sample his own fruit. But he had wanted emotions too. There were very few people in the world over the age of thirty five, the great ecological disaster having taken its toll.
So the world was more or less under the control of the young; men and women born just before the collision who put good business before moral considerations. Human emotions were very good business indeed.
Tucker, out of curiosity, had tried out every emotion; tripping once a week, then three times, little realizing that he was becoming addicted. No one had ever taken more than two pills at any one time. Happiness was often taken to relieve melancholy, but dire warnings had been given about ingesting more that two stimulants at one time.
No one knew for certain what would happen to anyone who did this.
Ralston Tucker was about to find out!
*
Fear was the first emotion to surface. The Police hadn't held onto him, not without evidence. Now he was alone in his house, waiting for the drugs to take effect. Would he go through the emotions one at a time?
Or would they all start acting at once, throwing him into a confusion of emotions that would tear his sanity from him? He began pacing the room. This was agitation, an emotion the world could well do without. Unable to take the suspense any longer he grabbed his coat and left the house. He needed to walk, though he realized it would have been better to stay put.
The warm, steady rain would normally have soothed him; on those nights he had felt the need for anger, this was how he calmed himself down. But there were too many emotions working within him for Tucker to have any control over them.
He walked fast, his stomach churning. He wanted the emotions to pass. He wanted the whole trip over.
Then he was laughing.
It started as a snigger and grew into a maniacal laugh. He staggered about the road, roaring, holding his sides.Oh yes ... Oh this felt good.
And then a wave of guilt hit him like a fist, stopping him in his tracks. The tragic events of the last few years played themselves out to him: Seventeen year old Peter Derry, who slashed his wrists while suffering from depression; Matt Foyle, who beat his wife to death in a violent rage before shooting himself:
Diana ...
NO! NO! NO!
He staggered forward like a drunk, guilt pulling him down like a physical weight.
So many lives lost.
So many innocent lives.
His greed.
His evil Greed.
Christ!
Tucker cluched the sides of his head, squeezing, willing the pain out. There had to be good emotions, there had to be. But then anger mixed with his guilt; anger at the men who had made him what he was. He was in a fury, wanting to kill, to destroy. He hated himself, hated what he had been forced to do - hated! Hated! HATED!
He grieved for the lives that had been lost, shouting out in his anguish and anger.
GOOD FEELINGS! FOR GOD'S SAKE! GOOD FEELINGS!
But the good feelings couldn't surface beyond the bad ones; hate, anger, grief, guilt. These emotions override everything, even fear. Tucker had brought death, destroying the lives of people who had wanted nothing more than to feel. He was a murderer.
MURDERER!
He marched through the streets, the waves of emotion crushing his soul, breaking his mind, driving into him like relentless body blows. Then a car hovered past, spraying him with a fine mist. It landed a few yards up the road, just outside the house Tucker had been subconsciously drawn towards. A man stepped out of the car, a black briefcase in his hand. Gregory, his supplier.
"Jesus Tucker, you frightened the living daylights out of me!!"
Tucker stormed up to him, grabbed Gregory's briefcase and jabbed him in the stomach with it. As Gregory went down, Tucker leapt on top of him, grabbing the briefcase in both hands and repeatedly smashing it down on his face; breaking skin, crushing bones, battering away even when his face resembled a pizza.
A flash - an explosion!
Tucker stopped in mid-strike; gore covered briefcase held above his head, dark human matter slithering down into his hair. He looked down slowly, eyes wide, and stared in disbelief at a twisted mass of flesh and bones that had once been his chest. The briefcase slipped from his fingers, blood filled his mouth. He laughed, the bad feelings leaving him just before he fell forward onto his face.
He came around to flashing blue lights, sirens, a crowd of people. A woman in a nightdress held the body of Gregory to her chest, weeping bitterly. She was one of the 'Elders', an emotional person, and she had shot Tucker. Correction; she had killed him, for Tucker had seen the hideous wound from which there was no hope of surviving. He looked at his killer and felt only compassion.
Why ? Why today?
Why not, Tucker? What do you care?
True. Tucker hadn't cared. Caring was a counter-productive emotion,one that a man in his position couldn't afford. But in quiet moments he would start listing his victims:
I killed you and I killed you and I killed you ...
The rain beat steadily against his face. Hard toimagine a time when it rained only now and again instead of day and night, without end.
Tucker tried to be positive. These were his dying thoughts after all. But his emotions were confused and so were his thoughts .
...Should have let us die out as a race ... natural evolution ... fucked around with the powers of God ...
love hurts ... bad moods ... bad trip ...
And always the rain, life's only constant.
" You animal! For God's sake why?"
The pain in her face was terrible. Tucker had hurt her. She would be the last, though. He tried to form words, the last he was ever going to speak. The woman cocked her head, needing to hear what he had to say.
" I ... love ...you ..."
She was still looking into Tucker's eyes as the life went out of them. In his dying seconds he had tasted life's most wonderful emotion.
Had he lived, he would have appreciated the irony.
THE END.