No Side Effects

By Ryan Bigwood

Harold Whittman never makes decisions. His medication, work, food and sex life are all laid out for him. He is a drone in a sea of drones.
But not all is as it appears in the serene surroundings of Sector VII and soon Harold will find himself caught up in a chain of events that will force him to snap out of his malaise and to make decisions that will have consequences to not only himself but to all those around him.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: Aug 31, 2017
• ISBN: 9780244029647

Book preview

No Side Effects

No Side Effects

A Novel by R Bigwood

Copyright © Ryan Bigwood 2017

Cover design © Ryan Bigwood 2017

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic mechanical means – except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews -without written permission from its publisher.

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

Copyright © 2017 Ryan Bigwood

All rights reserved

ISBN: 978-0-244-02964-7

I Sector VII

The city was a brilliant white. At least that’s how it appeared on the visual register but to anyone who spent time there its true colour was beige.  White with a hint of bland. It wasn’t unpretty but it lacked feeling. The great dome shielded the inhabitants from the negative weather but also dissipated any sun rays to an obscured warmth. The whole city had a kind of plastic serenity that seemed to drape over it. No one could say it wasn’t peaceful, well tended, orderly. The great parks were nicely interspaced between the tall ergonomically shaped structures and not a leaf was to be seen out of place. Pathways flowed through the parks just as smoothly as the rivers and streams. Still, there was a perceptible oddness about the place, something not quite natural like looking at a perfectly symmetrical face.

It should have been paradise but real life was an endangered species.

It had been a slow day. The servers were running smoothly, there were no labour shortages and all the maintenance departments were, for once, amazingly on time. It gave Harold no satisfaction. He had skulked around the office all day trying to look busy by pulling out files and pretending to analyse them. He had made several journeys to the water cooler and tried to engage several colleagues in conversation. He sat down. He got up and walked about a bit. He made several beleaguered calls to other departments in the hope of inventing work for himself to stave off the boredom. By mid-afternoon he could feel his anxiety beginning to kick in.

‘Things are too good. Was yesterday the same as today? What if there is a problem and no one wants to say? What if there are lots of problems and no one has the stomach to tell me? What if they don’t want to tell me because they think I cannot handle it?’

He paused deliberately and focused on his breathing to try and calm down. He looked at his watch. He still had another hour to go before taking his next tablet, a K.

He sat at his desk and looked at his executive toys. Some bizarre geometric shapes meant to comprise a 3-D puzzle. Since it had been taken out of the package no one had actually attempted to solve it. ‘A truly pointless gift,’ he thought and struggled to remember who had made the hollow gesture of buying it for him in the first place.

He reached over to pick up the shapes and caught a photo with his shirt sleeve. It wasn’t just any photo and he snatched at it quickly to avoid letting it crack against the desk. He was relieved to see that it was undamaged. It was all he had left of her. To the casual observer the photo was a crowd seen of some sort of company event but if the frame was held at the correct angle, as Harold was now doing, the image of a woman came into focus. The memory was bitter sweet. It started soft and he allowed himself to indulge in its warmth enveloping him with its guilty pleasure but then it became intersected with stochastic jabs like the flash bulb of an angry camera and each flash an image of her death. He tried to focus, battling his subconscious to see if he could direct the memory, drag it to where he wanted. He had been through the battle many times and each time he felt more desperate, certain that a part of the good memory died in each conflict.

The alarm on his commlink was like a needle into the balloon of his subconscious snapping him out of his mind war. He stood dazed for a moment feeling only the pounding of his heart against his rib cage. He stepped out of his office half turning to the camera in the corner of the room. Harold walked quickly to the Med-booth but paused briefly before entering. He reproached himself for hesitating for he knew how it would be interpreted and what the possible consequences might be.

Hello Doctor.

A calm toneless voice responded, Good afternoon Harold, are you well?

Yes Doctor, how can I...

The voice cut in implacably Your pulse was slightly erratic, you know. Are you sure you are well?

No side effects Doctor, just a quiet day. Gave my mind too much of an opportunity to daydream.

Your next pill is in just over an hour. It is a K tablet, yes?

Harold was annoyed. ‘Of course it is a K,’ he thought ‘you prescribed it.’ The Doctor prescribed all the meds and always knew who was taking what.

Yes Doctor, Harold did his best to cover his feelings.

You were recently upgraded from L meds, correct?

Harold felt like he was being provoked.

Yes Doctor, he answered.

The grey tone continued, Sometimes citizens can be upgraded too quickly. Perhaps we should analyse the benefits of a downgrade to L meds again?

Harold was shocked. It had taken him years to get his most recent upgrade and the thought of losing it made his stomach knot. He did his best to repress the panic and managed to blurt out, "whatever you believe to be best Doctor. You know you have my trust and you always look after me.

Very well, we will discuss this at your next monthly review, there was a pause, Harold, are you still having visions of your ex-wife’s death?

Harold was now in serious trouble, he had a thousand answers but none would come out. He had visions of his inner self screaming at him to answer but his lips just quivered. He was certain he was going to lose his K meds.

Harold, your pulse has increased significantly. Do you require assistance?

At that moment Harold looked focused on the image of his ex-wife and in moment she came to him, spoke to him. He did not hear the words, just the softness and the comfort. He could feel his heart rate normalising.

Thank you Doctor but I am fine. And it was, at least in that moment, the truth.

Be well Harold, intoned the voice and the transmission was cut.

Harold slumped back in the chair worn out from the nervous energy he had just spent. He was unsure if he had managed to convince The Doctor but reasoned that it was not worth getting upset, if that were possible, as this would only increase his chances of his medication being downgraded. At least The Doctor had not followed up on his questioning about his ex-wife. In his office Harold looked again at the picture. The angle was insufficient to reveal the hidden image and it was masked by the crowd. Harold only saw her face.

It had been seven years since the accident but there had been no closure and the mourning was still fresh, painful to touch. And now, in a sadistic twist of fate Harold’s memories were poisoned by loss so that any fair memory that did come to him would always melt into images of her death. She had been everything to him. His centre. Her work as a geneticist meant that she was far above his med status but she never made him feel inferior. Then one day they had been out for a walk in the park, just a regular Sunday afternoon. Some crazed de-med* had come out of nowhere and hit them both with his hover car.

By the time Harold had come to he was in the hospital trying to assimilate the bad news.

At four o’clock Harold entered the company’s med-booth to receive his next K med. He was relieved when the screen stayed blank, indicating that The Doctor would not be following up on his earlier inquiries. He was only required to type in his citizen code and the appropriate slot opened revealing the small red pill.

*Term for someone who stops taking medication resulting in psychotic behaviour

As he stepped out he saw his secretary waiting to enter.

Oh, hello Julie. Your time as well I see. Harold paused. He wanted to say something else but was only too aware that Julie had recently been downgraded to S meds after her brother had been incarcerated and he was worried that he might embarrass her. He changed subjects as quickly as possible, did you manage to get hold Robert?

No Mr Wittman. I’ll try him again if you like after my um... she gestured to the med-booth.

Right. Okay, no rush. I’ll just, well, yes, his sentence petered out and he turned quickly to avoid further damage.

As he walked away his peripheral vision noticed a new light source coming from the med-booth. The Doctor wanted to speak to Julie.

On his way out of the company Harold stopped at a vending machine and got some chocolate. In truth it wasn’t really chocolate but a congealed paste with a synthetic taste and a shot of caffeine for good measure. He passed out the door and looked up Sector VII’s great dome trying to perceive the weather on the outside. He finished his chocolate treat and looked for somewhere to discard the wrapper. Failing he stuffed the packet into his pocket walked briskly along the avenue to the nearest metro terminal. He was determined to get home as soon as possible and put this day behind him. He hoped tomorrow would be better but he didn’t succeed in convincing himself. All around people were walking in ordered files making their way home. It seemed to Harold that their footfalls were rhythmic, all marching out the same beat.

It’s like we’re all ants, he said to himself. Or at least he thought he had and was suddenly surprised to see that a man walking next to him was looking straight at him.

I was just thinking the exact same thing, you know, he said. Was it always like this?

I don’t know, replied Harold but he had really wanted to say no.

My name’s Marcus, said the gentlemen extending his hand, I work at the energy plant.

Harold, networking. Nice to meet you, he said gingerly shaking Marcus by the hand.

Likewise, which way are you heading?

Zone 4.

That’s on my way. Mind if I join you?

Harold’s lips disobeyed a direct order from his brain, yeah sure, my pleasure.

It wasn’t that Harold had taken a dislike to Marcus it just was that it was going to take away the routine of his day. Sometimes it was the routine that got him through. The knowledge that nothing unexpected was going to jump out at him. And he had needed that today.

They boarded the metro pod and found a place to sit down. It whizzed along in almost perfect silence. Marcus leaned into Harold to preserve their privacy.

I can’t stand the quiet, he whispered, when did it become socially unacceptable to have a conversation on the metro? I remember taking trips with my dad and he would point out the landmarks to me and I would ask him questions about Dr Schaffer.

Harold wanted to answer but he could feel the other passengers homing in on them.

Marcus continued, do you know, I’ve even begun to notice that other public places are becoming the same.

Harold nodded.

I’m not against the quiet as a rule. But I don’t want to feel like I’m being obligated, do know what I mean?

Harold was about the respond but another passenger walked over to them and gesticulated wildly for Marcus to be quiet and Harold was totally unprepared for what happened next. Marcus laughed. Not a quiet chuckle or a chortle but a full on raucous belly laugh. The other passenger stared in disbelief caught between outrage and embarrassment at now being the focus of attention. Harold was also stunned but something more important happened. The sound of Marcus’ laughter stirred something deep inside him. It was like a glorious shower that fell on some long forgotten small seed in a desert, dormant for so long, now germinated. His face contorted and he struggled not to smirk. He covered his mouth with his hand as the other passenger continued his glowering.

At that moment the metro pulled into Zone 4 and Harold not turning to say goodbye fled the scene. As he made his way to the surface he found that he was laughing too. He could not recall that last time he had had such a feeling. It overwhelmed him. It wasn’t that he didn’t enjoy comedy shows and he certainly did laugh, at least when everyone else did but it wasn’t comparable to this. And reflecting on what had just happened he was sad that he had no way to contact his new found friend. His overriding sense was gratitude. For the first time in a long time his routine had been broken but it was positive. He actually felt happy. He wanted to thank Marcus for his gift of laughter.

As he reached the apartment block he was debating whether or not to share the experience with his wife Martha. She had been an assigned marriage three years after the accident. Harold had not wanted another relationship but in the end The Doctor had begun to suggest that without the stabilizing effect of a life partner he would have to start seriously downgrading his medication and so Harold had capitulated. Before the accident Harold was on F meds and had already been significantly downgraded because of the post-traumatic stress. Like all citizens he was terrified of the idea of being downgraded to the point where he would lose his job and social standing. And so he had remarried and was able to carry on at his work without demotion. Martha was on H meds. She didn’t openly gloat about this but she never missed an opportunity to mention it. It was the final word on any discussion or the seal on any agreement made, a trump card. Harold didn’t mind this overly as there were very few discussions that were serious and fewer agreements on which decisions were needed. It just bothered him because in his first marriage it had not been important.

He punched in the key code access and the door opened. There was a smell of soup coming from the kitchen.

Good evening husband. How was your day?

Harold gave the standard response, no side effects.

Martha came out from the kitchen and gave Harold a perfunctory kiss on the cheek. As she did so, and without Harold noticing, she slipped her had into his pocket. She pulled out the chocolate wrapper. Aha, exhibit A! She displayed the wrapper as though she were in a real court room.

Harold sighed. It’s just a piece of chocolate not a Sentinel’s defender*.

Caffeine is only permitted to those on J meds or less. I don’t know why you risk it.

We’re talking about one grade of meds, it’s not a big deal.

Honestly, they should make it mandatory to enter citizen codes on those vending machines and then things like this wouldn’t happen.

Can we just have dinner, or at least talk about something else?

All right, Martha looked at him sideways, conversation postponed, for now. She went back to the kitchen and began serving dinner.

Harold went over to the opposite wall and pushed a button. Up jumped the couple’s day planner. Different coloured dots signified different activities.

*Sentinels were the Sector’s police. They stopped citizens from entering restricted areas which led out to the wasteland. Their weapon of choice, the defender, paralysed the targets nervous system although the only time it was seen in action was on de-meds.

Today was marked with blue, he was due to go swimming or have exercise in the park after dinner. He browsed the upcoming events over the next few days to remind him of his duties. He checked the calendar for purple marks, the next programed coitus with Martha, it was in three days.

He sat back down at the table and pushed another button. The wall changed from the schedule to the television. He didn’t pay much attention to it he just wanted something to act as a distraction for Martha.

So, how was your day? He asked her as she sat down.

No problems, although with less kids every year who knows how long I’ll have a job? She was a teacher.

They ate in silence. It wasn’t uncomfortable, it was just easier that way.

The television took over the ambience...

...here we have clear evidence of high levels of ultraviolet rays outside the dome. It was first hoped all those years ago that life under the dome would only be for several decades. Here we are almost two hundred and twenty years on and we can give thanks to the great Dr Schaffer for foreseeing our needs. In fact most scientists now say that we have adapted to life under the domes and it would be better to stay where we are. After seeing the outside, this reporter wholeheartedly agrees. The camera then panned away from the presenter in his pressure suit and revealed a sun baked panorama of orange rock and sand.

I don’t know why they make this kind of show, said Martha, why would we want to try and recolonize the wasteland? We have everything we need under the domes.

What I’d like to know is what happened to all those experiments in my dad’s day? I remember once that we were making progress and they were looking at trying to reclaim areas of the wasteland.

At that moment the television went silent. Both Harold and Martha turned to see what had happened. The screen was black with the text ‘Please standby for incoming transmission from The Prelate,’ in the centre. They both waited obediently for what seemed like an eternity. When the screen came to life again there was the image a middle aged man dressed in a blue toga.

Greetings citizens, said the man, "due to recent security procedures The Prelate is asking for volunteers to make themselves available for Sentinel duty. Any volunteer will receive access to the latest medical procedures that will lead to upgrades