The Bitter Pill

by A. Bertram Chandler

Genres: Science Fiction; Sci-fi Action & Adventure; Alien Contact

Synopsis

To Paul Clayton, obscure shipping clerk, his forty-fifth birthday was not an occasion for celebration. It meant the achievement of status of Senior Citizen, and with it several dubious privileges - not least of which was voluntary euthanasia, facilitated by the government issue suicide pill. Those who changed their minds, once they had broken the capsule containing the lethal pill, faced the prospect of forced labor camps in the Australian desert of the penal colony on Mars, where convicts toiled to make more space fit for Earth's over-spilling populations. Under the supervision of the corrupt and brutal Mars Corps, Clayton crosses paths again with others he once knew on distant Earth. They find themselves caught up on a maelstrom of terror and political intrigue.

Release date: November 26, 2015

Publisher: Gateway

Print pages: 158

Sample

‘Frobisher’s getting restive, P.M.,’ said the Minister for Public Relations.

‘So?’ asked the Prime Minister, leaning well back in his deep, leather-upholstered armchair, watching the blue smoke of his cigar eddying upward in the lamplight. He coughed. He said, ‘The Queensland tobacco growers’ll have to do better than this, Bassett.’ He waved the brown, smouldering cylinder almost threateningly at the other man. ‘These things aren’t fit for home consumption, let alone for the export market. And you bully me into smoking them.’ He coughed again. ‘And have you tried their pot? If you haven’t, don’t.’

‘I was talking about Frobisher, P.M.’

‘I was talking about the atrocious quality of Australian tobacco. If we’re to maintain our rightful place in the world, Bassett, we must have something to sell that somebody wants. Wool’s finally had it. Coal’s had it. And those new constructional plastics that the Japs have started to turn out will mean the finish of our iron and aluminium ore exports to the little yellow bastards!’

The Minister for Public Relations took a rather noisy gulp from his glass of brandy. ‘The burning question, P.M., is whether we can maintain our place in Canberra. There’s an election next year, you know. It was the League of Youth vote that put us in last time. And now Frobisher is hinting — threatening! — that his precious league will put us out, unless we come across with something.’

The Prime Minister snorted. ‘With something? With what? The noisy young puppies have never had it so good!’

‘Yes, P.M. You know it. I know it. Even Frobisher knows it. But his members want more, and Frobisher wants to keep his job. After all, he’s pushing thirty. He’s no youth. Unless he can show results to his followers he’ll be out on his arse.’

‘My heart fair bleeds for him, Bassett.’

‘Mine, to be frank, bleeds for me,’ said the Minister for Public Relations. He added, not very hastily, ‘And, of course, for you. And for all the rest of us in the party.’

The Prime Minister affected not to have heard. He studied the glowing end of his cigar as though he were a seer, able to read the future in the ruddy ember, the wreathing fumes. He said, ‘And we must not lose sight of the incontrovertible fact that we are far better qualified to guide the destinies of this nation than our friends in opposition. Can you imagine them, for example, voting the few billions required for us to maintain our presence on the Moon?’

‘A token presence, P.M.’

‘Still a presence, Bassett. Essential if we are to hold up our head among the other nations of this planet. And then there are our relations with Indonesia…’

‘Of course, P.M.’

‘To say nothing of the Poms, the Yanks, and the Chinks…’

‘And the Russians…’

‘And the E.E.C., Bassett.’

‘Too right, P.M.’

‘Then do something about it.’

‘Our lunar base? Foreign relations?’

‘No. The League of Youth.’

The fat little man — he was known as Bouncing Billy — finished his drink and got to his feet. His face split in a wide grin. ‘Don’t worry, P.M., I’ll do something. All I want is the O.K. from you to play along with Frobisher and his Girl Friday. We’ll have them eating out of our hands.’

‘And what will you do, Bassett?’

‘I’ll do my best for everybody, P.M., regardless of age, sex or religion. Bouncing Billy, the People’s Friend, that’s me!’

‘I wish you could do something about the Australian tobacco industry,’ said the Prime Minister gloomily, grinding the malodorous butt out in the ashtray.

The air-conditioner was doing its best to cope with the fug, but its best was not quite good enough. Fumes of smouldering tobacco spiralled from pipes and cigarettes, mingling with the sweet acridity of marijuana.

The chairman and the general secretary sat at the table on the low platform. A little to one side such members of the committee as happened to be in port or on leave were seated. The members, in their ranked seats, faced them.

‘And so,’ droned the chairman, ‘it is resolved that pressure be brought upon the Owners to supply and fit a tridi set to every officer’s cabin. Mmm… And now, is there any further business?’

‘There is, Mr Chairman,’ stated one of the members, raising his hand.

‘Mr…?’

‘Calder. Third Officer. Associated Bulkships.’

Mr Calder was on his feet now. It was not necessary to look at his face to determine that he was a young man. His hair was fashionably short, the ‘suede head’ look. He was wearing the drab grey coveralls affected by Frobisher’s League of Youth.

‘Yes, Mr Calder?’ asked the chairman.

‘What are the guild’s views on this new Act?’

The general secretary frowned. He whispered something to the chairman. The committee members seemed suddenly to have formed themselves into two groups — the young and the not-so-young. The grave expressions of the middle-aged did not go at all well with their formally informal clothing, shirts and slacks with bright floral patterns. They accorded, however, with their beards, they sat without incongruity on faces framed by long, greying hair.

Calder had produced a newspaper. He read from it. ‘Exempt from the provisions of the Act are members of the armed services and of the commonwealth and state police forces, air crews of Australian overseas and domestic airlines, masters and officers of Australian-registered merchant ships…’

‘Obvious exemptions, Mr Calder,’ said the general secretary.

‘They may be obvious to you, Captain Dinshaw. But — don’t you see? — they make second class citizens of us!’

‘How so?’ asked Dinshaw. ‘How so, Mr Calder?’

‘We shall be deprived of a right that should be the right of every citizen.’

The general secretary smiled. ‘I have given the matter some thought already, Mr Calder. The very nature of our employment deprives us of quite a few rights, so called. You might say that it is the right of every citizen to sit on a jury. But we are exempt from jury service. I do not think that you will find in the past minutes of the meetings of this guild that anybody has ever protested against that exemption.’

‘I am protesting against this one, Captain Dinshaw. Mr Chairman, I move that the guild claims for its members the same rights as those enjoyed by every other citizen of the Commonwealth.’

Another young man raised his hand. ‘I second that.’ He added, ‘Brown, Second Officer, Tasman United Steamships.’

The vote was taken by show of hands. The motion was narrowly defeated, by only five votes. Most — but not all — of the masters and chief officers present were among the Noes. Most — but not all — of the junior officers voted Aye.

One junior — who voted No — was heard to whisper to his companion, ‘After all, Bill, we shan’t be under forty-five for ever…’

He ran east until the luminous outline of the Heads was just outside the twenty-mile range circle, right astern. He stared, almost as though hypnotized, at the little radar screen, then muttered, ‘This should do…’ He switched off the engine. His hand jerked slightly as his brain countermanded the order to start it again. If the boat ran on until its fuel cells were exhausted, he thought, it might never be found. Here, little more than a stone’s throw from the coast, there was a good chance that it would be picked up. It was almost new and would fetch at least $7,000. Tanya would find the money useful…

It would help her to make a fresh start. She was young still, and deserved better than being shackled to a failure. And she had argued against his investing all their savings in Woomera Spaceways. But who could have foreseen the tragic conclusion of that first charter flight to the Moon?

He fumbled in the pocket of his windbreaker for his cigarettes. There was only one left in the crumpled packet. That was, somehow, fitting. A last cigarette… The last cigarette… He saw himself standing straight and proud against a glaringly sunwashed wall, facing the levelled rifles. He laughed harshly. Life wasn’t like that. Neither was death.

What was death like?

He tapped the end of the little cylinder on his thumbnail, igniting it. He put the other end to his mouth, inhaled. He was wracked by a violent coughing fit. He smoked too much. Tanya always said that he smoked too much. Almost he threw the cigarette overboard, then stopped himself. He would finish the thing if it killed him.

He sat there, smoking quietly. He looked up, but the sky was overcast, darkly sullen over a black, sullenly heaving sea. There was no wind to break its surface into whitecaps, to stir the phosphorescent animalcules into flashing life. There was a low glare, reflected from the cloud, to the westward, to the north and south of west, marking the megacity that stretched from Newcastle to Wollongong. Ten miles to the south a man-made constellation skimmed rapidly over the sea surface — masthead lights, green starboard light, accommodation and deck lights — the roar of its progress audible even at this range.

One of the new hoverliners, he thought without much interest, inbound from North Zealand or South Zealand with its cargo of dairy produce, heading for the ramp at Botany, up which it would slide on its air cushion to continue its voyage to the Inland. He wondered if his boat would be showing on the big ship’s radar screen. He imagined that he could hear the officer of the watch muttering, ‘Some bloody fisherman with no lights…’

And what if the officer of the watch knew?

What would he do?

Nothing, probably.

The cigarette was almost finished, scorching his lips. He threw it over the side, heard the hiss as the glowing end was extinguished in the water. He stood up, keeping his balance with difficulty as the boat rocked in the swell. He kicked off his shoes, unzipped and lowered his trousers, stepped out of them clumsily. His windbreaker was next, then his shirt, finally his underpants. He did not know why he was going through the ritual of stripping. He tried to think of a reason.

Naked I came into the world, naked I go out from it…?

If they ever find the boat, with my clothing, they’ll think that I was mug enough to go overside for a swim…?

Well, that’s true, isn’t it?

The air was suddenly cold on his bare skin.

Hadn’t there been a southerly change forecast, for about midnight? He looked at his watch. He could just read the luminous hands and figures. 0007. Suddenly he laughed. This was his birthday, and his deathday. He unstrapped the instrument, dropped it on to his piled clothing.

His entry into the water was not as dignified as he had intended; he tripped on the gunwale and fell sprawling, hitting the surface with chest and belly. Instinctively he struck out and raised his head, spluttering and gasping, coughing and retching, trying to clear the painfully burning fluid from his lungs. And suddenly, the dread that lurks in every Australian’s mind brought panic.

Sharks!

But there were no sharks, he knew that. The protein-rich predators had been fished out all along the east coast, were virtually extinct.

All you have to do, he told himself, is to let yourself sink…

He tried it, and imagined those jagged teeth closing about an arm, a leg, his genitals…

He was on the surface again, blowing out water, gulping in air. He panicked again when he saw nothing but blackness around him. He turned threshing, in the water. Yes, there was the boat, its white plastic hull pallidly gleaming.

He struck out towards it.

Let yourself sink! he told himself.

A man can change his mind, he admitted.

He was not a very good swimmer, but surely he should have reached the boat by now. Surely it should be closer, not more distant. He realized, at last, what was happening. The craft, riding high in the water, was being pushed away from him by the strengthening breeze.

But he tried.

It seemed, after a heart-bursting effort, that he would succeed — but his clutching hand slipped on the smooth wet plastic of the gunwale and he fell back, exhausted.

He thought bitterly, while he could still think, that he should have waited until he got his new Identity Card.

It had been a bad day in the office.

Bryson, the branch manager, was away sick — and Bryson was one of those men who never take subordinates into their confidence. In theory Paul Clayton, the chief clerk, was second in command — but in practice, and he knew it, he was no more, and would never be any more, than a senior clerk. ‘A’, not ‘the’. Only two weeks before Taylor, branch manager at Emu Bay, regarded as the lowest rung in the company’s ladder, had been transferred to the much more important Port Stephens branch office and young Deems, a mere assistant accountant at head office, had been sent to take his place. In both years and company seniority Taylor and Deems were junior to Clayton.

So Paul Clayton sat in the chair behind the branch manager’s desk, in the branch manager’s private office, knowing that he did not belong there, that he never would belong there. He tried to get down to some paper work — his own paper work — sorting out the loading times and the tonnage rates, gross and net, of the company’s trans-Tasman freighter Parramatta. The computerized forecasts and extrapolations were, of course, ready to hand — but the computer failed to make allowances for the sort of delays attributable to mere human inefficiency or, as was becoming more and more the case, sheer bloody-mindedness. Come to that, Clayton thought sourly, it failed to recognize the fact that it was far from efficient itself.

And this Parramatta was an awkward little brute. She was one of the f. . .