Aaron Vancil put down his pint glass on the pub’s table with a louder thump than he’d intended. “God, I’m exhausted. The way I feel right now, I’m not sure I can work up the enthusiasm to finish my half of mild.”

“That is serious,” agreed his friend of many years, Ted Gardener. Aaron imagined the reply had been meant humorously. Ted’s delivery was too leaden, though, to convey much in the way of hilarity.

In fact, now Aaron came to think on it, the pub in general had a funereal air. No one had selected any music on the computerized juke box, and the players at the pool table were standing around staring at the balls rather than potting them. Even the trivia machines, normally the focus of an excited hubbub of punters arguing over the answers, stood idle, reduced to mournful boops and beeps that were failing to entice anyone to try their luck.

“What is up with this place?” sighed Aaron. “The Flag and Lamb is hardly the most thrilling venue on the best of nights, but this is positively tragic.”

Ted looked up from the beermat he’d been studying. “Oh, you haven’t heard.”

“Heard? Heard what?” It was hard to summon the energy to ask the question.

“Everywhere’s like this since Oliphant Industries’ big launch last Thursday. That’s what people are saying.”

Aaron shook his head, not following. So, Ted showed him his beer mat. There were several identical cardboard coasters on the table, which thus far Aaron had completely failed to notice.

The advertising read: Oliphant Industries Brings You the Next Stage of Commerce – Freshly Harvested Hope, Available for Bulk Purchase at Very Reasonable Rates. Never Feel Hopeless Again!

“What kind of fresh hell is this, and how did I not hear about it until now? I’m a reporter, for crying out loud.”

“Well,” said Ted, “as you know, I’m not one for wild speculation. Just this once, I’ll go out on a limb and say your general obliviousness is the result of you not being a very good reporter.”

Aaron didn’t have it in him to argue.

*     *     *
The next day, Aaron awoke feeling no better. Life, it seemed to him, was pointless. Much like he was pointless, he reflected.

Even his mum thought he’d never amount to anything. “Not a man destined to make a difference in the world,” she said whenever people stopped long enough to listen, and sometimes when they didn’t. “As short on talent as he is in height. He’ll never amount to anything.” She was perpetually astonished why months went by at a time without him visiting.

He spent an hour staring at the bedroom ceiling before deciding that, as the Milton Keynes Advertiser’s crack (and, indeed, only) investigative journalist he should dig into this business with Oliphant Industries. He might work at a third-rate rag, but he would not shirk his responsibilities.

Besides, Ted’s comment had stung. He was a good reporter. On occasion.

Another hour passed, and Aaron remembered his plan, finally hauling his aching bones out of bed. It then took him a mere three hours to work up the energy to do an online search for where the company was based.

Armed with the knowledge that their corporate HQ was, in fact, just six miles from where he lived, Aaron went into high gear. Laboring under a miasma of wretchedness, along with what seemed like every other driver on the roads, he completed the short drive in four hours. By three o’clock that afternoon, he was standing in their all glass-and-steel vestibule. A flicker of pride over being, as far as he could tell, the only reporter to make it all the way there fluttered in his chest for a second before expiring from melancholy.

He considered taking a nap in the reception area.

*     *     *
“Mr. Vancil?” asked the spokesperson. “You told the receptionist you were here to interview someone in charge?”

He mumbled an indistinct reply.

The sharply dressed middle-aged lady continued. “You don’t have an appointment, and this is very irregular.”

It looked like he was going to be out of luck. He would’ve felt upset; however, caring required a daunting degree of effort.

To his mild surprise, she instead said, “But Oliphant prides itself on maintaining excellent relations with the press. Even the traditional media. While our senior management are all terribly busy right now, I could spare you some time. Answer any questions you have, provide you with our marketing materials. If that’s acceptable?”

He blinked and dredged up a lackluster nod. Whatever was going on, this pinstriped PR personage wasn’t affected. She was full of vigor, almost aglow with it.

“I’m Maureen, by the way. Please come this way.” She held out a hand, indicating the direction. Seconds passed as she waited for Aaron to finish the complicated business of dragging himself out of the reception area’s couch.

“A little faster, if you don’t mind,” she requested, all smiles.

*     *     *
Maureen’s office was big and had a window overlooking the concrete vista of the business park. Aaron wondered if the view was improved by closing the plastic blinds.

She bubbled, “Somewhat surprised to see you here today—the other reporters turned up last week. Still, you’re here now. I’m sure you’re full of questions about our exciting new venture.”

He mustered “Um” as a reply.

“Of course, the technical challenges weren’t easy to solve. That said, Oliphant employs the very best scientific researchers. And by combining that top-tier scientific know-how with our visionary approach to business, we were able to usher in a revolutionary new age of commerce. This is the dawn of something really quite special, I’m sure you agree.”

She was gazing at him expectantly. He managed, “You, er, do something related to hope?”

A frown spoiled her perfect features. “You didn’t see our founder’s televised launch presentation?”

He confessed he’d missed it.

Maureen sucked in a long breath. “Well, I’d best start at the beginning.” She clapped her hands together once, as if to announce she was up to the challenge. “We have commoditized hope, Mr. Vancil. Our backroom boffins discovered that hope is an energy field that exists independently of human beings. Once we realized that people simply blunder into hope wavefronts buzzing through the ether, it became clear we were faced with a tremendously exciting new market. The opportunity of a lifetime! By developing hope harvesting technology, we were able to convert this essential human resource into something that can be distributed more rationally.”

“More rationally?”

She seemed surprised. “But of course. Tell me, Mr. Vancil, have you never noticed that sometimes life is going along just swimmingly and then, for no reason you can adequately identify, things just seem to lose their pizzazz?”

“Er, yeah, I suppose.”

“That’s the effect of you randomly exiting the high-hope field you were in and entering a low-hope zone. Lacking that insight, though, you undoubtedly ascribed that sense of joylessness you were suddenly experiencing to other causes. Your spouse’s deficiencies perhaps, or the unsatisfactory nature of your work-life balance. Your local football team’s poor showing on the weekend, the disappointing ending of the latest episode of Doctor Who, the prospect of another novel disease killing yet more family members, and so on.”

“It wasn’t any of those things?”

“No, naturally not. That would be absurd. Human beings are more resilient than that, Mr. Vancil. No, we suffer at the vagaries of invisible energy fields that, until very recently, we were entirely ignorant of. The universe didn’t make any sense to us, you see, because we weren’t aware of most of what was going on around us.”

“And now we are?”

“We are, indeed, Mr. Vancil! Exactly! I’m so glad you understand.”

“So, you collect up the hope. Store it.” He rubbed his chin, head swimming with tiredness. “There are no harmful effects to removing those natural energies from the environment?”

“I’m not following you.”

“Well, where do they come from, in the first place? Are they renewable or a finite resource? If you harvest too much, will you damage their ability to regenerate?”

“Research continues, Mr. Vancil. Our understanding of the natural world deepens every day.”

“You don’t know? What if your machines are contaminating the remaining energy fields of the ether as you extract the wavelengths you’re interested in? Industrial processes often cause pollution.”

She pushed a pamphlet across the desk. The pages were very glossy. “Expert opinion is that our harvesting techniques are environmentally friendly. There are full details in here. Please read our literature at your leisure.”

“I noticed a … certain lethargy in town. It occurs to me that people, including myself, are not receiving the hope we’re used to.”

“There is no evidence to suggest such a phenomenon. Any energies we have harvested in this vicinity would barely make a difference. No, any oddness you’ve noticed cannot be laid at our feet.”

“You’re sure?”

“I have complete confidence.”

“People I’ve spoken to –” (he omitted that it was Ted down the pub) “—People in the know, they have the impression that Oliphant is the cause.”

“Are these worthy individuals experts in the field?”

Aaron gave up rather than admit that, no, Ted wasn’t. “And you’ve turned this breakthrough into, what? A profit-making scheme?”

“An industry,” she corrected, an edge creeping into her voice. “A new frontier in entrepreneurship, with Britain at its forefront. Empires have always been built on hope. This time, that is literally the case.” She smiled at him, displaying gleaming teeth. “Profits are only a side effect. We do this not for the money, Mr. Vancil, but to help the public.”

He must have let an iota of incredulity slip into his expression because the spokesperson went on hurriedly, “We provide a vital service. We correct shortfalls in the natural distribution of hope by allowing customers to decide their own requirements. Before, people had no say in how much hope they encountered. The process was essentially random. Now, they can purchase as much hope as they need. It’s a personal decision. Demand and supply, correcting inefficiencies through market forces.”

“People can buy hope?”

She shrugged. “Absolutely. We currently allow purchases through our online storefront, with shipments going through the mail. The hope’s stored in portable batteries, which consumers discharge into their foreheads. Shortly, we plan to sell in-home transmitters. Little boxes that can sit on top of a TV, for example. They’re almost through the government approval process. We’ll soon be able to stream hope into every home, on demand.”

“For a price.” Good God, this was capitalism gone mad.

“You say that like it’s a bad thing. We have to cover our costs, Mr. Vancil. That’s only fair.”

“You don’t extract a profit?”

Her mouth twitched a little at that. “Merely an appropriate surcharge. To recompense us for our R&D costs. That is how progress is funded, after all.”

He fought through his exhaustion, no, his hope deprivation. “Let me get this straight. You’ve taken something that was free, that everyone had equal access to, and you’ve turned it into a product we have to pay for?”

Maureen beamed at him. “Isn’t it magnificent? It’s the dream of every company, and Oliphant Industries made that dream a reality!” She paused, as if only now truly seeing him. “Oh, Mr. Vancil, you look bereft. Positively without hope.” She reached into her desk drawer and placed a small cylinder on the desk. “Would you like a shot?”

He glared at it.

“You’ll feel much better, trust me.”

“I will, will I?”

“No need to hang around, waiting for a random hope-front to wash over you. Feel restored with purpose, be suffused with confidence in the future, right here and now.”

“What will it cost me?”

“I wouldn’t charge you for a sample,” she protested. “The first time’s always on the house.”

He took it. Damn it, it did make him feel better. He hated that she was right.

As he left, with a spring in his step he realized, she called after him, “Remember to print nice things about us!” Somewhat quieter, she added, “The other ones did.”

*     *     *
The dose lasted a day. When it wore off, Aaron looked up Oliphant’s online store. It was research for his article, he told himself. Finding out the cost for a refill was part of his job.

How much?

That couldn’t be right. He checked again and saw that the price really did contain that many zeroes.

He phoned Oliphant’s offices and asked to be put through to Maureen.

“How can I help you, Mr. Vancil? Do you need another leaflet?”

“I can’t believe the price you’re charging.” His voice was shaking.

“I’m confused by your reaction. We provide a service that is, by its very nature, optional. No one is being forced to buy anything. No one will be harmed by not doing business with us.”

“You’re saying people can live without hope?”

He could almost hear her shrugging. “This is Milton Keynes. One might say doing without hope is a local tradition.”

“Not funny.”

“What’s the real problem here, Aaron? You can’t afford more?”

“Of course I can’t afford it! I’m a reporter.”

“No,” she agreed. “Journalism doesn’t pay very well.” The spokesperson paused for a moment. “I can’t make any promises. That said, I do have a friend in Oliphant’s Recruitment department. Have you considered transitioning to sales?”

“Sales?”

“Yes. I know it’s commission based, but our product line is a hit. Units are flying off the shelves. Hope positively sells itself, and we’re in dire need of new sales reps to handle the demand. If you were to come aboard with us, well, you could earn a packet. More than enough for a regular supply of your own.”

“I don’t know.”

Her next words clinched the deal. “Employees qualify for a discount. They get hope at wholesale prices.”

*     *     *
The phones in the call center never stopped ringing. Aaron answered his sixty-third call of the day and filled out the customer’s details on his terminal.

Scant months ago, he would never have believed he’d end up here. Then again, a few months ago he’d thought a newspaper article would make a difference. Newsflash: it hadn’t. The great British public had not only ignored his dire warnings, they’d jumped all over the new product from Oliphant. It was the largest sales success in British history. Dozens of companies around the world were racing to emulate its introduction of emotional-field products in their parts of the globe. In months, the entire human race would know the delights this new technology brought.

Understanding the genie could never be shoved back in its bottle, Aaron was faced with a choice. He could continue being the angry old man shouting at the world as it changed, or he could give in and join its madness. He held on longer than most people stripped of their hope.

Then, one particularly grim night, he’d finally admitted to himself that his refusal to phone about the job opening achieved nothing except his own hopelessness. And, unfair though it was, vocations didn’t pay bills.

So, he’d caved, and here he was.

He told himself it wasn’t so bad and, whenever he felt a twinge of angst, he pressed a battery-shaped hope infuser to his forehead. That solved any problem. For a few minutes. Then he remembered how the world was going along with this madness and how one not-very-good reporter could never have made a difference.

After starting at the call center, he’d watched even the good reporters struggle to get out coverage—which provided a small measure of bitter comfort, since it proved he really wouldn’t have achieved anything if he’d kept at it. The lack of opposition was unsurprising—Oliphant had thrown its cash at TV channels and politicians with equal zeal, not to mention effectiveness.

He was saved from taking his sixty-fourth call by his supervisor calling their team together for a stand-up meeting. Their youthful leader was as unencumbered by introspection as he was by experience. Aaron wondered what the word relayed from management would be.

Were they issuing a statement on the epidemic of depression afflicting every corner of the United Kingdom or the skyrocketing suicide rates? Oliphant said subscribing to regular infuser shipments was the solution to all that, with a discount offered for those subscribing to a monthly plan. Far from it being a panacea, Aaron found reliance on manufactured hope induced something closer to bipolar disorder—from what he saw, it resulted in rapid transitions between feverish activity and soul-crushing lethargy so severe mothers couldn’t care for their infants, doctors couldn’t care for patients, royals couldn’t snap at servants. In fact, no one could do much of anything until the next infusion.

The supervisor’s announcement was about none of those things. “Great news. Our routines are about to be spiced up. No more selling the same thing day in day out. We have a new product.”

“Oh, yes?” asked Aaron.

The supervisor nodded. “R&D have found another type of energy field to harvest. We’re not just selling hope now, oh no, we’re …” He drummed his hands on the low partition of the nearest cubicle for dramatic effect, and then finished with, “… selling love!”

His teammates seemed impressed. Cynthia said happily, “That’ll help our bonuses.”

Aaron blurted out, “That means people will only experience love if they buy it from us.”

“No,” replied his supervisor, “that means people will be able to obtain as much love as they can afford. Which is a wonderful breakthrough for society.”

The young man waited for Aaron’s agreement and frowned when it didn’t materialize. “Aaron seems a bit downhearted. Does anyone know where his infuser is? A dose will fix him right up.”

Aaron shook his head, as if emerging from a long and disturbing dream, and stared at his supervisor’s childlike face. “The depressing thing is, you’re most likely right. About the infuser. About how it’d make me forget anything was wrong. So, you see, I have to leave. Right now.” He gave a little wave to his small group of colleagues. To Cynthia, he whispered, “You can have my stapler. I know you’ve been eying it.”

The main room of the call center was long and wide, and it took Aaron several minutes to cross all the way to the exit. As his feet padded softly along the aisle between endless cubicles, he heard the plaintive cries of his former boss. “What does he mean he’s leaving? Where does he think he’s going?”

As Aaron swiped his ID card through the security reader, he dropped the infuser and let it roll away. Hope was great and all, but it was all too easy to let it be a substitute for action.

*     *     *
Aaron met the prospective donor in the foundation’s entrance hallway. “Welcome, welcome. Right this way. I have a whole tour planned. By the time I’ve finished with you, you’ll be begging us to take your money.”

“Will I indeed?” Kinsey, the owner of a successful pharmaceutical company, did not appear impressed. He forgave her reaction, understanding at least one of its causes wasn’t anything to do with him. “How long have you worked for the research foundation?” she asked.

“Not long enough to lose my enthusiasm.” Aaron led the wealthy benefactor of the sciences up the large staircase, feeling zippier than he had in months. “Recent career change. I searched for labs investigating emotional energy fields, the phenomena that Oliphant are exploiting, found this place, and volunteered my services, as well as some trivial ideas that struck me as potentially useful.”

“Ideas?”

“Yes. I’ve been known to have them. The lead researchers were quite interested. Already working along similar lines. Case of like minds coming together, and all that.” He opened a door and indicated she should peer through. “Main lab. Many dedicated experts working tirelessly, etcetera. Replicating what Oliphant did. Finding the fields, siphoning them off.”

Kinsey’s lips tightened.

“Not a fan of the new industrial revolution, eh?” He winked at her. “Neither are we.”

“You’ll forgive me for not believing you. I came here thinking you were doing something to stop all this nonsense. Instead, you’re every bit as bad as Oliphant, wreaking the same havoc they are.”

“Not the same havoc. No, I wouldn’t say it was the same flavor of mayhem at all.”

Exasperated, she shot back, “Tell me what you’re up to this second or I’m walking out.”

“Well, you do possess a very lovely bank account, so I’ll tell you. Oliphant have commoditized hope, yes? Plus love, let’s not forget that.”

“I am aware.” Her tone was acid.

“And yet no one opposes them. Because resistance without hope is a lackluster endeavor at best, once the anger fades away.”

“Speaking of anger, I’m experiencing a modicum of it myself. I’m warning you, if I don’t hear your great plan that so convinced the researchers, right now, I will not only leave without donating a penny, I will tell all my wealthy friends to likewise boycott you.”

“Researchers and management,” he clarified. Under her glare, he added, “Not that it matters. Tell me, why have people given up fighting Oliphant?”

“What an asinine question—you said it yourself. Anger cannot be sustained indefinitely, and in the absence of hope … well, you simply quit after a while. And they bribe a lot of people.”

Aaron made a show of considering her words. “Ignoring the corruption angle just this second, why can’t anger be sustained?”

“Because … because … I suppose we don’t have the energy.”

“It’s the opposite, actually. We have too much energy, of the wrong sort.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Apathy.” He gestured through the door at the busy researchers again. “The energy field I suggested they look for next.”

Plenty of others had thought to exploit additional fields; it had taken him, though, to think of this one in particular. The idea of a lifetime. Even Aaron could, it seemed, make a difference when it counted. Then again, his mum always had said he was an apathetic little sod, so maybe it was inevitable he’d think of exploiting that particular field.

“Took some fiddling with the equipment, and it’s terribly expensive to run, but the brains of our outfit got there in the end. We’re siphoning off its invisible thunderclouds as I speak. Please excuse the side-effects.” That was, of course, the reason why she was so irked with him. Well, that and he was genuinely annoying.

She blinked, understanding dawning. “You’re draining away the apathy?”

“All of it, yes.”

“That means—”

Aaron nodded. “It does, you’re right. Without apathy getting in the way, people will find themselves perfectly able to stand up to Oliphant. True, they’ll lack the hope that inspires change. On the other hand, they will have a bottomless reservoir of irritation and an obvious target.”

They smiled at each other. Kinsey pulled out her checkbook.

“I take your point, Mr. Vancil. When hope is nowhere to be found, fury is a most suitable replacement. I do hope the people at Oliphant have a safe place to hide, because I think they’re going to need it.”

Aaron could only agree.