Her walk was at a pace, neither too fast nor too slow. Her eyes were often sore from the implants to keep her world only black and white and the cool grays between. Slowly, the cone cells responsible for color had died out. The art she once expressed in multiple hues and brush strokes of every width and kind was now only used to draw straight and angled lines on blueprints for the building of a better society. The holoposters with their plain script, dark background holding a taint of beige words, reminded: Down with Smiles. Up with Frowns. / No Heart Shall Skip a Beat./ No Dreams Means Good Sleep. Worry and Don’t Be Happy. They had been so anxious about a possibility of joy that exclamation marks had been banned, and even question marks as well—-their soft curve at the top could be confused with the hook of a grin. It was a world of only full stops and once in a while a very daring comma.

The Decibel Law kept her days very quite. Even voices fell under that rule—-nothing was to be louder than 30 dB—-the streets, the offices were filled with carefully orchestrated whispers. No forte, only piano. Singing had been forbidden, even a hum might lift the heart and raise the breath. That could mean death. Rhyme was heavily discouraged and a limerick could cost you time behind the walls of a prison. They tried to keep everything perfectly regulated. It made for a polite society without emotional disruption. They kept their citizens reminded of that. Within her head from the chips placed right below the outside of her ear, osseointegrated, she was quietly reminded: stay away from cheer, don’t look at anyone straight on, don’t touch, don’t smell, don’t taste. Your eyes and your ears when under control will keep you steady. Stay calm. Carry on.

Suddenly, she stopped on the street. There was a momentary glitch in the system. Something emerged, her body shook, she remembered so long ago as a child…there was something red! So small! Held in her hands! Earthly aromatic! Soft to the lips! Sweet! A straw———— A blast came from the Osseointegrater, she felt only pain from head to toe. A voice neutral and informing: Careful. Memories can lead you to smile. To death. She was allowed to take a deep breath—-to calm—-to carry on. There was an automatic note in her file. First warning. Beware.

Her pace returned to neither too fast nor too slow. She stood in the line, remembering to look down, until it was her turn. Then after she saw the needle had been washed in disinfectant, she placed her wrist over the automatic injector. It was a fast pain that only made her lips sink in a slight frown. It was the weekly tranquilizer. It was free for all. She felt much better, any memory was gone. She went back home to work in her office, but first she checked on her daughter. She lay suspended in her bed with her nutritional tubes and educational feed. Until she reached 18, she would have to remain so. It was all for the best. They called it a restful coma. Children and teens could never be trusted to not giggle or smile. It had been that way for such a long while. That bio-engineered virus that had been used as a weapon. It only killed when the body released any signal of happiness or pleasure. Taste, smell, touch, the joy of color. And the most dangerous of all, to be avoided at all costs: love with its chemical reactions.

That’s something she could never have, never tell her daughter. But she had felt the deep sorrow at the death of her husband. She held onto that. It helped her survive. Stay calm. Carry on.