That Is the Question
A short story
Author’s Note
I undertook to write a short story about the Voluntary Human Extinction Movement in a spirit of lighthearted mockery. In the solar system of dumb ideas, I thought, VHEM is a gas giant to rival Jupiter. P.G. Wodehouse or, better still, Evlyn Waugh would have had a field day with these clowns.
But as the story shaped itself in my imagination, the humor leaked out of it and what emerged was an all-too-plausible dystopia. After all, a society that treats pregnancy as a disease and abortion as the cure for Down Syndrome, a society that elevates the right to die over the right to life, might well end by choosing to terminate itself. And as recent events have shown, death worship is the core dogma of postmodern progressivism.
“That Is the Question” is included in my second short story collection, The Double: Twelve Stories and a Poem, which is available on Amazon as a Kindle edition and a paperback edition. If you read and enjoy this story, I hope you’ll share it with family and friends, and perhaps even go on to read the other tales that comprise The Double.
Early in the morning of a cloudless, mild Monday in mid-June, it became known that for the past twenty-four hours, not one birth had been recorded anywhere in the nation. The story first circulated in the form of unverified online rumors; by mid-morning it was being carried by the national media; and that evening it was officially confirmed by the Prime Minister in a televised address.
“At this moment—the most significant moment in the long history of our country—I am humbled by this demonstration of the courage and dedication of the people,” said the PM. “It is to you, my fellow citizens, and not to me, that the credit belongs for this selfless, sacrificial act. History will record that our national community, arm in arm and shoulder to shoulder, was the first to stand up for the salvation of the planet.”
The Minister of Home Security and the Chief Commissioner of National Police watched the PM’s address in the former’s office. “It’s not as if we’ve seen the absolute end of pregnancy and childbirth,” the MHS said, muting the TV “There remain—how many pregnant women as of now?”
The CC tapped at his laptop. “Three hundred and sixty-eight, sir. Still, one must admit the symbolic importance of this news.”
“Well, I must admit that I never thought he’d do it,” the MHS said. He gestured toward the TV, which now showed the PM surrounded by a knot of smiling Party supporters. “It all seemed so…utopian…in the beginning.”
“Yes, sir.”
“There was all that talk from the Opposition and the Church about racial suicide and so on and so forth.”
“To be sure, sir.”
“And yet,” the MHS continued, “the idea proved attractive, after all.”
“Indeed, sir.”
“I suppose we shouldn’t be surprised,” the MHS said. “Another brandy?”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Taking into consideration the already-falling birthrate, the rising rate of abortion, the easy acceptance of previous governments’ euthanasia and assisted suicide programs…no, I don’t suppose we should be surprised at all.”
“As you say, sir.”
“But look here.” The MHS’s tone became brisk. “Even so, this news is likely to be something of a shock. I do hope, Chief Commissioner, that all the necessary steps have been taken.”
“Of course, sir,” the CC replied, sipping his brandy. “A warning order was transmitted to all my district commissioners early this morning, even before the news was confirmed.”
“I’m not anticipating serious trouble,” the Minister said. “Except perhaps in the northwest counties.”
“We’ve dispatched reinforcements to that area. Three additional squadrons of the Order Police.”
“Good!” the MHS replied, raising his snifter in a toast. “It’s curious, the survival up there of so many outmoded, irrational religious ideas…”
The news that a small nation in northern Europe had succeeded in reducing its birthrate to zero caused an international sensation. There were not wanting pious and conservative people, inside and outside the country, who characterized it as an abomination, or even as a divine judgment upon a soulless, amoral, secular society. The Pope was harsh in his condemnation of “this heinous and crying offense against the divine gift of life.”
“Considering that our Roman Catholic community is so tiny, we can safely disregard these papal thunderbolts,” the PM remarked to his Foreign Minister.
Media pundits and academic experts debated the significance, if any, of such a development.
“This is an omen,” said a conservative commentator on American cable news. “In a couple of generations Europe will be nothing more than an outpost of the Third World. Plunging birthrates, uncontrollable immigration—an entire civilization gone extinct—”
“On the contrary, this country, small as it is, has shown that it can be done,” a prominent climate activist cut in. “They’ve shown that we, as a species, can control ourselves, reduce our planetary footprint—”
“But to zero?” asked the news anchor, a veteran journalist celebrated for his gravitas.
“Oh, but they don’t mean that literally—!”
“In terms of political psychology, it’s an interesting case,” said a professor of political science on another network.
“In what way?” asked the attractive blonde anchor.
“Well, the Zero Option Party originated as a coalition of the Socialists and the Greens. They were brought together by the ever-increasing fiscal problems of the welfare state on the one hand, and concerns over climate change on the other.”
“I see.”
“These twin crises reacted together in some surprising ways. First, there was the absolute ban on immigration and the withdraw of welfare benefits from all immigrants who’d entered the country after a certain date.”
“Measures that were condemned by the international community,” noted the anchor.
“Yes, but then came the formation of the Zero Option Party, the promulgation of its program—”
“And that—”
“Proved rather more popular, both domestically and around the world, that many people expected—myself included.”
The anchor, who was forty-three and childless, smiled and nodded.
In the days and weeks after the Prime Minister’s triumphant announcement, there was a small but steady increase in the rate of voluntary sterilizations across the country. “Yes, the actual numbers are small,” said the Minister of Health and Welfare during a cabinet meeting, “but the trend is most encouraging.”
“And abortions?” the PM inquired.
“One hundred and fifty-two,” the MHW replied after consulting his laptop. “Also fifteen couples have chosen to emigrate. And we’ve had several dozen inquiries about the adoption program.”
“So your forecast would be…?”
“I believe I can state,” said the MHW, “that within a very short period of time, this country’s birthrate will have fallen to a point of statistical insignificance.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the PM, looking around the table. “Think of it! When our program was launched there were, on average, one hundred and sixty-five births per day in this country. And now—”
“But surely women will continue to be impregnated, and to bear children.” This comment came from the Minister of Home Security.
“Indeed they might,” said the PM. “Therefore I propose, ladies and gentlemen, that tomorrow the government should introduce in parliament the bill we have readiness mandating the stoppage of child welfare benefits for all children born on or after January the first of the coming year.”
He called for a show of hands, and the vote in favor was unanimous.
“Are you sure about this?” Peter asked.
“Yes,” Grethe nodded. “We must, darling.”
“It hardly seems fair,” he grumbled as they left the apartment. “I mean, in a case like ours.”
“They must draw the line somewhere,” she said. “If the policy is to succeed…”
“Still,” he sighed, opening the car door for her. “Still.”
But he said no more as they pulled out of the parking garage into bright sunlight. The streets of the city looked much as usual, which struck him as odd. Somehow he’d expected things to change after the momentous news: an entire day with no births anywhere in the country. Naturally people took notice at the time; there’d been a sort of national pause. He and Grethe sat at home, watching TV, saying little. Then, gradually, the normal routines reasserted themselves. People went to work, they filled the bars and restaurants, they thronged the beaches and the public parks. Outside the Royal Palace, the soldiers of the Life Guard marched and countermarched in their archaic uniforms.
“We could emigrate, you know,” said Grethe. Though she herself hated the idea of it, Peter seemed so unhappy…
But he shook his head. “To where? Bloody damned Sweden? America? No. Our lives are here. Our work. Our friends. Your parents, my mother, are here. We can’t leave, my sweet. I don’t want to leave.”
“Nor do I,” she sighed. “But even though the government has withdrawn benefits…”
“Yes?”
“It does grant assistance for adoption,” she said. “Adoptions outside the country.”
Peter pondered for a moment, then shook his head again. “No. I wouldn’t want that. It’s our child. I would say let’s have it if we could. Since we can’t…well…we must take responsibility for…for its disposition…and for the way we voted.”
He signaled a left turn and pulled into the parking lot of the clinic. It was nearly full.
“It’s all right.” Grethe put a hand on his arm. “Darling, I know that we’re doing the right thing.”
“Yes, of course.” Peter cleared his throat. “Of course.”
The got out of their car with its green-and-scarlet Zero Option bumper sticker. Hand in hand, they passed through the automatic doors that hissed open to usher them into the Termination & Sterilization Clinic.
The first crisis of the terminal phase flared up when the King announced his abdication in a television address to the nation.
His Majesty, dressed in a blue suit, white shirt and red tie, seemed tired and sad as he explained his reasons for vacating the throne. “I cannot,” he said, “continue to serve as a head of state whose government pursues a policy I so greatly deplore. I would change that policy if I could. However, that is not the role of the monarch in a democratic state such as ours. The people have made their choice, and I must respect it.”
The PM, in his office, was watching the King’s address. He was casually dressed, comfortably seated on a leather sofa, sipping coffee. On a side table were the remains of a frugal supper. His Principal Private Secretary sat nearby, ready to take notes if necessary.
“But I cannot—I will not—be a party to these preparations for the suicide of our beloved fatherland,” the King went on. The PM winced at the monarch’s use of a word that had been banished from the official lexicon. The fatherland indeed! he thought.
“My conscience insists that to do so would violate the spirit, if not the letter, of my coronation oath,” the King said. “Therefore, I must go. Tomorrow at noon I shall affix my signature to the instrument of abdication, acting for myself and also on behalf of my son and daughters—who, as you know, have not yet attained their majority.”
“Well, that’s all right,” the PM drawled.
“Our country will remain as it is, a constitutional monarchy.” The King smiled sadly. “The prerogatives and duties of the Crown will be looked after by a Crown Council, whose members have been nominated by the government and appointed by me.”
“As if he had a say in their selection,” the PM noted.
“I and my family will be departing for England immediately after the act of abdication is accomplished,” the King continued. “Tonight, it only remains for me to thank you, sons and daughters of the fatherland, for making my task so very easy, from the day of my accession to these, my final hours as your king. May God in His wisdom and mercy keep you and bless you in this hour of our nation’s greatest trial.”
“Hmph!” the PM snorted. “Rather melodramatic of him, I’d say.”
“Effective, though,” the PPS opined.
“Yes, I suppose.” The PM placed his cup and saucer on the side table. “Well, if the country had to have a king, we could have done worse. I always knew that he opposed Zero Option. But now that he’s bowed out more or less gracefully…”
They were discussing strategy for the next day’s press conference when the red scrambler phone on the PM’s desk shrilled. The PPS hurried to answer it. “Yes? It’s the Minister of Home Security,” he announced in an aside to the PM. “Where? How serious? I see. Yes, thank you, sir. I’ll inform the Prime Minister immediately.”
“Trouble?” The PM was frowning.
“Up in the north-west. Torden”
“Well?”
“Word had gotten out. Well before the King’s address. Rumors and so forth. Concerning the abdication.” The PPS shrugged. “A large crowd gathered in the city’s main square. People were watching His Majesty on their phones and so forth.”
“Go on.”
“It’s a full-scale riot, sir.” The PPS swallowed. “Shop windows smashed, cars overturned, bottles and bricks being hurled at the police. The local authorities either couldn’t or wouldn’t control the situation. The Minister recommends committing the Order Police. He says there are two squadrons on standby in the city.”
“And they’ll be sufficient?” The PM rubbed his face. “This must be nipped in the bud. Immediately.”
“As a precaution, the Minister is making arrangements for another squadron to be moved in by air. Our air force base up there is only twenty kilometers or so from Torden.”
“We must nip this in the bud,” the PM repeated. “Call him back. Tell him that he has my authorization to take all necessary steps.”
“An absolute disgrace!” shrilled the Leader of the Opposition. “A national disgrace! Has the Prime Minister any explanation for this—this—massacre?
“I do,” the PM rejoined, looking around the parliamentary chamber. “And I quite agree with my friend the distinguished member: a national disgrace indeed.”
There were shouts and catcalls from the opposition benches but the PM’s calm, unruffled demeanor soon silenced them.
“It’s a disgrace indeed that the people’s free, democratic choice, embodied in this government and its program, was opposed with force and violence by a disaffected minority.” The PM’s voice rose as he spoke, still controlled but reaching a pitch of indignation. “If stern measures were required to restore order, it was the behavior of that minority that forced the hand of the police.”
“Twenty-seven dead,” the shadow foreign minister, a slender, stern-faced woman in her sixties, pointed out in level tones. “And many more wounded, all by the bullets of the Order Police.”
“The distinguished member neglected to mention that three officers of the Municipal Police and one trooper of the Order Police were also killed!” The Minister of Home Security had risen to his feet, red-faced. “Let us not forget that!”
Shouts and insults flew back and forth across the chamber. Finally the Speaker, unable to restore order, declared the session at an end.
In the media, among the pundits, there were many predictions of a backlash against the Prime Minister and the Zero Option Party. The ex-king’s statement from his place of exile in England was scathing. Official protests poured in from foreign capitals. The Swedish government recalled its ambassador. But on the domestic front people mostly supported the government.
“They don’t necessarily approve of the action taken,” explained the Director of the Security Service. “But they place the blame for it on the protesters.”
“Really?” The Minister of Home Security gave her a quizzical look. “That seems paradoxical…”
“I suppose so,” said the DSS. “In any case, sir, we shall continue to monitor public opinion.”
“But the choice was made,” said Grethe. “We voted for this.”
“Yes,” Peter nodded. “What was the margin? Sixty-seven percent? Which means that thirty-three percent—”
“It’s democracy, darling.” Since her abortion and their sterilization, Grethe had become much more militant on the subject of Zero Option. “The other side was free to make its case. And did. And lost.”
“True,” he agreed, pouring more wine for them both. “Still—”
“I know. It was a terrible thing. All those people, shot down in the street.” Grethe shuddered. “But they brought it on themselves, didn’t they? By choosing violence?”
“I suppose they did,” he said.
“Darling, do you regret the decision that we made together?” She touched his cheek. “I understand if you do. It’s only natural.”
“Which implies,” he said, that what we decided was…unnatural…”
Grethe looked around their dear, cozy apartment. They’d been married for seven years, and this place had become a happy home. Her gaze lingered on the clutch of family photographs on the wall opposite and a chill passed through her at the thought that there would be no further additions…
“Well, we shouldn’t argue about it, my sweet. What’s done is done.” Peter shrugged. “Our feelings are natural enough. But those natural feeling are what brought the world to its present pass, and the world’s salvation depends on their suppression.”
“Yes, but we can still be happy,” she said, smiling rather sadly.
“Yes,” he said, smiling back. “We’ll live on, and grow old together, and we’ll be very happy…”
“So it’s finished,” the Prime Minister said some years later. He looked around the cabinet room. “Over and done with at last.”
“Consolidating the remaining population in and around the capital will take some time yet,” remarked the Minister of Home Security.
“We have that time,” the PM replied. “The treaty takes effect a year from the date of its signing—a year from tomorrow, that is to say.”
“We’ve been working toward this moment for so long,” the Foreign Minister said. “Queer to think that we’re at the end of the road! I doubt whether any nation in recorded history has chosen to liquidate itself as a matter of principle.”
“Indeed,” said the Minister of Finance, adding with a laugh, “If only we could have contrived some way to do it without handing over the bits and pieces to Sweden!”
“No matter,” replied the PM, also laughing. “The Swedes are welcome to take over. By the way,” he added, addressing the Minister of National Defense, “how are the arrangements for the transfer of our military assets coming along?”
“On schedule, Prime Minister. As a matter of fact, a Swedish crew will be taking over the frigate Nordvind tomorrow.” The MND shrugged. “Going to make a bit of a ceremony out of it, actually.”
“That’s what I don’t quite understand,” said the new Minister of Health and Welfare. Her predecessor had committed suicide a few months ago. Though flattered to have been appointed in his place, she found that actually there was little to do.
“Yes?” The PM raised an eyebrow. “What is it that you don’t understand, Kirsten?”
“Well…” She hesitated. At the age of thirty-nine the MHW was much younger than these elder statesmen and -women, founders of the Party, authors of the program now brought to fruition. “Well, now that we’re reached this point, I must confess that I don’t see the way forward. Our country will disappear, yes, but Sweden will take it over and in time…”
“Ah!” said the PM.
“Yes.” The Foreign Minister nodded. “In time the territory of our vanished country will be repopulated. That’s what you meant to say, I suppose?”
“Well…yes…”
“But we shall have set an imperishable example,” the PM said in a soft, almost caressing, voice. “Already there are Zero Option parties in the other Nordic countries, and in many European nations, and in North America, Asia…”
“But Prime Minister, I cannot see a Zero Option party in the United States ever gaining power.” The MHW spread her hands. “In our small country, yes, it proved possible—”
“And there—there—you touch upon the fundamental point!” The PM’s manner, normally so languid and sardonic, was strident now. She looked at him expectantly, but he said no more.
That evening, however, relaxing in his office with a few close colleagues, the PM returned to the question that the MHW had raised.
“What she doesn’t realize,” he said, “is that we’ve exhausted the political possibilities. It’s true that here in this country, using politics, we’ve accomplished a great deal. And our idea has inspired millions around the world. Our young Minister of Health and Welfare may be correct regarding Zero Option’s political prospects in a country like the United States, hag-ridden as it is with outdated and fantastical religious and moral notions. But even in America a vocal, growing minority has embraced Zero Option, embraced the higher morality of eventual human extinction. Such people will provide our species in its terminal phase with the necessary leadership.”
There was a brief silence as those present contemplated the radiant future.
“And we…” breathed the Minister of Home Security, “we…”
“Ah, but we’ll all be snug in our coffins before the effects become manifest,” the PM murmured, as if to himself. “And by then…”
He shrugged.
“It’s a shame, though,” the Foreign Minister said, “that we had to collude with that scurvy cabal of South Africans. Truly detestable people.”
“White South Africans,” the PM replied, “whose thinking is limited by their racist outlook. Though one must admit that their final solution, even focused as it was on—what is it that they call blacks?”
“Kaffirs,” the Principal Private Secretary supplied.
“Kaffirs, yes.” The PM chuckled. “One must admit that it’s elegant. Though no doubt they’ll be surprised to learn that we’ve made certain…modifications…to include them and all humanity in that final solution. The money they paid us to perfect their method was spent better than they could possibly imagine.”
“Such a simple thing,” said the PPS. “An airborne virus whose symptoms mimic the common cold—”
“—but which also renders human females sterile,” the PM finished for him, “and with nearly one hundred percent reliability. Simple, painless, humane.”
Again that contemplative silence.
“To be or not to be,” the PM quoted. “Well, ladies and gentlemen, it’s taken almost five hundred years to answer that question, once and for all…”