Coltrane stopped and pivoted as he reached the steel door. The digital timer next to the little observation window ticked down. Eight seconds. He had plenty of time before the shock collar began buzzing. He held his wrist up to the scanner. He didn’t like the chip, but what could he do? He had once spent 30 days in the hole for prying it out with a broken piece of circuit board. The reimplantation had put it behind the tendons of his wrist.
The door opened automatically. He had 3 seconds to get inside. No shocks tonight. He stepped in as the door swing shut. It closed with a clunk, then the lock motors whirred as the bolts engaged. Home sweet home.
It had been a long, tedious day at his workstation. A creative man, Coltrane had found ways to make his job more interesting. His assignment was to monitor the state media consumption of a block of citizens. They were required to read the daily official bulletins. Each article had a minimum reading time. Missing an article, or spending too little time reading it caused an alert. Too many alerts could result in re-education.
The system was old and Coltrane had found ways to thwart it. No matter what his clients did, they never got more than a warning. Meanwhile, his alternate persona was busy hacking the system. He made sure his tormentors in the guard force got scheduled for re-education. Sometimes he planted damaging information in their personal communications. He didn’t worry that getting caught meant certain death. Lisa would be fine. She had access to millions in untraceable digital currency. Where did it come from? Don’t ask. The Directors had stolen it from people like him anyway.
His tiny cell included a combination stainless-steel commode and washstand. His bunk was a metal rack suspended by chains. The top bunk was empty now. He’d had cellmates over the years. Some collaborated with the regime and got released. Three of them had been called out at Six AM. Later, the guards came and collected their meager belongings. They would suffer no more. The worst roommate had been Frank. He was a snitch. He only stayed 3 nights. Coltrane had warned the other inmates about him.
He was now in the 20th year of his 20-year-to-life sentence. No parole hearing was scheduled. In 2029, he had been a minor bureaucrat in the Economic Statistics Analysis Division. He had prided himself in his accurate reports. They helped the government spot and fix problems. All that had changed when the new regime came to power.
Early in 2030, Coltrane noticed a dip in some leading economic indicators. He gathered the data and submitted his reports and charts to his boss, Dr Benbow. Soon he was summoned to Benbow’s office.
“Your report is flawed;” Benbow snarled. “Take it back and double-check your sources.”
Crestfallen, Coltrane retreated to his office. His reports had been checked and double-checked. They showed the regime’s policies weren’t working. Abruptly his computer monitor lit up. A message from an outlying prefecture. Subject: Revised Report. The numbers were better. Then another message, and another. He looked at each one carefully. Eight thousand housing starts in Madison Township in February. Interesting. A few keyboard clicks told him that there were only 6,853 households there. What was going on?
Alarmed, he brought the revised figures to Dr. Benbow. “The numbers are different Sir, but something is off.”
Benbow grabbed the new report. His face brightened as he scanned the figures and charts. “Well done my boy. Now take the afternoon off. I’ll forward these new numbers to the Bureau of Information.”
“Sir! The damn numbers are wrong. Someone is cooking the books!”
“You have been working too hard. Take a little siesta. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
Coltrane never saw Benbow again. At 9 AM the next day, he was escorted out of the building by security. He barely had time to grab Lisa’s picture from his desk. Things would get worse, much worse.
Coltrane soon learned he was not likely to get a new job. Too old, under-qualified, over-qualified. Or was it his mixed race, his immigrant parents, or his failure to convert to the State religion? He couldn’t know. Then the hammer dropped.
He was summoned to the headquarters of the Citizen Police. This new group of officers were former militia members. They earned their jobs by helping the regime gain power. They didn’t play nice.
He was escorted to a dimly lit room furnished with only one chair.
“What do you think of your new government?” he was asked by the interrogator.
“It’s OK. Some teething problems, but they will get it together,” he responded hopefully.
“Are you now or have you ever been a member of the Resistance?”
That was a shocker, but his answer was a firm, “No!”
“You wrote this check to the opposition!” the man yelled flashing the blue paper in front of his face.
“Oh God!” Coltrane thought. “That damned check!” Lisa had told him not to write it. Now the authorities had it. At least it hadn’t been written on their joint account. He was going to prison, but maybe Lisa would be spared.
“Do you admit that this is your check with your signature?”
“Yes.” There was no use in denying it.
“In the name of the Supreme Leader, I am placing you under arrest for sedition!”
Coltrane’s trial was a joke. The judge was an appointee of the regime. His friends were so cowed that none would testify. A frightened co-worker offered hearsay evidence. The prosecution held all the cards. He was guilty.
Coltrane washed up and sat on the bunk. Lights out was sounded on the intercom. He took one last look at the camera that watched his every move. He remained poker-faced. Too much of a facial expression could put him in the hole. He stripped to his pink underwear and laid on the hard bunk. He dreamed of 2029.
Orwell had been right. He just got the year wrong.
LDT September 11, ‘24
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Outlaws, Outrages and Outright Lies 
Here I thought you were suggesting a new book. Instead, a foreboding look at what could be if folks don’t pay attention to this election. I could read more of something like this, cuz!
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