Life in 2050

            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 glass. The reimplantation had put it behind the tendons of his wrist. It hurt.

            The door opened automatically. He had 5 seconds to get inside. No shocks tonight. He stepped in as the door swung shut and closed with a clunk. Then the lock motors whirred as the bolts engaged. Home, sweet home, he thought.

            It had been a long, tedious day at his workstation.. His assignment was to monitor the state media consumption of a block of citizens. They were required to read or listen to each day’s official bulletin. The bulletins were propaganda designed to cower the citizens into compliance with the dictates of the regime. Citizens were expected to complete a short questionnaire indicating they understood and agreed with the bulletin. Failure to log into the system or missing too many questions resulted in an alert. Too many alerts could result in being sent to a Re-education Camp. A creative man, Coltrane had found ways to make his job more interesting and rewarding.

            The system was old, and Coltrane constantly looked for ways to thwart it. No matter what his clients did or didn’t do, 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 regularly. Sometimes he planted damaging items in their personal messaging accounts. 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? You probably shouldn’t ask. If you really want to know, the former Prison Warden was executed for embezzlement. It served him right as he had helped the regime steal the assets of his prisoners.

            Coltrane’s 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. One had been called out at 6 AM. Coltrane remembered feeling the bullets thudding into the wall. Later, the guards came and collected the prisoner’s meager belongings. At least he would suffer no more. The worst roommate had been Frank. He was a snitch. He only stayed 3 nights. After warning the other inmates, Coltrane used his computer skills to ensure Frank would become a real inmate.

            Coltrane was now in the 25^th year of his 25-year-to-life sentence. No parole hearing had been scheduled. In 2024, he’d been a minor bureaucrat in the Economic Statistics Analysis Division. He prided himself on his accurate reports. They helped the government spot and fix problems. All that had changed when the new regime came to power in 2025.

            The Nationalist Party had used force and intimidation to swing the election their way. The new leader soon clamped down on individuals and institutions that he considered enemies. The Press was silenced. Scholars were intimidated. Scientists saw their research stalled and their findings discarded. The justice system was stacked with syncopates. Dedicated civil servants were fired without cause. The political opposition was investigated. Ever cautious, Coltrane had deleted some social media posts that the regime might consider reactionary. He became careful in conversations with his friends and co-workers.

            By late 2025, 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 came from a satellite office in a Western state.  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 July. Interesting. A few keyboard clicks told him that there were only 6,853 households in the entire county where Madison Township was located. 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.

            He soon learned he was not likely to get a new job. Was he too old, under-qualified, or over-qualified? Or was it his mixed race, his immigrant parents, or his failure to convert to the State Religion?  He could only speculate. Then the hammer dropped.

            He was summoned to the headquarters of the Citizen Police. This new group of officers was made up of former members of the ruling party’s militia. They earned their jobs by helping the regime gain power. They didn’t play nice.

            He was escorted to a bare and windowless room. A naked white light shone down on the room’s only chair. He was told to take a seat.

            “What do you think of your new government?” asked 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 little white check 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.

            “By Executive Order 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 on his behalf. A frightened former co-worker made a damaging statement. The prosecution held all the cards. He was guilty.

            Coltrane washed up and sat on the bunk. The flatscreen on the wall showed the Leader’s stern face. He got up and stood at attention as the song, How I Love the Dear Leader played.  Lights out were 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 lay on the hard bunk and dreamed of 2024.

            Orwell had been right. He just got the year wrong.

LDT November 4, ‘24

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