He had been waiting for two hours in the dim-lit stuffy little room, but he was in no hurry to go in. The other two guys sitting on the opposite row of cold metal chairs were equally lost in their own thoughts, none too eager to face the district inspector. If you've never been to a place like this you wouldn't understand, but there's an unwritten law of complete silence. Nobody wants to talk about their problems, as if explaining why you are there is an acknowledgement of the crime you stand accused of.
John Hanson had no idea what his crime was. He'd always been a good citizen, with a nice family, a decent job and zero interest in politics. Well, he did turn out to vote every time it was required of him, but that was about it. Was it something he'd unwittingly said , a tax he might have forgotten to pay, a mix-up in his recycling bags, perhaps? The fact he'd been summoned to the district inspector and not to the police was of some comfort to him - it must be a minor offence, warranting nothing more than a fine. Yet, it would go on his digital record, inscribed in the chip on his right wrist, a blot on his up-to-now impeccable dossier, something that would come up in all future scans.
He took out the phone, meaning to call his wife, Emma. The display informed him, both her and their son, Roger, were at home. Actually, what was the point of calling her? She could very well see where he was and there was nothing to talk about.
The inspector was a tired-looking middle-aged man with a blank look on his face. The reason John Hanson was now sitting in front of him was right there on the table that stood between them. One slightly wrinkled piece of paper. A somewhat faded picture of a young couple in a routine pose at Niagara Falls. Roger had taken the picture to school as a visual aid to his essay about his grandparents. Joanna and Tom Hanson, 1982 - that's what it said on the back of the picture.
Not as bad as being caught in possession of old paper money, or, Heaven forbid, books, but still an offence. It had been 20 years since the Digital Society initiative had declared everything that exists and needs preserving would be done on the blockchain - everything from birth certificates and tax forms to the memories you wanted stored in the collective memory. A completely transparent society where no one had anything to hide and no way of doing it. John was young then and he had been so excited to get the chip and get all his precious memories neatly stored in the digital archive. They were told it would be forever, until years later random documents started disappearing or being tampered with. It had never happened to John, but he'd heard stories about people who'd lost all ownership papers to the house they were still paying for or money vanishing from the wallets supposed to be secured by private keys. A few months ago, the media had presented a story on a group of devious hackers exploiting some loophole, but many doubted it.
It was not for that reason that John had kept the photo - he just liked it and didn't see it as much of a crime hiding it in an old leather wallet he no longer needed.
He explained all this to the inspector and the man seemed understanding and reasonable. A quick search came up clean - both his parents were dead and there was nothing suspicious about them or John. One hundred Steem was a heavy fine, but John was happy to pay and get away with a simple reprimand. Before he was allowed to leave, the inspector set the picture alight and dropped in the trash can. All proof Joanna and Tom Hanson had ever existed would be stored on the blockchain. For now.
Story written for @mariannewest's freewrite challenge. Today's prompt was: paper! Check out her blog and join our freewrite community.
Image source:Pixabay