Access Denied
by Michael Smith

 

 

‘It’s not fair!’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Santa’s not been.’

‘What?! He must have, surely.’

‘Look for yourself, there’s nothing under the tree.’

‘But how?’

‘I don’t know.’

Sophie and Jon sat down and stared at the empty, pine-needled space on the carpet where the presents resided annually - but not this year. The tree lights glistened profoundly in Sophie’s tear-enriched eyes. By contrast, her older brother’s fists clenched as he wrestled to gain control over his anger.

Suddenly, the living room door opened, and their parents’ faces appeared. Sophie and Jon looked up, secretly hoping their parents would suddenly shout ‘Surprise!’ or ‘Gotcha!’, and explain away the lack of presents as an ill-judged joke. It only took a second, though, for the youngsters to recognize that this was no seasonal jape; their parents were just as crestfallen as their offspring.

‘Why?!’ sobbed Sophie.

‘We’re not sure,’ began father.

‘But, … we think, … it might be, …’ faltered mother. But neither parent could complete the sentence, knowing how much it would break the hearts of their children.

 

 

Meanwhile, back at the North Pole, Santa spent longer than usual tending to his exhausted reindeer. It had been a long and … unusual night. He carefully groomed away the aches from the beasts’ tense muscles, but his heart wasn’t in it. He normally enjoyed this post-journey ritual, but on this occasion he had been distracted throughout. His mind replayed the unsettling events of the past few days.

It had all started with that official looking envelope. Post directed to the North Pole is generally scrawled in large lettering, frequently in brightly coloured crayon, misspelt, and with a seasonal postage stamp affixed. But this particular missive had stood out because of its ordinariness. It was an ominously plain manilla envelope, with a small window, through which he saw his neatly-typed name and address.

S. Claus, Esq., North Pole, Lapland.

Within the envelope, a curt, one-sided sheet of plain paper, embossed with an unfamiliar coat-of arms, informed him that his recently installed computer system (used for organizing the millions of present requests he received each year) had been hacked by a government’s Digital ID Tracking Department. And, what’s more, legally hacked, they claimed. Oh sure, of course they had cited vague references to obscure pieces of legislation hurriedly passed by faceless government sub-committees, but the gist was clear. These politicians had voted themselves a piece of binding legislation allowing access to, and full disclosure of, Santa’s ‘Naughty and Nice List’.

The letter had gone on to explain how this list had been shared with other like-minded governments, and was now being used to assist in national security; something to do with catching terrorists. ‘But most of my correspondence is from the under-sixes,’ thought Santa.

The next paragraph, however, had caused his stomach to churn. It read, ‘This letter is to inform you that, following thorough checking of your records, we will soon be uploading to your computer a list of those children to whom we grant ‘Present Credits’ for the current fiscal year. You will note that, with only a few exceptions, the names on this list correspond to those on your ‘Nice’ list. Furthermore, children’s names found on your ‘Naughty’ list have, naturally, been declined ‘Present Credits’ and, as a consequence, will be legally excluded from the receipt of presents this Christmas.

The letter continued, ‘We feel sure the initial disappointment you may encounter at this news will be more than offset by the reduced workload for you and your team at this busy time.’ Santa had blushed at his own uncharitable thoughts as he read this part.

In conclusion, the letter had thanked him for his cooperation (‘What cooperation - you stole my data!’) and expressed pleasure in looking forward to a similar successful partnership in subsequent years. The final scrawled signature was unreadable.

Following a stiff drink, Santa had checked his computer. The list was there. It contained less than half the names of his usual Christmas round.

All this, in itself, would have been sufficient to ruin his traditionally jovial mood. But, when he tried to deliver the remaining presents that Christmas Eve, there had been worse …

 

 

Each year, Santa and his reindeer race against the imminent sunrise of Christmas morning - and they always win! He relished the thrill. This year, the countries in Asia and the far east had gone as smoothly as ever, Africa and the middle-east too. Delivering fewer presents did speed up the process, but he took no pleasure in this. Later, while delivering in Europe he had been confronted by a swarm of drones hovering menacingly across one of the borders. His access was being barred.

Santa had never before met any resistance. This was unchartered territory. While he was pondering his options, he heard a loud-haler barking instructions - ‘Please present us with your digital ID.’ He didn’t understand, and said as much.

‘We require you present us with your digital ID.’

‘But, I don’t have any digital ID. And, what’s more, I don’t require any. I’m Santa Claus. Children are waiting for me.’

‘We require you present us with your digital ID,’ repeated the calmly officious voice.

‘But, I don’t have a digital ID. And, what’s more, I don’t want one.’

‘Access denied.’

‘But, … what about the children?’

‘Access denied. Please leave our airspace.’

‘But, this has never been a problem before. I’ve never needed to present any ID. And what’s more, your government has never needed to make any checks before. There has always been trust.’

‘There are now new rules for access to our services. No digital ID; no access.’

‘But, …’

‘Access denied.’

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