When he woke, his head was throbbing. It took him a full minute to remember who he was; the memories slowly drifting back into their accustomed places.

Martin. I'm Martin. I'm thirty-one years old. I live with my wife. Yesterday I got up, went to work. I had sandwiches for lunch. Martin went through the events of the previous day. It was something that he did every morning when he woke with a headache - an audit of his memories to see what was missing. It did not take long for Martin to find the holes in his mind. They were not just blanks. They were literal gaps where the memories had been torn from him, excised by the power of the ICOnograph. Martin raised his hands and knuckled his temples in an attempt to relieve the pain, and groaned.

"Rough night?" Alice rolled to face her husband, flashing him a look of concern.

"No." Martin sat up, ducking his head to avoid the showerhead-like nozzle of the ICOnograph. He dreaded waking up and forgetting Alice. "It's just that - ." He stopped as Alice reached across to put an arm around his shoulders.

"You ought to see the doctor about it. It's not meant to hurt."

Martin shook his head. "No. It's not that." He took a deep breath and forced a reassuring smile to his face, then turned to look at his wife. "Maybe I will see the doctor." Martin lifted Alice's hand from him, squeezing it gently.

"You do that."

* * *

Martin had been sitting in the waiting room at the clinic, waiting for the receptionist to call his name. He had arrived on time, and was slightly annoyed to find that the doctor was behind schedule. So, when he finally got to see the doctor, Martin was not in the best of moods.

The doctor greeted him. "Mr Pullman - what seems to be the problem?"

Martin grunted. "As I said when I made the appointment, I've been experiencing headaches. Bad ones." He described his symptoms to the doctor, who listened carefully, taking notes and nodding sympathetically.

When Martin had finished, the doctor got up from behind his desk. "It sounds like a migraine headache to me - or something that most people would think of as a migraine. I need to do some simple tests: blood pressure, response to light. That sort of thing." The doctor arranged the necessary instruments on a wheeled table, then pushed it over to where Martin was sitting. "Now, what did you say your job was?"

"I didn't." Martin raised a hand in apology. "Sorry. I'm a copywriter. I work for an advertising agency."

"I see," the doctor said. "And you said that you've been having these headaches since you started using an ICOnograph?" He busied himself wrapping a pressure cuff around Martin's upper left arm.

"It's a condition of my employment," Martin explained. "My agency wants to make sure that any ideas we come up with are original. There's a problem with copyright squatters and intellectual property theft. So, to make sure that we aren't copying other companies - even inadvertently - the company insists we use an ICOnograph."

The doctor took a note of Martin's blood pressure, then picked up a penlight. Martin winced as the bright light was shone into his eyes. "And what does that do?" the doctor asked.

"It's supposed to go through our memories. Then, if it finds something that has already been copyrighted or registered somewhere, it erases the memory."

The doctor finished the examination. "I think that's definitely the problem, then."

"But it's meant to be safe!"

"Yes." The doctor retrieved a pad of forms from a desk drawer and began to scribble on it. "But different people react in different ways. I think that you're feeling the effects of the ICOnograph. I'm going to prescribe you some painkillers. How often do you use it - the ICOnograph?"

"Every day, just about."

"Then," the doctor signed at the bottom of the form with a flourish, "you should take one of these every day, before you use the ICOnograph. It won't stop the pain - just dull it. The pain should lessen as you get used to the aftereffects of the machine. Make another appointment to see me in a week, and we'll review the medication. Yes?"

Martin took the prescription from the doctor. "Thank you. until next week."

* * *

As Martin slept, the ICOnograph scanned his mind, analysing his thoughts, his memories, his dreams. Every detail was recorded, stored and sent to the International Copyright Organisation. There, the contents of Martin's mind were compared to the data stored in the great computer banks to see whether or not they complied with the latest copyright claims and directives, whether the appropriate licences had been filed and paid for. The ICO machines churned the information and came to their conclusions, sending instructions back to the ICOnograph above Martin's bed.

Martin woke, a horrible pain searing through his head. It felt as if someone had drilled holes in his skull, then threaded red hot wires along his optic nerves. For a moment, Martin wavered. Then he bent over the side of the bed and vomited copiously, voiding his stomach.

Alice was woken by the sounds of distress coming from her husband. She reached to grab him, to hold him tight and comfort him, then stopped when she saw the mess on the bedside floor. "For - ! Martin!"

Martin rolled over, wiping sticky remnants of chyme from his mouth. "I don't feel good," he groaned. "Can I have some ... ." His voice faltered, and a look of panicked confusion came over him. "Something to drink, please?"

"You mean water?"

Martin opened his eyes and looked up at his wife's face. "I don't know," he whispered. "I don't know."

* * *

The clinician finished his examination of Martin and looked silently at the screen in front of him. Alice glanced at him, a look of fear and apprehension in her eyes. "Well?" she asked, breaking the silence in the examination room.

The doctor folded the screen back into its recess, sat upright in his seat and straightened his tie, before fixing his gaze on Martin. "Mr Pullman, I'm not a specialist in this area." There was something in the doctor's tone of voice that made Martin reach for his wife's hand and hold it tightly in his. "However, from the results of the tests, it appears that you have a degenerative memory condition. Tell me - is there any history of dementia in your family?"

"Dementia?" Martin repeated. He thought for a minute, grasping at his memories. "I don't think so. And I've had all the necessary biohacks."

"So I saw from your records." The clinician shifted slightly. "But I needed to confirm it. As it, if there is not a genetic cause, then it must be environmental." The doctor looked at Alice. "Tell me - your husband's symptoms. Have they come on suddenly?"

Alice glanced at Martin, then looked back at the doctor. "The memory loss? It's recent. Very recent."

"How recent?"

"Only in the last, few days. But it's been very sudden."

The doctor thought for a minute. "Mr Pullman, I'm going to recommend that you go into hospital for further tests and observation. I'll make arrangements to get you admitted as soon as possible. Mrs Pullman, I suggest that you go home and pack a bag for your husband."

"Doctor?" Martin raised his hand. "Will they be able to ... ." He stopped, his brow furrowed in thought as he tried to recall a now-forgotten concept.

The doctor smiled. "Don't worry. This will soon be just a bad memory."

* * *

Martin sat upright in a hospital bed, a dazed expression on his face. A white-coated nurse shone a light into his eyes, watching the pupils contract, while taking notes on the tablet balanced on the bedside table. The tablet digested the information, correlated it with the hospital mainframe, and then flashed up a series of figures highlighted in green. The nurse smiled at Martin, who smiled back at her reflexively. "Don't worry," she said in a soothing tone of voice. "I'll be right back." She left the hospital room, looking for the supervising doctor.

"It's about Mr Pullman," the nurse said.

"What about him?"

"I've done the preliminary tests. Pupillary response is slow," she said, "but within normal parameters. I don't think there has been any permanent neural damage."

The doctor thought for a moment. "Well that's some good news. Now we can assess how much he's forgotten."

Alone in the hospital room, Martin lifted his hand to his face and stared at it in new-born wonder.

* * * * * * *

I subscribe to the Lawful Masses channel on YouTube. Leonard French - the host of the channel - is a copyright lawyer. He talks about ongoing cases and disputes, and has an easy-going style that is both informative and pleasant to listen to. A lot of the cases he discusses are about copyright trolls and copyright squatters - individuals or groups who are trying to make money out of other people's works.

My initial thought was: if only there was some way to prove who owned the copyright to what; some incontrovertible means of doing so. And then the disadvantages of such a system came to mind. The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.