Dystopian Dreams

By Alison Ingleby, Clare Littlemore, Alanah Andrews and Tracy Korn

We dream about the future. We dream of freedom.

Four dystopian worlds. Four heroes fighting for their lives.

From The Last Book Café on Earth comes a collection of dystopian short stories:

A woman on the run carries a secret that could mean death for her and the outlaws who take her in.

A businessman ports his consciousness into an enhanced robotic shell for years – until the day he loses control.

A poor Outsider risks everything to protect her family. But even her life might not be enough.

A freak accident opens the door for a longshoreman's dream to become a reality – if he's willing to pay the price.

Experience non-stop action and mind-bending plot twists, and immerse yourself in imaginative sci-fi worlds. Perfect for fans of post-apocalyptic and dystopian fiction, The Handmaid's Tale and Black Mirror.

Download Dystopian Dreams today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Windswept Writing
• Release date: Jan 30, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393313632

Book preview

The Machinist’s Daughter

Alison Ingleby

Chapter 1

G et out, you . . . you Outsider!

Chandella’s porcelain skin is flushed pink. She stands in the doorway, hands on her perfectly proportioned hips, her lips forming a tight barrier against the rage boiling up inside her. It would be amusing if she weren’t my boss.

I turn my back to her and peel off the rubber gloves that protect my hands from the harsh cleaning chemicals, dumping them in the cupboard in the tiny laundry room. Can you not come up with a better insult than that?

I mean it, Rae. This time, you’ve gone too far.

I roll my eyes, careful to keep my head averted so she doesn’t see. How many times have we been here?

Give me your comm band.

My head snaps up as I instinctively pull my arm away from her outstretched hand. Frown lines crease the smooth skin on her forehead, and her blue eyes are hard.

Now. That band was given to you as part of your employment contract. The contract which I have terminated with immediate effect.

But you . . . I swallow, trying to find the right words. Your mother employed me.

Chandella arches an eyebrow. "And do you really think she’s going to keep you on after I tell her how you insulted me? You need to learn your place, Outsider."

My jaw clenches and I slam the cupboard door shut. Fine. You think I want to work here? I rip the comm band from my wrist and push past her to the door. Just because you’re an Insider doesn’t make you better than me.

Head held high, I walk through the decadent hallway, past the gilded mirror that’s twice the size of our dining table at home, and out through the front door of the apartment. Chandella’s wails follow me, her pointed heels skittering on the marble floor, scarcely able to believe my audacity. But if this is the final time I leave here, I’m not going to slink out of the back door like a servant.

I slam the door in her face.

I’m halfway to the East Gate before the guilt hits me. Not guilt for saying what I did—Chandella deserved every word—but for letting my family down again.

Why can’t I just bite my tongue?

Insiders are pretty much guaranteed a good job, but for those of us who live Outside the Wall, a steady income is hard to find.

And I’ve just thrown mine away.

Hey! Watch where you’re going!

There’s a flash of magenta and a hand shoves me to one side. I mutter an apology and keep my head down, focused on my dark gray trousers and plain black shoes, as I weave through the Insiders in their brightly colored clothes. They belong in these clean streets that smell of flowers, fresh bread, and expensive perfume.

I don’t.

At the East Gate, two Metz officers stand guard. A handful of Outsiders stand meekly while a third officer scans their chips and lets them through. As I approach, the Wall changes color, from shades of blue to a deep aquamarine, the different hues swirling around one another like the whirlpool and eddies in the river.

It’s ironic that something so beautiful can be so deadly.

I stop at the end of the line and shuffle forward, peeking up at the guards. They stand stiffly, taller and broader than most Insiders who, themselves, tower over us Outsiders. Sheathed from head to toe in black armor, it’s impossible to see the person inside.

If they even are people. There are always rumors about the Metz.

A thick black arm blocks my path and I suck in my stomach, stumbling back into the person behind me.

Chip.

The gravelly voice is emotionless. Heat rises to my cheeks and my mouth goes dry. Months of passing through this gate and never once has an officer spoken to me.

Show ‘im yer arm, girl, a voice mutters into my ear.

Of course. My chip. That’s all it wants.

I stick my arm out and hold my breath until the scanner beeps. A gentle shove from behind makes me stumble forward through the gate.

My breath comes out in a rush. I turn to face the hunched, elderly man who potters through the gate behind me. He gives me a bright smile. Your first time Inside?

I shake my head.

Well, just keep your head down and keep moving. Then you won’t end up like that poor bugger. He nods to a whimpering man who’s kneeling on the ground in front of a towering officer. That’s what happens when you try and get through unauthorized.

The man wanders off, but I’m transfixed by the scene unfolding in front of me. The gray-haired man on the ground is trembling and murmuring something—a prayer perhaps. The crowd of people waiting to enter the East Gate skirts around him, unwilling to intervene.

A Metz officer pulls a smooth, black collar from its belt. Holding it above the man’s head, it opens it and places the collar around his neck. The man stiffens and his eyes turn glassy, the words spilling from his lips halting mid-flow.

Stand.

The man’s limbs jerk to attention, obeying the officer’s command. Another barked order, and he walks over to stand to the side of the gate, staring blankly out at nothing.

So that’s what the collars do.

I shiver and turn away, not wanting to see any more. The thought that someone—something—could take control of a person like that sends an icy chill running through me. I know why the man was trying to get Inside. Like so many Outsiders, he was desperate for work. By the look of him, he hasn’t eaten for weeks, and hunger sends you crazy after a while.

My feet drag on the potholed street, trying to delay the inevitable. Somehow, I have to find the words to tell my parents I’ve lost another job.

Chapter 2

R ae? Do you have any?

My mother’s voice greets me as I step through the front door, thin and reedy like the creak of an unoiled hinge.

Every day the same question.

I school my face into a smile and walk through to my parents’ bedroom. She lies on the bed, a thin sheet draped over her skeletal figure. Cheekbones rim sunken flesh, and her eyes burn with a hunger for one thing.

Do you have any? she repeats, her voice breaking on the final word.

She reaches out to me, but I know it’s not me she wants to embrace.

No, Ma, I don’t have any. I crack the small window to let some air into the fetid room.

She sags back against the pillows. I need it.

You don’t.

I do.

I yank the curtain back across its rail and walk over to her. Come on, Ma. We need to go and get your rations.

I’m not hungry. And how many times do I have to ask you to call me Mother?

What, like we’re Insiders or something? If you want to pretend you’re an Insider, start acting like one. I pull the sheet back, exposing her stick-like legs, threaded with blue. I can’t bear to look at them.

She whimpers, and shame rushes up from my chest into my throat, turning the saliva in my mouth sour. I sit down on the stained bed, hard mattress springs poking into my thighs. Please, Ma . . . Mother. I can’t do this. Not today. We need your rations. Please?

I count my heartbeats, waiting for her response. One, two, three, four . . .

Fine. She lets out a sigh and collapses, her body caving in on itself.

Air and bone. That’s all that’s left of her.

I help her dress and support her as she takes tentative steps across the room. At the front door to the apartment, she pulls back, planting her feet on the floor with surprising force. If I go, will you give me some. Her eyes flick around the room, as if the white powder is hidden in plain sight.

We’ve been here before, so many times, but today of all days, I just don’t have the strength to fight her. At least she hasn’t realized yet that I’m home far earlier than usual.

Fine, Ma. When we get back.

Happy that she’ll get her way, she follows me out of the front door, waits while I lock it with the key and press my thumb to the DNA scanner, then lets me help her to the elevator.

It’s not far to the local government store, but she’s wheezing by the time we get there. Looks of pity and disgust follow us. As if they’d never seen a tronk addict before. There are enough of them on the street, even here in Area Seven. Down in Areas Three and Four, half the population is addicted to the stuff.

A woman about my mother’s age eyes us curiously. I guess we must seem an odd pair. My copper-red hair and pale skin are uncommon enough to attract stares in this part of London, and despite her weight loss, Ma’s frailty enhances her beauty, even if she does look old enough to be my grandmother.

After half an hour of waiting, we reach the front of the line. The store owner scans my mother’s arm, then mine. What will you be having?

Just the basics, please.

He raises an eyebrow. Nothing else?

I hesitate, doing some quick calculations in my head. I should have been paid up until today, Pa’s job can cover us at a push, and with luck, either Nessie or I should be able to get some work in the next week or two.

Add a pack of sausages then.

The man nods and reaches behind him for a brightly colored box. On the front, a pair of sausages with cartoon eyes smile out. Quite apart from the faces, they bear little resemblance to the fake meat product inside. Cloud-like words state that they’re DELICIOUS, FULL OF PROTEIN and ALMOST AS GOOD AS STEAKHAUS. Having never been able to afford a Steakhaus burger, I’ve no idea whether the packet’s claim is true, though I suspect not. Insiders would rebel in an instant if they had to eat this crap.

I pack the sausages into a bag, along with the oats, flour, and broth mix that makes up our combined weekly allowance of free food.

Free? Paid for by our taxes. If we could keep those, we’d be able to afford better food than this.

Don’t forget your milk. The store owner waggles a transparent packet of powdered milk.

Thanks. I reach for it, but Ma is faster. A clawed hand shoots out, grabs the small packet, and clutches it protectively to her chest.

Ma, it’s milk, I say under my breath, smiling awkwardly at the store owner. Give it to me.

I make a grab at the packet, but she pulls it away, turning her back to me as she fumbles to open it.

Can you move along, please? A hand pushes my shoulder roughly.

Come on, Ma. We have to go. I wrap my arm around her shoulders and try to pull her away, but she’s rooted to the spot. Heat rises to my cheeks. "Come on, Mother." I make another grab for the packet, and this time, I catch the corner of it, but Ma’s reaction is so violent, the packet bursts and a cloud of powder rises around us.

She gives me a malevolent glance, dips a finger into the white substance coating the packet, and licks it. Her face twists in disgust.

This isn’t—

No, Ma. I told you. It’s milk. Or what they like to tell us is milk. I doubt it’s ever seen the inside of a cow.

The store owner coughs and glowers at me. We’re creating a scene.

Where’s my tronk? You promised me tronk!

Hot tears burn the back of my eyes as her voice pierces the chatter of the crowd. Heads turn to stare, and I duck my own as I half drag my mother from the store, not caring if we lose the rest of the milk powder.

No wonder Nessie spends so much time wandering the streets. I wonder if I’ll be doing the same come Monday.

Back in the apartment block, I lean against the elevator wall and close my eyes, swallowing back my tears.

What’s the matter, Rae? You look tired. My mother reaches up to stroke my face. Tough day at work?

You could say that. I meet her eyes, which are suddenly lucid, and smile. These moments when she is herself again, when I see the mother I once knew, are so rare that I can’t bear to spoil this one. It was fine. Would you like a cup of tea when we get in?

She nods. That would be nice, love.

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The door to the apartment is slightly ajar. From inside, there’s the sound of someone rummaging around, followed by a stream of curses.

Nessie? I push the door open and my sister glances up. Her eyes are wild, her dark hair tugged loose from the knot on the back of her head. She’s lying on the floor in front of the battered old sofa. What are you doing?

Looking for your comm band. I’ve been trying to message you but couldn’t get through. I thought you might have left it here.

I glance down at the thick white line on my wrist, the surrounding skin tinged golden by the sun. I left it Inside. What’s wrong?

Nessie pushes herself up off the floor, her eyes flicking from Ma to me and back again. Her hand twitches involuntarily. I let go of Ma’s arm and cover the distance between us in three strides.

She blinks up at me, struggling to focus on my face. Her eyes follow mine to the antique dresser on the wall, handed down from my great-grandmother to my grandmother and then to my mother. It looks every bit its age.

Nessie, what have you—

It was just a bit, okay? Just a taste. You let her have it. I just . . . It’s been a rough day. She looks down at the floor.

I take a deep breath and glance back at my mother, who’s looking around the room with a contented, faraway smile on her face. Nessie takes after her, in personality as well as looks, whereas I have my father’s red hair and the temper to go with it.

What was the message?

Nessie begins to tremble. It’s Pa. He’s been taken to the medic center.

My stomach drops. What? When she doesn’t reply, I reach out and grip her shoulders. What happened to him?

She shakes her head mutely, tears leaking from the corners of her eyes.

What happened, Nessie?

The medic center? Footsteps stumble across the floor and my mother half sits, half falls, onto the sofa. Is he going to die? He’s going to die. I know it. I can’t go on, not . . . not without him.

He’s not dying, Ma. That’s not what Nessie said, is it, Ness? I suck air into my lungs and try to think.

My sister shakes her head as I pull her into a hug and whisper into her ear. I’ll go to the medic center. You need to stay here and look after Ma, okay? Cook dinner. Her head moves against my shoulder. And no tronk. Please?

She doesn’t answer.

Please, Ness?

No tronk. Her reply is barely audible.

I pull away and walk to the door, closing it behind me. Once outside the apartment block, I run like the wind, dreading what I’m going to find waiting for me.

Chapter 3

The emergency department of Area Seven’s medic center is packed. I push past people with arms in slings, mothers trying to soothe screaming babies, and nearly trip over an outstretched leg, which earns me a curse from its owner. There are people of all shapes, sizes, and colors