I am going to serialise my dystopian/retro-futuristic sci-fi story here. Here is the first chapter titled “The Mistress”.
I will be adding a new chapter every Friday.
Chapter 01 – The Mistress
She awoke, opening her eyes and staring at the peeling paint on the ceiling. She stared, unblinking, for a while. She had short, bobbed, black hair and a pale face.
She continued to stare, then blinked and leaned to the bedside table and took a cigarette that she lit.
The room was drab and tatty, with peeling wallpaper flopping down, exposing mouldy polyplaster. Fraying tobacco-stained net curtains hung at the grimy windows. An old wardrobe sat against one wall, with a vanity against the other, scattered with bottles of expensive perfumes and makeup, an ashtray filled with stubbed-out cigarettes, a half-finished bottle of brandy, and a glass.
She stared at the ceiling as she smoked, and thought about him, and what she would have to do today. She closed her eyes and sighed.
Her naked body slipped from beneath the covers, and she walked to the window where she stood, looking plainly at the scene of the street below through the dirty net curtains, while she smoked her cigarette.
She saw people moving through the light snow that settled on the muddy street. It was after ten, so all of the workers would be out at the quarry, digging and chipping away, under the watchful eye of Milpol, the military police.
She saw old-timers struggling through the cold, looking for odd jobs they could perform to earn a coupon to buy food or alcohol or drugs.
She saw tuk-tuks buzzing by, shuttling someone or something somewhere.
She saw shivering children selling hand-rolled cigarettes, and a pair of Milpol constables strolling through the streets, eyeing the scurrying inmates in the ghetto where they lived. Where she lived.
She puffed on her cigarette, watching the scene below her apartment with a blank expression. She couldn’t explain it, but she had the strange feeling that she was being followed or watched.
She dismissed this thought. There were more important things to concern herself with. She turned, studying the room.
She would have to clean before he arrived. Of all the things she had to do today to prepare for the performance, cleaning was her second least enjoyable task. There was one other thing she would have to do that was the least enjoyable, but that would be later.
She walked to a coat stand where a colourful silk robe hung, which she put on, slipped her feet into sequinned mules and left the bedroom.
She started in the kitchen, washing the pile of dirty plates and glasses that had sat festering in the sink for days. Beside the sink sat a wooden bowl, filled with lengths of red string. When she finished, she lit a cigarette and collected the empty glasses and full ashtrays from the living room and the bedroom.
She tidied away her underwear and clothes left strewn over the floor, changed the bed linen, and then smoked as she swept the bare polycrete floors.
She cleaned the fire grates in the bedroom and living room, and then lit polycoal fires in both rooms to warm the apartment for when he arrived later.
Her mother was a working girl at the bordello, and when she had run out of contraceptives, she had become pregnant by one of the many Milpol officers she entertained.
The baby girls born to the working girls at the bordello were kept, fed, and raised by the old and retired working girls. When she became old enough, she became a cleaner, washing, sweeping, changing the bed linen in the bordello, and bathing the working girls. She didn’t know what happened to the boys the working girls gave birth to.
The apartment looked cleaner, and she was glad. She gulped back a large brandy while smoking, sitting at the small table in the kitchen, and celebrated in unmoving, unblinking silence that this part of today’s performance was over. But knowing the remainder and the worst part of the performance was yet to come.
She dressed in clothes he had bought her. Everything she owned, he had bought her. Since she had met him and become his regular and now his mistress, she wanted for nothing.
She had off-world cigarettes and alcohol, and off-world food in her ice box, with luxuries such as chocolate, and cheese, and fruits. She had coffee and sweetner, and polycoal, and coupons. She wore fine dresses and shoes, and had perfume and cosmetics, and lived in an apartment he arranged and paid for, and she had absolutely nothing without him.
She pulled on the warm, plush fur coat he had bought her and looked at herself in the mirror. She hated this coat. It was warm, plush, and kept her cosy in the cold air of the ghetto. This was not what she hated. She hated the looks from the other undesirables of the ghetto as she walked down the street in her warm, plush, and cosy coat, whilst they shivered in thin cloaks made of sacking tied with ropes, looking at her with envious eyes.
But would they want the job that comes with the coat?, she thought as she looked at herself, and then left, heading out to take care of the things she must do.
She walked down the street, with its mud and broken cobbles, and water-filled potholes, past the entrances the the apartment buildings. She wore stiletto heels, completely impractical, but this was all she had. Her entire wardrobe was alluring, or skimpy, or cocktail dresses to be worn to a club where cocktails would be drank, cigarettes smoked, and there was dancing and music.
She saw the eyes of the others on the street watching her, stealing a glance as they passed by. She held her head high, ignoring them. She stopped at a cafe where she ordered a coffee, paying with coupons.
She had a thick book of coupons that he had given to her. The Company issued coupons to the miners in the quarry as their salary, which could be used to purchase anything inside the ghetto.
Her coffee arrived, along with a disposable pot of non-dairy creamer and a sachet of sweetener. She added the creamer and sweetener, lit a cigarette, and listened to a man playing a harmonium in the corner for the midday customers, while she sipped her coffee.
The inhabitants of the ghetto were the ninth or tenth generation descendants of convicts, genetic undesirables, and political dissidents who had been sent to a remote mining penal colony, Planet B, long before. The Company, Kantary Deep Space Mining Corporation, managed the mining operation under licence from the Terra Space Directorate. The descendants of the convicts sent to the quarry were now employees of Kantary Deep Space Mining Corporation, mining Gravitite, used to power deep space exploration anti-gravity drives. The Terra Space Directorate provided security for the mining operation via a Milpol detachment.
Hundreds of thousands within the ghetto worked for The Company in the quarries, and were paid coupons, and these coupons were the currency of the ghetto.
Within the ghetto, some thrived and did very well for themselves, running black market operations, or pseudo-medical clinics, quarry management, labour brokers, or cafes for the well-couponed clientele. There were some doing okay, such as the workers who could afford food and somewhere to live, and there were those where every day was a fight for survival.
She puffed an off-world cigarette, sipping a coffee that cost 15½ coupons, enough to feed a family for a meal, staring blankly into space as she listened to the wheezy sounds of the ancient harmonium.
The elderly man was playing an upbeat off-world melody, his face pained and dour as he depressed the keys and worked the bellows, as if he were performing the funeral dirge of a lost lover. When he finished the rendition, he stopped, pausing for a moment to rub his swollen finger joints, grimacing, and then played the next tune.
When she was older, she had stopped being a cleaner at the bordello and had become a working girl, like her mother. Her mother still worked, looking after customers who preferred a more mature and experienced experience. This was when she met him.
The bordello was upscale and catered to Kantary Company men, ghetto big-wigs and high rollers, and Milpol officers. She had been a working girl for about a month when he arrived, dressed in his black uniform with shiny, polished silver buttons, with a blaster in a holster.
The madame has welcomed the group, all Milpol officers, all drunk, and escorted them to a private booth. She was summoned by the madame, along with three other girls, and sternly told that these men were very important customers and that they must take very good care of them.
She was dressed in stilettos and lingerie, and nothing else, and slid into the booth, pushing herself up against him, her smile alluring. He was fat and old enough to be her father. He smoked a cigar and drank brandy cocktails. He was a Milpol captain and a stiff, largely charmless man.
A soft, plump, perfectly manicured hand immediately slipped to the inside of her thigh the moment she was beside him, groping her bare skin. It was her job, and however much she hated it, she needed the coupons, and for the madame to be happy, so she smiled, flirted, and kissed him, whispering in his ear and giggling. She smoked cigarettes and drank brandy cocktails, laughing at the men’s dull jokes and caressing the Captain, and when he was drunk enough, they went upstairs and…
She stubbed out her cigarette and gulped back the last of her coffee. Suddenly feeling as though someone were watching her. She looked around at the other customers but didn’t notice anything or anyone out of the ordinary, or anyone looking at her. She left a 2-coupon tip on the table and left.
She rode a tuk-tuk to the off-world grocery store, where exotic foods, imported to Planet B by Kantary freighter, were available to purchase by those who had the coupons. The interior was bright and metallic, illuminated by electric lights, with smartly dressed attendants standing behind glass display cases.
She wandered to the first, where a salmon steak was laid out on a white plate, sitting upon a bed of crushed ice. A female attend stood behind the display, wearing a black smock, white gloves, and her hair slicked tightly to her head.
“Engineered salmon,” the attendant said plainly. “50 coupons per 100 grams.”
She moved along the displays. There was engineered chicken and cloned mutton. Dried insects, seaweed, cheese, and preserved vegetables and fruits.
She stopped at a display where a steak was laid out.
“Cloned from Earthen stock. Gestated, grown, and slaughtered in deep space. Ribeye, aged 40 days. Wonderful marbling. Defrosted just today. 120 coupons per 100 grams,” said the male attendant.
“Two,” she said, eyeing the fatty, unappealing piece of meat.
“Two hundred grams?” said the attendant.
“Two steaks,” she said.
A manager who had been hovering in the background suddenly stepped forward.
“It is good to see you again,” he said, bowing and grinning with an obsequious smile. “Excellent choice, the ribeye is very popular with our most discerning customers.”
He grinned again, ingratiatingly, wringing his hands.
“We have pre-seasoned powdered potatoes—real potatoes, not the engineered slop. They would make the perfect accompaniment for the steaks, if you don’t mind me saying.”
“Sure,” she said, disinterested.
“And perhaps some vegetables? We have some tins of beans, which are very fashionable at the moment…”
“No,” she said. He didn’t like vegetables. “Two eggs, real ones, two slices of bread, 20 grams of margarine, and 100 grams of real bacon.”
“Excellent, I shall have these packed!” the manager announced, snapping his fingers and barking orders at the attendant to pack up the items.
At the cashier’s, she ripped seven 100 coupons, one 50 coupon, and three 10 coupons for the cloned meat, powdered potatoes, eggs, bacon, bread, and margarine.
“Come again. Remember, the potatoes are already seasoned!” said the manager helpfully as she left, having spent a literal fortune on one and a half meals for two people.
Back at the apartment, she began to get herself ready. He would be here soon. He was the section head of security for Milpol, overseeing a large swath of the ghetto. Once or twice a week, he would come to her. A red length of string would be tied around the latch to her apartment door the day before, letting her know that he was coming, and yesterday the string was tied around her door.
She showered, washing away the grime of her cleaning and the lack of washing for a few days. She dried herself, then sat at her dresser, smoking a cigarette and sipping a brandy as she began to put on her uniform.
He wore a uniform, and she wore a uniform. His uniform was black, with boots and a blaster. When she went to work, she had to be everything he wanted her to be.
She applied bronzer, blush, and highlighter, then began applying her eye makeup and false lashes.
The first time she was with him, he was drunk and clumsy. The sex was quick and sweaty, and she earned her coupons, and the madame was happy that her important customers had enjoyed their visit to her bordello.
The next night, the Captain had returned, but this time by himself, and not drunk. He had requested her, and they had gone to a private booth, where they drank brandy cocktails together, kissed, and then went upstairs together. After it was done, and when he was dressed again in his uniform, he told her that he very much enjoyed her company and gave her a huge tip, and kissed her.
She stood, opening a drawer in the vanity. She took out the lingerie he had bought her and slipped into the skimpy frills. She rolled the stockings onto her legs, spritzed herself with perfume, then dressed in a slinky wraparound dress, slipping her feet into stiletto shoes.
About a month later, the madame had come to her and told her to pack a bag. A Milpol guard was in her room and watched her every move as she nervously packed what scant possessions she had, and then she was taken by the guard and flown in a Milpol copter over the ghetto below.
She thought she was being arrested and would be taken to Milpol HQ outside the wire, and that something terrible was going to happen.
The copter landed on the roof of a soulless polycrete building, once a cell block for undesirables, but now an upscale (for the ghetto) apartment building. The guard escorted her down the stairs to the 20th floor, all in silence.
“Go in,” the guard commanded flatly, and she did, clasping the latch with a trembling hand and pushing it open.
The captain was inside, sitting in a tatty armchair, his boots off, and his feet resting on a tatty ottoman. He was smoking a cigar and drinking brandy. A polycoal fire was burning in the hearth.
He explained that the apartment was hers, and she lived here now, and that she was now his mistress, and that there was chocolate, cheese, and wine in the icebox.
She had no say in what was happening. She used to live at the bordello, where she was born and knew everyone, but now she was being told that she lived here, alone.
He stood, kissed her, and took her by the hand, leading her to the bedroom.
That was a year ago.
In the living room, she loaded more polycoal into the fire, then stood, smoking a cigarette and sipping a brandy as she waited. She watched the new lumps of polycoal spit and sparkle and begin to glow as the blue and orange flames licked around them.
And then she heard the latch turning, and she turned, flashing a brilliant, seductive smile as the Captain stood at the door, his fat face pink from the climb down from the roof, and panting.
The performance had begun.