QSFer D. A. Hamlin has a new queer dystopian book out (bi, gay): Inelegant Machines.
In Lancut, debt is a death sentence.
…and Julian is being crushed by it.
His only escape is an internship he never wanted, working under President Sands, the architect of the surveillance discs that track every citizen and can end a life with a single command. The work betrays everything he believes in, stripping him to the bone and leaving him ready to vanish altogether.
His one constant is Des: the brilliant, frustrating, and magnetic man he’s grown up beside. But Julian has spent years sure that Des can’t ever know the many secrets he hides.
When the echoes of rebellion intensify, Julian is torn between two realities: Power in a system rotting from within, or risking everything for the fragile chance at freedom and the person he cares about most.
In a society festering with cruelty and deceit, trusting the wrong person could mean losing the little he has left.
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Excerpt
The car stopped before the crystal doors. Sharp-edged and imposing, the doors rose at the top of the stairs, flanked by black obelisks polished to a mirror finish. The driver opened Julian’s door without a word, bowing to avoid his gaze. Cold air bit at Julian as he stepped out, pausing at the base of the stairs. His reflection in the obsidian was rigid, wide-eyed.
The driver gestured him onward, and Julian climbed the steps, struggling to keep his gaze forward. Inside, a metallic chill filled the air. Footsteps tapped against the pristine floor, echoing faintly in the vast, barren space. The tower wasn’t buzzing with activity like a university or office—it was eerily quiet. A few impeccably dressed figures moved through the lobby, their vacant eyes fixed straight ahead, passing each other in silence.
Julian’s gaze wandered to the high ceilings, their polished stone mirroring the room below. When he glanced up, his reflection stared back—insignificant and swallowed by the tower’s grandeur.
The driver stopped in front of three quick steps leading to an elevator with a wrought-iron cage for a door. “Mr. Sands is awaiting you on the top floor,” he said, leaving Julian alone in front of the daunting doors.
As Julian waited for the elevator car to arrive, he wondered if he would walk through those doors and never return. He never considered the prospect of an elevator ride as anything other than a round trip, but he concluded that was no more than an assumption and not an assurance of his fate. He thought of Des, giving a slight laugh. Julian wondered what would happen if he died right there, never getting the chance for any explanation to his oldest friend. Maybe the other man would assume he had run away, escaping away with a stash of civiks. A twinge of guilt twisted in him. After all their time together, never had he told Des the truth. Everything Des saw was a filtered, carefully curated facade.
He tapped on his watch, scrolling to Des’ contact. As he considered what to type, he momentarily stopped on the steps.
He stepped onto the polished wood floor of the elevator. His heart raced in his chest as he looked at the lack of buttons. The doors slowly closed, trapping him behind ornate metal bars and confining him to an artfully crafted cell, subjected to silence other than the dull hum of the hoist motor. Slowly, the platform rose, pulling him up through the shaft. With his back to the far wall, he closed his eyes, his thoughts consumed by the image of Edmund Sands, a gun in one hand and a pen in the other. He held out the weapon, nestling it between Julian’s eyes.
Before the image in his mind pulled the trigger, the elevator dinged, interrupting the stream of images bombarding him. As he slowly proceeded onto the polished marble, the view pulled the air from his lungs. Stepping forward hesitantly, windows surrounded him that stretched towards the sky. If it weren’t for the fog, Julian would have thought they were brushing against the clouds. Small dots of light below illuminated orbs of fog like holy spheres of unconfined energy. He noted the padding of his boots against the white marble floors, suddenly conscious of the city sludge clinging to the soles.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Harper,” spoke a familiar voice. Edmund Sands stood a few inches taller than Julian, his peppered hair and beard outstanding features of his otherwise unremarkable appearance. He wore a navy-blue suit with a white button-down. In his left hand, he held a clear glass. Julian smelled something savory in the air comparable to the scent of seasoned meats he smelled wafting from the expensive city restaurants. Swiveling around, he traced the smell to a small table pushed against one of the tall windows. A red tablecloth covered the rectangular surface with two white ceramic plates carefully place across from one another. On each plate were two slight cuts of steak stacked with care. He snapped his attention back to the man in front of him, scrambling to take the hand Sands offered him.
Author Bio
D .A. Hamlin is a writer from the Finger Lakes region in Western New York. He grew up in a small town shaped by cold winters, rolling hills, and plenty of places to wander. Aside from writing, he enjoys hiking, listening to music, or camping out in one of his favorite cafes. He’s been writing stories most of his life, usually at the crack of dawn.